A Short-Term Lease

Chapter 4: Bitches, Blackmail and Black Cocks

Still with me? Had yourself a nice little wank at the thought of some snooty, high status, convent-educated lawyer turning out to be a secret tart who exposed her cunt to strangers on the London Underground? Well, in this chapter you get to see my man-hating, total-bitch side. Do I hate all men? Pretty much sums it up. Of course, there are exceptions, my private detective, for instance, and I am sure there must be many others, although I have never met any of them. But as a gender? Yeah, totally. I hate you all en masse. But I Love your cocks. I hate you, but I need you. A sad, totally fucked up Cunt.

Before you get any wrong ideas about me, I’m not some kind of crypto lezzer. I’m not particularly fond of women in general, and I don’t have any women friends. Not since I caught my supposed Best Friend being fucked by my boyfriend. Did me a favour, though: he was useless in bed and I was letting him fuck me out of habit, not because I actually felt anything for him. She was just the excuse to ditch him. Enough of that before you start thinking I am a bad person.

So there I was, pupillage completed, fully qualified, a great record in court, a pleasant public personality, helpful, kind, never had a bad word to say about anyone. It should have been easy to join another Chamber. Not straightaway as a full partner, of course, but it would have been a foot inside the door and allow me to build a reputation backed by a respected Chamber. But no, there were no approaches. Wives took one look at this goddess (yeah, modest with it, too) and took a metaphorically tighter grip of their husbands’ cocks, lest such cocks stray to another cunt. The men knew about my professional termination of Mr Casting Couch and ultimatum to his erstwhile colleagues. Maybe none of them said anything aloud if my name happened to come up, but a nod is as good as a wink, especially behind the walls of those venerable ultra-exclusive, ultra-strictly no women, private London clubs favoured by the ruling class.

Joining a Chamber involved nothing so vulgar as an advert in the non-existent Jobs Vacant column of The Barrister journal. It’s more like those London Clubs or the way MI5/6 used to be before they acknowledged the worst-kept secret in London, namely that we did have a secret service that caught spies and another one that actually was spies. Anyone crass enough to ask to join was suspect and self-evidently unsuitable. Instead, recruitment was informal, friend of a friend, a quiet word at some innocuous ‘chance’ meeting, a cautious preliminary sounding out as a full-on approach might offend and a refusal certainly would.

Well, I had none of that. However it was done, the word had got out. A troublemaker, that one. Ruined a good man. One of those militant feminist sexual harassment whiners. She could do it to you. So, no feelers sent out, no quiet asides to have a word with So-and-So, no ‘casual; conversations at legal get-togethers, no invitations to supposedly purely social events. Nothing. I was a non-person.

Leave London and set up in what the Media condescendingly called the provinces? The city’s Roman founders would have laughed at the conceit: everything south of Hadrian’s Wall was just a province to them. Technically, two, but I don’t want to over-burden the little part of your brain outside your cock and balls. Anyway, I was not going to be driven out at the behest of the legal mafia. London was where the big fees were.

Setting up on my own was a non-starter. Street-cred premises near the Courts, legal clerk, secretary, researchers? Way beyond my Trust Fund. Above all, no established reputation to induce solicitors to send me briefs. Solicitors (not the whores kind)? The other branch of the legal profession, qualifying by a different postgrad route. Theoretically possible for the not so Great Brit public to go straight to a barrister, in reality always through solicitors, high street lawyers who draw up Wills, Power of Attorney,Trust Funds, transact house purchase and the like. Everything outside mega-bucks divorces and major crimes. For those, go to a solicitor specialising in Criminal or Family Law to set you up with a barrister to fight your case in court.

Why this strict division? George Bernard Shaw put it pithily: all professions are a conspiracy against the laity. I hardly expect any of you have ever heard of Shaw. Never mind. Keep wallowing in squalid ignorance.

The upshot of my sad story was only one legal firm approaching me with a tentative offer. Not as an independent junior barrister, but as a lowly employed Associate, underpaid and overworked, although it hadn’t seemed so at the interview. How are the high and mighty fallen. Maybe I should have just sucked the fucker’s cock. Swallowed my pride and his cum. Marilyn Monroe sucked a lot of cocks before her big break, too. Much good it did her in the end.

