Legal Discipline
The next day, Randy walks towards the financial district and Rhonda Birch's office.
The elevator rises with a smooth hum that does nothing to settle his mind.
He's in that wary and excited mode, like opening a porn magazine for the first time.
He's meeting another MILF known to Mavis.
He looked Rhonda up online; she is aged forty-four.
When the doors open onto the forty-second floor, the reception area is all glass and dark wood, a single desk where a young man in a tight suit barely glances up before nodding toward the corner office.
Rhonda Birch's name is on the door in discreet gold lettering.
Randy knocks, and her voice comes through—low, amused, expecting him.
She stands at the window when he comes in, her silhouette cutting against the harbour view like a blade.
The asymmetrical platinum bob catches the light as she turns, hazel eyes tracking him from sneakers to the damp hair at his temples.
She's in burgundy today—a fitted blazer over a silk blouse the colour of wine, a pencil skirt that ends just above her knees, and stilettos in black patent leather that must be four inches minimum.
The heels click against the parquet as she moves toward him, deliberate as a dildo intent on a wet pussy.
"Randy Peacock." She doesn't offer her hand.
"Randi said you'd be overwhelmed."
His face heats. He can still feel where Heather's wax hit his chest.
"Sit."
She gestures to the leather chair facing her massive desk.
"We have documents to review. Your aunt's estate is... extensive."
The chair accepts him with a sigh of leather. Rhonda moves behind the desk, heels clicking, and retrieves a slim folder from a locked drawer.
When she opens it, the papers inside are dense with numbers that make his eyes blur—Swiss accounts, properties in Monaco, a trust in the Bahamas. Italian Villa. And then the Caribbean entries: St. Kitts, the Caymans, shell companies nested like Russian dolls, millions flowing through channels that seem designed to lose themselves.
"Mavis believed inheritance was a test," Rhonda says, her finger tracing a line of figures.
"She didn't want you to simply receive. She wanted you to earn the understanding."
Randy leans forward, the wax marks on his chest pulling slightly against his shirt.
"These offshore accounts—what's hidden there? Where exactly—"
"Questions." Rhonda's voice drops to something almost fond.
"Always questions from the inexperienced. But you're not ready for answers yet."
She closes the folder with a snap that makes him flinch. When she moves around the desk, her hips sway with the precision of someone who knows exactly how space bends around her.
She stops before him, close enough that he can smell her perfume—something sharp and expensive, bergamot and black pepper.
"Stand up."
He does. His knees feel unsteady.
"Remove your shirt."
The command hangs in the air between them. Randy's fingers find the edge of his T-shirt, and he pulls it over his head, revealing the wax marks on his chest, abstract whorls.
Rhonda's eyes narrow with interest.
"Randi's little florist has been playing with you."
She reaches out, her red nails catching the edge of a wax formation near his nipple.
"Beeswax. Amateur hour. Pretty, though."
Her touch is cool, clinical, and then her fingers pinch, and the remaining wax breaks away with a sting that makes him gasp.
"Your aunt collected secrets, Randy. Hidden assets. Private commissions."
She steps back, admiring her work, his bare torso now mostly clean but for the pink marks where wax had been.
"She believed that what we hide defines us. The offshore accounts, the shell companies—they're not just money. They're her. Her final puzzle. Her last naughty laugh."
Randy swallows. His cock has thickened in his jeans, traitorous and visible, and Rhonda's gaze drops to it with a smile that shows no teeth.
"But you want to know what's hidden where."
She moves to a cabinet behind her desk, opens it with a key from her blazer pocket.
"You want the map without earning the territory."
She withdraws a wooden paddle, polished to a dark gleam, the handle worn smooth by use.
Randy's breath catches.
Rhonda tests it against her palm—thwack—and the sound is dirty, like a butt plug popping out of an arse.
"Bend over the desk."
His body moves before his mind catches up.
The wood is cool against his forearms, his cheek pressed to the surface where documents still lie scattered—St. Kitts, the Caymans, all the hidden places he wants to understand.
Rhonda's heels click behind him, and then her hand is on his lower back, pressing him flatter.
"Count," she says. "Out loud. And don't you dare come until I tell you."
