Chapter 41: Conference
Paul surfaced from sleep slowly, the plush silence of his bedroom thick and warm. Daylight, weak and grey, filtered through the curtains. Beside him, Odette lay curled on her side, one arm flung over his chest, her breathing deep and even. The scent of her – jasmine and sleep – filled the space. He watched the faint rise and fall of her shoulder, the dark spikes of her pixie hair against the white pillowcase. Carefully, slowly, he disentangled himself, the cool air hitting his skin as he slipped from the sheets. He didn’t look back.
Downstairs, the kitchen held the quiet chill of morning. He moved efficiently: grinding beans, the sharp, nutty aroma blooming; filling the kettle; fetching Odette’s favourite oversized mug, the one chipped on the rim from a long-ago argument about sink placement. The routine was ingrained, calming. The clatter of the grinder, the hiss of steam, the rich scent of strong coffee – anchors in the quiet. He poured a shot of hot water into the mug to warm it, swirling it around before dumping it down the sink. Then the deep brown espresso, followed by a careful pour of hot milk, swirling until it formed a velvety microfoam. Perfect. He added a single, deliberate splash of cold milk on top – the way she liked it, just so he’d have to mix it for her. A tiny act of service before the main event.
Carrying the steaming mug carefully, he padded back upstairs. Odette hadn’t moved. He set the coffee on the nightstand, the rich aroma beginning to fill the air. He knelt beside the bed. The thick carpet was soft under his knees. He leaned in, gently lifting the duvet. The scent of her intensified – sleep-warm skin and the unique musk of her sex. He pressed his lips to the soft skin of her inner thigh, a soft kiss. She stirred, a soft murmur escaping her lips. He didn’t wait. He dipped his head, his tongue finding her, already soft and yielding from sleep.
He worked slowly, deliberately. This wasn’t about urgency, but devotion. Mapping familiar territory with infinite care, the flat of his tongue, the tip, gentle suction. He tuned into the subtle shifts in her breathing, the faint tightening of her thigh muscles under his hand, the tiny, involuntary arch of her hips. She didn’t open her eyes, didn’t speak. Her hand found the back of his head, fingers tangling loosely in his hair, not guiding, just resting. Claiming. His world narrowed to the taste of her, the soft sounds she made deep in her throat, the warmth, the absolute focus required. He lost track of time, existing only in the rhythm he created for her. Her grip tightened minutely, a silent signal. He increased the pressure, the rhythm intensifying just slightly. Her breath hitched, then came faster, shallower. He felt the familiar tremors start, the soft clench of muscles around his tongue, the low moan that seemed to vibrate through her entire body and into him. He held steady, his tongue working through the pulses until she finally relaxed, her hand going slack in his hair, her breathing slowing.
He kept his head bowed for a moment longer, resting his forehead against her thigh, then gently pulled the duvet back over her. Only then did he look up. Her eyes were open now, heavy-lidded, a satisfied haze in the green depths. She reached for the coffee mug, her fingers brushing his as she took it. She took a slow sip, not looking at him, her gaze distant. "Good morning, Paul," she murmured, her voice thick with sleep and satisfaction.
"Good morning," he replied, his voice slightly rough. He pushed himself up, his knees protesting mildly. "Conference today. Excel Centre."
She nodded vaguely, taking another sip. "Mm. Don't forget the Dryden file. It's on the hall table." Dismissal, casual and complete.
He showered quickly, the hot water sluicing away the intimate taste, the lingering scent. Dressed in a sharp charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, silk tie knotted perfectly. Barrister Paul Ashworth. Confident, competent, controlled. He checked his reflection. The man staring back looked the part. Only he knew the echo of humiliation that still hummed just beneath the surface, the phantom feel of keys being distributed, the names – Astrid, Nadia, Holly, the busty one, Maman – rattling in his head. He pushed it down. Professional mask on.
The Excel Centre hit him like a wall – a vast, echoing cavern of glass and steel. The air hummed with a low-frequency thrum of HVAC systems, a thousand overlapping conversations, and the tinny echo of distant microphones. The scent was industrial carpet, stale coffee, synthetic lemon cleaner, and a faint undercurrent of sweat and anticipation. Banks of monitors glowed, flashing corporate logos. Men and women in sharp suits moved in purposeful streams, lanyards swinging, clutching branded tote bags or styrofoam cups. Paul navigated the flow, nodding at vaguely familiar faces, exchanging brief, professional greetings. He attended talks on digital evidence admissibility and the future of arbitration, taking sparse notes. He networked robotically, his smile practiced, his handshake firm. His mind, however, kept drifting back to the cool slate floor, the encircling gazes, the impossible request, the key jingling in a stranger's hand.
