Confessions of a Litigation God

Nope.

“What the f**k? Can’t you do anything right?” I sneer as I throw the document back at her. She makes a terrible attempt to catch it, and it goes fluttering to the floor. She picks up the document, sobs out an apology that I just roll my eyes at, and runs out of my office.

Closing my eyes, I scrub my hands over my face and lean my head back on my chair. I think I actually may be going crazy. Or, I’m turning into a girl and I’m PMSing, because I cannot seem to get control of the rage that has been bubbling low inside of me since I walked out of Mac’s office last week.

I know I can be an ass**le on any given day, but I’m usually an ass**le with class. I tend to belittle people in an almost polite manner, so they’re not really even sure that I’m getting the better of them. I’m very stealthy that way.

But the new Matt Connover is the proverbial bull in a china shop. I’m just running rampant over everyone, shattering sensibilities at every turn.

It’s the only thing that’s making me feel better.

To make others feel bad.

I wish the way to feel better was to grab a woman and f**k Mac’s existence out of my memory. But six days after walking away from Mac, and I’ve yet to use One Night Only. Instead, I go home, drink two or three scotches, and fall asleep… or jack off and fall asleep.

Yes, I jack off thinking of Mac. A pathetic fact of which I’m ashamed.

In fact, just last night, I downed a few scotches and decided to take a shower. I immediately thought of the time Mac and I were getting it on in the shower, and I slipped… breaking her showerhead. It was f**king funny as hell and yet, I still f**ked her pretty good. It was one of my favorite times with her.

It brought forth a bittersweet taste in my mouth and a hard-on between my legs. I grabbed a bar of soap and lathered up my cock, swirling it in a circular motion over my balls. With closed eyes, I imagined it was Mac. When I got good and slippery, I dropped the soap and wrapped my hand around my dick, pulling and stroking. My grip was firm, twisting slightly on every upstroke at the head in a way that f**k… that feels good.

Laying a forearm against the tile, I let the water pound on my back while I rested my forehead on my arm. I let my mind drift… remembering all the ways I’ve taken Mac. Remembering the way her heat surrounded me, and the noises she would make. I remembered all of the filthy things I would say as I drilled her. I continued to pump my cock, my h*ps getting in on the action so my hand didn’t

have to do all the work.

I pretended my hand was Mac’s gorgeously f**kable mouth. I remembered how she would suck, lick, and sometimes she’d even nip, while looking from beneath her lashes at me in a naughty way. She’d smile at me, and I’d smile at her.

And f**k… my orgasm hit me so hard that my h*ps bucked forward and I threw my head back, crying out almost painfully as I unloaded all over my tiled wall and watched it swirl away down the drain.

My breathing was rough, my balls were still tingling, and I felt absolutely dead and empty inside.

Rinsing off, I stepped out of the shower, completely sated and soft dicked, but I still felt tension vibrating everywhere. That had been happening to me… a lot. I could experience a pleasurable orgasm, and rather than feel relaxed and mellow, I’d feel pissed and strained.

Because it wasn’t the orgasm I wanted. It wasn’t with Mac. It was a pitiful replica done by my palm with images of Mac behind my eyelids, and it was f**king unsatisfying as hell.

I dried myself off and pulled on a pair of sweatpants. Pouring myself another scotch, I sat down in the living room and pulled some stuff out of my briefcase. The top document was from Mac. It was some Answers to Interrogatories on the Jackson case I assigned to her last week, and she had put them in my office sometime today when I was out and about.

I hadn’t seen her all week, intentionally staying away from her, and she had clearly been doing the same with me.

Reading the first page, I realized that this was as close to Mac as I would ever get. The most intimate thing we would share from here on was work product. Fury flooded me as I realized the utter unfairness of it all, and I knew that I needed an appropriate outlet for my anger.

And since Mac was the cause of all these problems, I think I knew where to direct it.

***

A knock sounds at my door, and I know it’s Mac. I had sent her an email telling her to see me on an urgent matter in the Jackson case.

“Come in,” I tell her and force myself not to look up. I wait until I can hear her sit down, and then I grab the Answers to Interrogatories that I had reviewed last night. I hand it across my desk to her, and she takes it without a word.

Sitting back in my chair, I watch her carefully, to see how she’ll react to my “feedback”. She flips through page after page, her eyes flying over my words. Every time she flips a page, I see splashes of red, which is the color of pen I used last night to write said “feedback” on the document.

By the time I was finished with it, it look like someone sacrificed a goat on it or something.

Mac finally looks up at me, her eyes confused… maybe hurt. Which is not what I want to see on that achingly beautiful face. I’d rather have her antipathy.

“I’m disappointed in you, McKayla,” I tell her in my best tone of condescension. “The draft you handed in to me was sub-standard at best. A first-year law student could have done better. ”

Those words were calculated by me to strike hard. But when her face flushes red with embarrassment, I’m not quite getting that giddy feeling I had been expecting.

Her eyes go back to the document, and I let her take all the time in the world to go back through my comments. They were cruel, meant to hurt and belittle.

You didn’t put much thought into this.

Are you sure you went to law school?

I’m not sure you’re cut out for this type of work.

Every comment I made was designed to knock her down… to make her feel as bad as I felt.

Mac finally looks back up at me and I tense, wondering what she’s going to do. Just a few moments ago, I wanted to make her tremble before me. Now, if she even shows me a hint of hurt, I might crumble like a f**king pu**y and beg her forgiveness.

“Matt… some of these corrections are just semantics. I think it’s a little unfair to call my work sub-standard when you’re basically disagreeing with word choices. ”