A strange legal firm it was, too, comprising both solicitors and barristers. Fanatically female-only throughout: founder-owners, staff and clientele, including the Legal Aid cases. Even external service providers like window-cleaners, florists, maintenance contractors, right down to the unofficial office stray cat. Peaceful, flowers ‘n’ sunshine Sisterhood Free of pushy alpha males? Like hell! But hell it was, presided over by its four she-devil Partners.

These four founding owners were perfectly balanced. Two were barristers and two solicitors, two were straights and two lezzers, two were married and two single, even two ugly and two beautiful (skin deep). And total, total bitches, all four of them. No surprise that they hated each other. I certainly did. But what united them was their greed and contempt for all who worked under them.

If their hatred had been confined to those escapees from Hell, that might have made working in the place bearable. No such luck. The corrosive hatred at the top had spread downwards throughout the Firm. Everybody disliked everyone else, no warmth in interactions with one another, just snide remarks and obstructive behaviour. Bitch Central.

The appointment interview with the four of them had been all smiles and possibilities, conducted over an excellent restaurant lunch. The Ts ‘n’ Cs, basic salary plus ‘performance-related’ percentage of fees from my cases, seemed a little vague, but wasn’t this a feminist law firm fighting the cause of women? What could go wrong? The vagueness should have warned me, that and the restaurant being well away from their office. Had they wanted to prevent me meeting their staff? I remember thinking it strange, too, that their office was inconveniently distant from the de rigueur clustering near the High Courts of Barrister Chambers and Divorce Solicitors. Not for the first time, what a stupid cunt I was!

By lunchtime on that first day in my new place of work, I had realised what a terrible mistake I had made. A note left at Reception warned of my arrival. The young woman behind the desk smiled in greeting until I gave my name. Abruptly unsmiling, she silently pushed a folder towards me, indicating with a dismissive flick of her hand a door off to the left. Charming.

It was no better inside, nobody giving me the time of day but I eventually found the small room with my name on the door and tried to get a feel as to how the office worked. There were three other associate barristers, who brusquely informed me that I was last in the pecking order as to who got what cases. Guess who ended up with those attracting the smallest legal fees? Small fee meant small bonus which, I found out on my first payday, was 5% of net. Whoopee! If I stopped eating and slept rough, I would be rich in 500 years.

Naturally, the associates, both the barristers and the four solicitors, hated each other, and especially me because another body meant less for everyone else. I stuck it out for a month, in the hope that things must surely improve (which they didn’t). The final straw came when I discovered that not only were the other associates giving me all the dross, as they saw cases with insufficient prospect of a fee worth getting up off their arses, but they were also loading most of the paperwork onto me. They seemed to be busy, sure, but a sneak peek at the Firm’s caseload book showed that the other three associates were busy doing mostly fuck all, while I was working eighteen-hour days on cases seven days a week, and was in Court virtually every day, either trying to defend Legal Aid street whores caught soliciting or druggies on heroin (often both), or arguing for one Wife or another trying to get what she thought and the Law said was her legal entitlement.

I got some of my criminalettes off scot-Free, others reduced to community service rather than locked up but, in every divorce case, I invariably extracted for my client considerably more than the husband and his sometimes surprisingly expensive legal team anticipated, although not always what the entitle-minded Wife thought she was due. But then, my clients were not all nice, reasonable people themselves, unlike me. Still, I thought I was making a name for myself. Which, unfortunately, I was.

Offloading the paperwork onto me was the final straw. Not quite. The final, final straw was assisting one of the partners in court in a big fee divorce case. She was fucking useless, she being the ugly straight one. Her client was lucky to walk away with the bare minimum the Law would award her on a bad day. And I discovered my Firm took thirty percent off her in legal fees.

That was it. No more. I wanted out, I wanted anywhere but with this third rate outfit. That was when I discovered just how big a mistake I had made. In desperation, I reached out to some classmates accepted by other Chambers. Might there be a vacancy or maybe somewhere else on the grapevine? Invariably, there was a hurried transfer to a Senior Legal Clerk or Partner, the response, with minor expletive variations, uniformly depressing. As soon as I mentioned my name, the reply ran: ‘You’re with the Bitches, aren’t you? Fuck off,’ and the phone went dead on me. Sometimes it was ‘fuck off, you man-hating cunt.’ Very lawyerly language. Unless I left London and the hope of future fat fees, I was locked in. No other Chamber would take anyone tainted by the Bitches.