During a lull between sessions, needing air that wasn't recycled, he drifted towards the outskirts of the main hall, where vendor stalls lined the walls like brightly coloured fungi. Companies hawking e-discovery software, transcription services, ergonomic chairs for long trials. The noise was marginally less oppressive here. He paused near a stall showcasing incredibly complex-looking case management software, pretending interest in a spinning holographic display.
"Paul?"
The voice was female, friendly, familiar. He turned. The woman behind the stall counter smiled at him. Early thirties, striking. Asian. High cheekbones, intelligent dark eyes, warm brown skin, her black hair pulled back in a sleek, professional bun. She wore a tailored, sleeveless top in deep burgundy. She looked... totally unfamiliar. But she clearly knew him. Not a client, not opposing counsel... not someone from chambers. The familiarity was intimate, unsettling, like a scent you can't name.
"Paul Ashworth!” she said, her smile widening slightly. Confident. She knew him.
He stepped closer to the stall, forcing his own professional smile. "That's me.”
Paul kept his smile fixed, professional, while his mind scrambled. Her dark eyes held a warmth that felt misplaced, intimate. Where was it from? Work? A fleeting encounter? The smooth planes of her face, the confident tilt of her chin… nothing clicked. The hum of the conference faded slightly, narrowing to this strange, personal vortex. She knew him. He was lost.
A flicker of something – amusement? confusion? – crossed her features. “It is you!” She leaned forward slightly over the counter, her burgundy sleeve brushing a glossy brochure. “You haven’t changed a bit. How’ve you been?” Her tone was light, conversational, yet carried an undercurrent of genuine familiarity. It unsettled him, this chasm between her knowledge and his ignorance. He grasped for neutral ground.
“Busy, same as everyone here, I expect,” Paul replied smoothly, gesturing vaguely at the bustling hall. His pulse thrummed faintly in his ears. “Keeping the wheels of justice creaking along.” A safe barrister platitude. He searched her name badge, but it was caught in her clothes and he ended up just looking like he’d been assessing her tits. She was watching his face, clearly expecting a spark of recognition he couldn’t fake.
Her smile faltered, just for a microsecond. A tiny crease appeared between her eyebrows. “Right,” she said, the warmth cooling a fraction. She clearly expected him to know. It was baffling, almost rude to her. She masked it quickly with that effortless confidence, turning slightly. “Paul, this is my colleague, Becca. Becca, Paul Ashworth.” Her gaze lingered on him, a silent challenge. Figure it out.
Becca, bustling near a stack of brochures behind the counter, looked up, flustered. Mid-forties, pretty in a soft, comfortable way, with kind blue eyes and fluffy blonde hair escaping its practical clip. Her floral blouse strained slightly over a generous bust, her cheeks flushed pink as if perpetually warm. “Oh! Hello!” she chirped, dropping a handful of flyers. They fluttered to the floor. “Blast! Sorry!” She bent, her movements slightly awkward, gathering them with embarrassed little clucks.
They watched Becca scramble, the woman’s dark eyes flicking back to Paul. Her smile never wavered, bright and unnerving. "Honestly, Paul, it’s such fortuitous timing you’re here right now," she declared, leaning further over the counter, her tone artificially cheerful, almost conspiratorial. "Just perfect."
Becca straightened, clutching the recovered brochures to her chest like a shield, her face crimson. She shot them a frantic look. Her voice barely audible over the conference hum, her blue eyes wide with panic and something else – a flicker of intense curiosity directed at Paul. "Are you sure this is a good idea?”
The familiar woman waved a dismissive, manicured hand. "Oh, relax, Becca, it’s fine!" She turned her unwavering smile back to Paul. "See, our other colleague, Mike, is stuck in traffic. Becca here is absolutely desperate for the loo." She paused, letting the word hang. "Truly bursting. But she can't abandon the stand, obviously." Her gaze locked onto Paul’s, a challenging glint in her dark eyes. "So I had a little thought."