The first strike lands with a force that drives the air from his lungs.
The paddle bites through his jeans, a line of fire that spreads across both cheeks.
He gasps out "One," and she waits, lets the sensation bloom, before the second falls—lower, harder, catching the tender flesh where thigh meets ass.
"Two."
By five, he's trembling.
By eight, his voice has gone hoarse, and the numbers blur with pleas he doesn't mean to make.
She pauses after ten, her hand cool against his heated skin, and he feels her lean close, her breath at his ear.
"You're learning," she whispers. "This is what Mavis wanted you to understand. The price of knowledge. The discipline required to hold it."
She strikes again—eleven, twelve—and his cock is leaking in his jeans, dark and visible, his hips grinding helplessly against the desk edge.
The papers crinkle beneath him, the offshore accounts, the hidden millions, all of it meaningless against the immediacy of her control.
She stops.
The paddle clatters to the desk beside his head, and then her hands are on his belt, unfastening, pulling his jeans down to expose the red marks she's left, the flushed skin, his cock springing free and dark with need.
"On the floor," she commands. "On your back. Now."
He nearly falls getting there; the parquet is cool against his shoulder blades, his jeans tangled at his ankles. She stands over him, a statue in burgundy and black patent leather, and then she lifts her skirt with both hands, revealing toned thighs, the shadow of dark lace beneath.
"Your mouth," she says. "That's what I want."
She descends on him like a verdict, her knees bracketing his head, her thighs locking against his ears.
The lace of her underwear is damp against his lips, and then she shifts, pulls it aside, and her shaved lipettes are there—slick, swaying, the scent of her filling his lungs like something he might drown in.
Her pink lips sway like sails in the wind.
Her clitty is frickin the size of a cherry.
Unmissable.
"Use what Randi and Heather taught you," she orders, and grinds down.
The pressure is overwhelming.
His nose presses against her, his tongue finds her clit easily as she rocks against his face, using him with the same precision she applies to legal documents.
His face smothered in folds.
Her lipettes spread and fluttering.
Tacky, glistening, glossed in her own fem-jus.
He can't breathe properly, can't do anything but lick and suck and submit to the rhythm she sets, her thighs trembling against his cheeks, her heels digging into the floor beside his shoulders.
God, her clitty fills his mouth.
He sucks it like a lollipop.
Hell, it is a pink sweet.
Tastes of flesh, and salt and musk.
So damn responsive, too.
"Oohh! Yes! Right there! Suck it! Lick it! Oohh, yeah! Fuck! Aahh!"
Her taste fills him, sharp and coyly sweet, and she's grinding harder now, her hips circling, taking what she needs from his helpless mouth.
Her love nub is straining.
So erect.
So heated.
Oversensitive.
Eternally demanding.
Poised to deliver big time.
Randy's cock throbs against his stomach, untouched, denied, and he whines into her flesh, the vibration making her moan.
"Good boy," she pants. "Such a good fucking boy."
She rises slightly—he gasps for air, desperate, grateful—and then slams back down, her thighs clamping, her whole body tensing above him.
He feels it building in her, the tremor starting deep, her stomach muscles fluttering beneath his palms where he's clutching her hips.
Her grind is forceful, deliberate, and so concentrated.
"Ughh! Oohh! Fuck! Fuck! Arrghh! Orrghh!"
He feels her big clit twitch.
Pulse like a release pecker.
She's gushing over his chin, his chest, hot and copious and endless, soaking him in her release.
She keeps grinding through it, riding his face through the aftershocks, her nails digging crescents into his scalp.
Her body seeks and chases every diminishing tingly spasm of joy.
When she finally lifts, his chest is glazed with her, his face shining, his cock dark and leaking and untouched between his legs.
She stands over him, adjusting her skirt with efficient fingers, her hair wild where it's come loose from its precision cut, her hazel eyes bright with satisfaction.
"While I process the paperwork," she says, her voice returning to its lawyerly calm, " you need to see Joy Graves, the Funeral Director."
Randy lies there, soaked and aching and desperate.
"Oh, you'll get my arse another day. Joy likes dealing with blue balls. Off you go."