The other Legals knew they were lepers going nowhere, explaining pay well below that expected elsewhere. It also explained why everyone seethed with hatred, against the bosses, against themselves and against everyone else. It also explained why they all did so little so badly, but also why cases were dragged out. Every minute spent on a case and every letter written, even if only a progress report or enquiry as to somebody’s address, was charged to the client. It’s a wonder some of those who won didn’t end up broke and in debt to the firm.

Not surprisingly, there was a rapid turnover of secretarial staff, virtually all temps supplied by agencies. They didn’t need hostile crap handed out to them and were off somewhere else. Plenty of jobs in London for someone with good secretarial skills. Which meant in turn that nobody bothered to be welcoming to or even ask the name of a new secretary: she’ll be gone soon, maybe even that first day. Total disaster of a place!

Maybe I should introduce you foul-smelling cavemen to the founder owners, the Four Cunts of the Fuckedocalypse as I now call them in my mind. Let’s start with the one already mentioned, the ugly barrister. She was Straight and, despite having a face like a cow’s backside, was married, although no-one had ever seen the unfortunate man, if he even existed. Waspish office gossip said she had probably eaten him. Add in overweight, a terrible dress sense and total incompetence at her job. Count those as her redeeming features. She had the personality of a rabid Hitler, never one to have a kind word when a demeaning sentence (or paragraph) would do. Plus, she was bone idle: wouldn’t touch petty crime Legal Aid cases or small fry divorces, but there she was, all smiles to the client, whenever what passed for a potential fat-fee divorce case darkened the doorway of our fine third-rate establishment. Wouldn’t want the serfs to get even a smidgeon of the final inflated fee. That did not stop her ordering people to stop whatever they were doing and ‘assist’ her, meaning do all the behind the scenes preparatory work, Free, gratis and without financial recompense. Naturally, everyone so dragooned did their very best for her and took no pleasure in her bumbling performances in court.

The other ugly was also a barrister, but this one a raving lezzer dyke. Cropped hair, denim jacket, jeans, Doc Martins, skull rings. Rumoured to have a cunt tattoo on each tit, no-one ever saw her wearing anything but shapeless t-shirts under a leather waistcoat. She was also ‘married’ and had a ‘Wife‘, another Invisible like the other Ugly’s husband. Don’t get me wrong. A couple of clit-licker lezzers shacked up together? No problemo unless they’re lookers: a waste of two cunts as far as I’m concerned. But to claim they’re Wife and Wife is fucking absurd, no matter what kind of pseudo ceremony they went through. Same goes for a couple of queers. Live and let live, fuck and get fucked as far as I’m concerned but don’t pretend you’re married unless there is a cock on one side of the bed and a cunt on the other. Yeah, yeah, totally non-PC but that doesn’t change reality.

The other two bosses were anything but ugly. Real stunners, you lot would think. First order MILFs. Except, neither had any kids, both unmarried, both solicitors and both rapacious nympho predators, one straight, the other lesbian. They smiled at each other but it was the kind of smile two gladiators might exchange before trying to kill each other in the arena. The firm had this endearing get-together every Friday after work at a nearby watering hole (that’s Brit-speak for a bar or pub, two very different things). Purely voluntary, of course, but your absence would be noted. The Four Cunts sat there in our midst with the two Uglies just glowering at each other in silence. The two Lookers, by contrast, chatted away like they cared, bestowing favours on the masses. As in, ‘Be a dear and get me a gin and tonic,’ and ‘While you’re up, make mine a vodka martini.’ Not that either of them ever paid. It was almost worth it to watch the show.

Show? More a battle to prove who was the better whore. Every week, they appeared with a fresh sexual conquest, paraded in front of the other in the hope that her rival might have failed to get fresh meat and came with a recycled lover. Not that Love had anything to do with it. The vamp would arrive with her latest man, invariably good-looking and usually with an IQ lower than his cock length. The lezzer, what is known in the clit-licker community as an Alpha, had some adoring bimbo hanging on her every word, invariably attractive, even beautiful, a femme in lezzer slang. What a waste of a cunt! Each boss-bitch lauded the sexual performance of her respective trophy, the vamp urging the Alpha to try out her tame fucker, the Alpha extolling the oral skills of her cunt worshipper. The latter claim I seriously doubted. Some of her trophies were confirmed lezzers, even a few who had never known the satisfaction of a man’s cock in her cunt and probably were good with the tongue and fingers. Others, however, struck me as bi-curious first-timers switching from plug to socket.