Paul felt a cold prickle start at the base of his skull.
"I suggested," She continued, her voice dropping to a confidential murmur laced with false brightness, "that Becca could just... relieve herself. Right here." Another deliberate pause. She gestured lightly towards Paul’s face. "Into your mouth." She beamed at him, utterly composed. "Becca thought it was a bit much, but I assured her you wouldn't mind."
Becca’s flush deepened impossibly, spreading down her neck. She stared at the floor, then darted another glance at Paul, a mixture of profound embarrassment and naked, intrigued fascination battling on her face. Her knuckles were white on the brochures. She didn’t deny her need, nor the outrageous proposal. She looked utterly torn, mortified but undeniably... keen. The air between the three of them crackled with the sheer audacity of it. The conference buzz seemed to recede, replaced by the frantic thudding of Paul’s own pulse.
Paul looked from the mystery woman’s expectant, brightly malicious grin to Becca’s flustered, pink, hopeful face. The absurdity was staggering. The public setting, the sheer degradation, collided violently with the sharp suit he wore, the barrister persona. Yet, beneath the shock, the familiar coil of submissive acceptance tightened. He was Odette’s vessel. His purpose was service. What did the setting matter? What did he matter? A strange calm descended over the panic. His voice, when it came, was low, remarkably steady, cutting through Becca’s flustered silence. "Of course."
“Of course.” Paul’s voice didn’t waver. The word hung, stark and accepting, against the conference hall’s drone.
Becca’s eyes widened, a strangled gasp escaping her lips. Her face flushed crimson down to her collarbone. Then, the sheer, desperate pressure inside her overrode everything – shock, propriety, the absurdity. “Oh god, YES!” she blurted, abandoning the brochures. She grabbed Paul’s wrist, her grip surprisingly strong, frantic. “Quick! Back here!” She yanked him bodily around the counter towards a flimsy, temporary partition walling off a small storage area stacked with boxes and discarded packaging.
Paul stumbled, letting himself be pulled. Nadia watched, a satisfied, faintly cruel smile playing on her lips. Becca shoved aside a folding screen, revealing the cramped space smelling of cardboard dust and stale coffee. The roar of the conference felt inches away, voices, footsteps, a distant announcement crackling over PA speakers. Becca immediately wrestled with her belt buckle, fingers trembling. “Help me! These bloody trousers!”
Paul moved with detached efficiency. His silk tie was off, tossed onto a box. His suit jacket followed. He unbuttoned his crisp white shirt swiftly, pulling it open and shrugging it off his shoulders, the cool air hitting his bare chest and back. Becca paused, her own trousers bunched around her thick, jiggly thighs, momentarily distracted. Her gaze traced the defined planes of his pecs, the sculpted lines of his abdomen. “Blimey,” she breathed, momentarily forgetting her urgency. “You’re… bloody fit.”
Then the urgency surged back, hotter, more insistent. She shoved her trousers and sensible knickers down over her shapely hips, kicking them off her ankles. She stood in just her bright red cotton panties, dotted with tiny white hearts, her lower belly soft and full beneath them. As her fingers hooked into the elastic waistband, she froze, looking up at Paul with sudden, intense shyness. “Please… eyes shut. Don’t look at… it.” She couldn’t say the word.
Paul obeyed silently, closing his eyes. Darkness. He heard the soft rustle of cotton, the panties sliding down her legs, landing softly on the discarded trousers. He smelled her now – warm skin, nervous sweat, and the sharper, unmistakable tang of concentrated urine held too long. She shuffled closer, her bare thighs brushing his knees.
“How… how does this work?” Her voice was strangled, urgent, inches from his face. He could feel the heat radiating from her exposed skin.
He knelt smoothly on the thin carpet tile, the posture familiar. “Straddle my face. Lower yourself down onto my mouth.” His voice was calm, instructional. “I’ll seal my lips over you. Then just… let go. I’ll swallow.” He opened his mouth slightly, waiting.
“Oh my GOD!” Becca’s cry was a mix of disbelief and sheer, overwhelming relief. He felt her thick, warm thighs bracket his head, the heat and sweat intense. Then, the soft, damp pressure of her labia, the coarse hair catching slightly against his lips, pressed firmly down onto his mouth and nose. He sealed his lips around her, forming a tight seal over her urethra. A heartbeat of taut silence in the cramped space, the conference noise a muffled wall beyond the partition.
Then the hot, powerful stream hit the back of his throat. Salty, bitter, intensely warm, flooding his mouth instantly. Paul swallowed reflexively once, twice, struggling slightly with the initial force of it. The flow was urgent, copious, filling his mouth faster than he could swallow. He focused on the mechanics – seal, swallow, seal, swallow, resisting the instinct to gag. He heard Becca’s choked moan above him, a sound of utter, profound relief mixed with residual disbelief. Her thighs trembled against his ears, pressing tighter as her body convulsed slightly with the release.
The stream went on and on, seemingly endless. Paul kept swallowing, the taste utterly alien, the act bizarrely intimate yet clinically detached. He was a vessel. A function. Nadia’s silhouette was barely visible through the gap in the partition screens, watching silently. Finally, the flow slackened, dwindled to a trickle, then stopped. Becca sagged, a long, shuddering sigh escaping her. Her weight settled heavier on his face. Paul swallowed the last bitter mouthful, maintaining the seal until she was finished.
Becca sagged, a long, shuddering sigh escaping her. “Jesus. Christ. Oh my god.” Her thighs trembled against Paul’s ears, the heat radiating from her bare skin intense in the cramped, cardboard-smelling space. She shifted slightly, her weight lifting off his face just enough for cool air to rush in. Paul automatically relaxed his jaw, the sharp tang of urine thick on his tongue and coating his throat. He kept his eyes firmly shut, as instructed.
Then, instinctively, almost without conscious thought born from countless unseen women and Odette’s exacting standards, he moved. He angled his head slightly and pressed the flat, firm tip of his tongue directly against her vaginal entrance. He slid it slowly upwards through her central furrow, gathering the last beads of warm moisture clinging to her skin. Once. Twice. A precise, intimate sweep.
“Ah!” Becca gasped, her body jerking slightly in surprise. “What… what are you doing?” Her voice was high-pitched, bewildered, her thighs tensing around his head.
Paul paused, his tongue resting just below her entrance. He kept his tone low, practical, echoing the detached efficiency Odette demanded. “No toilet roll,” he stated simply. “Making sure you’re clean.” He didn’t wait for further reaction. He repositioned his mouth, pressing his lips back into a seal over her urethra once more, the sensitive tip of his tongue deliberately, firmly, resting right at her entrance. Not probing, just present. A constant, warm pressure.
“Oh…” Becca breathed out, a long, shaky exhalation that held pure astonishment. “Okay.” She didn’t move away. The weirdness of the last few minutes – the public stall, the brazen request from her colleague Nadia, the handsome stranger kneeling between her legs swallowing her pee – was overwhelming, bizarre beyond measure. Yet… the sensation of his tongue gathering those last drops had been… unexpectedly, shockingly nice. A clean, precise intimacy. And now? Where his tongue pressed firmly against her? That felt… solid. Warm. Surprisingly pleasant. Grounding in the utter madness. Her breathing hitched, shallower now. Nadia’s silhouette was a dark, watchful shape through the partition gap.
Paul felt the subtle shift in her posture, the minute relaxation, the new kind of heat radiating from her skin. He sensed the unspoken question hanging in the air, thick with possibility and her lingering shock. He kept his mouth sealed, his tongue a steady point of contact, but spoke clearly, his voice muffled slightly against her skin. “Do you want me to finish you off properly?” The question hung, blunt and direct in the dusty semi-darkness. A professional offer. Service extended.
Above him, Becca froze. Silence stretched, filled only by the muffled roar of the conference and the frantic thudding of her own heart against her ribs. She looked down, though he couldn’t see, at the dark head between her thighs, the expensive fabric of his suit trousers stretched taut over his kneeling form. She glanced towards the gap where Nadia watched, her expression unreadable but undeniably expectant. The echo of the strange, pleasant pressure against her entrance pulsed. “Uh huh,” she whispered, the agreement escaping in a tiny, breathless rush. Her hips tilted forward almost imperceptibly, pressing herself more firmly against his waiting mouth. The permission was given.
“Uh huh.” The whisper barely escaped Becca’s lips, a shaky exhale loaded with disbelief and a sudden, sharp spike of desire. Her hips tilted forward, pressing her bare, warm skin more firmly against the expectant pressure of Paul’s mouth. Permission given.