Enough about the Four Cunts, and I’m not using the word anatomically. Interesting word, cunt. Nothing like that wimp Americanese, Pussy. What sort of fucking weasel word is that? Like Ass, another pathetic euphemism. The word is arse, with an R, as in fucker. So, cunt. Sure, it refers to a woman’s Vagina, but not neutrally. It’s a word full of aggression, contempt, even hatred, as far from Love as you can get. And that’s just for its meaning as a pleasure hole, as one Wog referred to my hole at an Arab slave market where I was up for auction (another tale, another time). But cunt is also an insult, a term of abuse, of real hatred. See her, that cunt’s a right cunt. You get my drift? Course, it can also be used to refer to men. That bastard is a total cunt.

While I’m on about it, what about fuck? Fuck is another aggressive word, a taking word, a conquering invader word. It really pisses me off when Porn sites describe sluts as fucking a man or fucking with a man, even of taking on so many BBCs. Women don’t fuck: they get fucked. Women don’t ‘take on’ cocks: women get taken. A man (or men) has a woman. Has. I had her and what a great fuck she was. When a man sinks his cock into a woman’s hole, he’s fucking her, he is not making Love to her, he is taking her, the spoils of war somewhere in the reptilian part of what passes for a brain in men. How do I, a cockless one, know this? Because Owner flogged and fucked that truth into me.

Back to the Four Cunts and my hopeless employment circumstances, a sea of seething hatred and shameless incompetence. A role of obscurity anywhere but London seemed increasingly attractive. Goodbye to dreams of becoming the most famous (and richest) lawyer in the land. I also fantasised about slitting the throat of one of the Cunts. Anyone of them: they were all abusive and tyrannical whenever they made appearance down among the galley slaves. I would grab one by the hair, pull her head back and slash open her throat. Right in full view of everyone else, confident that it would be a universal ‘didn’t see a thing, Officer’ when the police arrived. The alternative to slashing a throat was slashing my wrists.

Salvation arrived in the shrill form of a trophy-Wife gold-digger. My favourite kind of person. A Russian, too. There were hordes of them in London, all on the lookout for poor saps whom they could bleed dry. My favourite, favourite people, the Russians, fuck the lot of them. Maybe, too, I was sickened by the way all those Russian kleptocrats had arrived in London and bought the Tory Party and Government. So, da, fuck the Russians. What, me a racial bigot? Nah, I just hate everyone, including all you redneck Yanquis. But especially the Russkis. Truman should have nuked them while he had the chance. Churchill would have, seeing the Germans as the immediate threat during the War but the Russians as the greater long-term threat.

Anyway, this Russian shlyukha was my gold mine, I mean client. Shlyukha? Russian for slut, you bourbon-swilling monoglot ignoramuses. She’d been rejected by every other legal firm, her husband a Big Shot in the City (that’s Britspeak for the financial district). She was passed down from the Four Cunts through the other Associates to me because her case for a cut of dear hubby’s wealth seemed hopeless. Cast-iron prenup; all his wealth held in untouchable family trusts (which she didn’t qualify for because she had refused to be knocked up — would have spoilt my figure, darlink); uber-respectable accountants’ report on husband’s limited personal wealth, close to bankrupt; a team from the most expensive and notoriously ruthless legal firm in London. Most expensive; limited personal wealth? All Free of charge because they were quotes close personal friends. Listen up, you straw-sucking hillbillies. Where there’s money to be made, lawyers are not your friends, anymore than vampires are friends of their favourite mobile bloodbanks.

So that’s how I ended up with my path to multi-billionairedom. And becoming a Sex slave. But before all that, I gritted my teeth, took aspirin to counter her whining, high-pitched voice boring right through my brain, and listened to my new client. Actually listened. Probably the first lawyer to do so: everyone else would have got rid of her within seconds of developing migraine. But it was worthwhile listening. She was convinced her husband was much richer than he made out and was concealing most of his wealth offshore, dismissing his claims of virtually bankruptcy, citing his Rolexes (plural), trayful of diamond cufflinks (trust a Russian to notice) and lamborghini. Perhaps because of the Rolexes and the diamonds, I took on her case seriously. If there’s one thing I hate more than shrill gold-diggers, it’s liars. Pretty much explains why I hate men. My real reason, however, was that the opposition had been the most gratuitously offensive in their rejection of my approach for a job.