Paul didn’t hesitate. His tongue, already positioned at her entrance, slid inside with smooth, confident pressure. He felt her jolt slightly, a soft gasp escaping her. He began with slow, deliberate strokes, exploring her slick inner walls with practised familiarity. He mapped her sensitivity, finding the subtle ridges, the spots that made her thighs tremble against his ears. His hands rose, settling firmly on her hips, guiding her rhythm against his face, anchoring her.
After a few deep, languid licks, Becca moaned, low and surprised. She relaxed, truly relaxed, melting backward. Her shoulder blades met the sturdy stack of glossy brochure boxes behind her with a soft thump. She rested her weight against them, surrendering to the astonishing sensation. “Oh… oh wow,” she breathed, her voice thick. “That’s… unexpected.”
Paul adjusted his angle, focusing his efforts. He used the flat of his tongue, the pointed tip, varying pressure and speed. Time was tight; the conference thrummed just beyond the flimsy partition. But he drew it out, building her tension deliberately. He felt her inner muscles begin to flutter, a telltale sign. He pressed harder, his rhythm becoming more insistent, more focused on the swollen bud nestled within her folds. He sucked gently, then harder.
Becca’s breath hitched, becoming ragged gasps. “Fuck… fuck, Paul…” Her fingers scrabbled for purchase on the cardboard boxes. Her body stiffened, then arched sharply off the stack. A choked cry tore from her throat, more shock than ecstasy. She spasmed against his mouth, her thighs clamping hard around his head. He held her firmly, his tongue working her relentlessly through the intense, jerking pulses. She shuddered, gasping, “Oh god! Naughty boy! You absolute… naughty boy!” A disbelieving, breathless laugh burst from her, high-pitched and slightly hysterical. “Bloody hell!”
He eased the pressure slowly as her tremors subsided, lapping gently until she slumped bonelessly back against the boxes, panting. Silence filled the cramped space, thick with the smell of sex, cardboard dust, and the fading echo of her climax. Nadia’s silhouette remained motionless beyond the screen.
“Right,” Becca muttered, pushing herself upright on wobbly legs, her voice dazed. “Right. Okay. Wow.” She fumbled for her discarded knickers and trousers, her movements clumsy with post-orgasmic lethargy and lingering shock. Paul rose smoothly, retrieving his shirt and jacket. He wiped his mouth discreetly on his sleeve before buttoning the crisp white cotton, then shrugged back into his tailored jacket. He looped his silk tie around his neck without tying it yet. They dressed in a wordless, efficient dance, avoiding each other’s eyes in the confined space, the absurdity settling around them like dust. Becca smoothed her floral blouse, cheeks still flushed.
“All clear?” Nadia’s voice, cool and bright, came from just beyond the partition screen.
“Yes, yes,” Becca called back, her voice regaining a semblance of normalcy, though it still wavered slightly. She shoved the screen aside. Paul followed her out, adjusting his suit, the scent of coffee and distant voices washing over him as they re-emerged into the bustling vendor area.
Nadia stood by the counter, arms crossed, a knowing smirk playing on her lips as she looked from the flustered Becca to Paul. Her dark eyes, intelligent and sharp, studied Paul’s face intently. The confident familiarity was still there, but now mixed with a dawning realization. Her smirk widened into a grin of pure, amused understanding. “You genuinely didn’t recognize me, did you?” she asked, her voice carrying a distinctive boarding-school clip beneath its warmth. “When I called you over?”
Paul met her gaze, the professional mask firmly back in place, but his confusion evident. “I’m sorry,” he replied smoothly. “You seem familiar, but I couldn’t quite place you. I guess you’re a friend of Odette’s?”
Nadia threw her head back and laughed, a rich, genuine sound that drew a slightly scandalized look from Becca. “Oh, Paul.” She stepped closer, extending a hand with elegant confidence, her burgundy sleeve flashing. “Nadia Erdene. Odette’s friend? We met… well, we met quite intimately, actually. Several times. Though,” she added, her grin turning wickedly pointed, her dark eyes holding his, “you never actually saw me. Not until now.” She shook his hand with a firm, decisive grip. “Nadia!” Paul mumbled agog.