Bad Bitch
Authors: Christina Saunders
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Evan
“You’re fired.”
I savored the words as they rolled off my tongue. The simple phrase always brought a slight buzz of power. This time was no different.
The offending associate rose and glanced around the room. No help there. My other dozen or so associates studied their legal pads as if they contained a detailed listing of everyone’s competitive raises and bonuses for the past two years.
“You can’t do this.” He was definitely trying on his “I’m an adult!” tone.
I laughed. This was becoming the highlight of my day, and it was only eight thirty in the morning.
I slid my fingers along the smooth glass tabletop in front of me. “And why can’t I?”
His face was reddening, the perfect WASP façade fading into a muddle of anger. “Because I will go to the EEOC!”
He grabbed his papers and stuffed them into his leather briefcase, still stiff off the Nordstrom rack.
“You give that a try. See how it works out. I’m certain an attorney of your
experience
wouldn’t be blackballed throughout this city if he were to complain about one of its most well-connected firms. I mean”—I laughed without warmth—“it’s not as if I can easily have Vinnie or Drew here make a few calls for me. Let the other firms know you’re a ticking time bomb for a labor complaint or worse.”
I saw realization finally dawning on his perfect little frat boy face. He was just another associate in the swarm of associates that buzzed around this city like flies on shit. He had nowhere to go, no one to complain to, and only one option. Leave.
“You bitch!” He quaked with anger while failing at originality.
I enjoyed every little tremor.
Honestly, it’s not that he was a terrible associate. I tried to maintain a steady roster of Ivy League pricks to keep the firm’s résumé top notch. This particular prick was mediocre, especially given his blue-blood pedigree and his Harvard law degree. His work was not brilliant, only passable. But that wasn’t his downfall. No, his downfall had occurred the week prior.
He had a brief due in federal court on a high-dollar securities case. Ponzi schemes were still in fashion, and I had a stable of clients who specialized in bilking investors out of their retirements. These clients paid me handsomely with funds originating from the Caymans and other lovely island nations. They did so because I was the best.
I’d gotten them out of jail time, helped them keep their ill-gotten gains, and assisted them in destroying their enemies. And I did it all with pleasure. That’s why the name on the door was Pallida & Associates. There were no other partners, no other stars in the sky of my firm. Only me and several nameless, faceless minions who did my bidding, no questions asked.
So when this prick associate put his shitty brief on my desk the week before, I was unhappy. But not unhappy enough to fire him. A Harvard degree—even if bestowed on a simpleton—is still a Harvard degree, after all. I simply pawned the brief off on one of my better associates, Drew, so she could make it intelligible.
No, what got him fired was his lackluster fucking. After Drew left to repair the offending stream-of-consciousness drivel, Ivy League Prick closed my door and approached my desk. I had my fuck-me heels kicked up, the silver stilettos more of a warning than an invitation. This poor little lost puppy couldn’t tell the difference. He licked his lips as he contemplated the shoes, then the legs, then slid his eyes even farther up until they stopped at the shadow that fell between my thighs.
“I’ve seen you looking at me,” he said, an attempt at coolness in his tone. But he was excited; the color creeping up from under his shirt collar said as much. He slid around the desk and perched against it, resting a hand on my ankles.
“Aren’t you observant?” His game was already tiresome. “If that’s all you have to say, I suggest you head home. Or at least go get Drew some dinner. She’ll be fixing your clusterfuck of a brief for hours to get it filed by midnight.”
He slid his hand down to my knees, and I could see his erection straining against his slacks. Amateur.
“I thought maybe I could put in a few extra hours tonight. Help you with your workload?”
Hours? This guy wouldn’t last minutes. But I was game. I was always game.
I kicked my feet down from the desk and stood. Even in my heels, I was still shorter. His fucking perfect blue-blood breeding made him the benchmark for evolution, while I was still in the cavewoman stage of height.
I took his hands and placed one on my breast and the other under my skirt. The surprise on his face was an even bigger turnoff. I was about to call it quits when he livened up and squeezed my tit. Finally. He turned around and scooted me up on the desk and wedged in between my thighs.
His hot mouth was on my neck, sucking too hard. I pulled back. “No marks.”
“Okay, no marks.” His eyes had a lusty glaze.
I was no doubt fulfilling some deep schoolboy fantasy of his. The head bitch in charge now love slave to the associate, or some similar work of ham-handed fiction. I smirked as he continued down my chest. He fumbled at the buttons on my blouse. I dug my nails into his sides, more out of irritation than anything else. When he finally got my shirt open, he stared at my breasts. What, had he never seen a pair of tits before?
I slid my bra straps down and let the girls free, giving him a better look. His hands were on them immediately. He kneaded one and sucked the nipple on the other. I finally felt some wetness between my thighs. The way he went for my tits while ignoring my pussy told me he was inexperienced, young. But if it made me wet, I didn’t give a shit.
I unzipped his slacks and pulled out his cock. The tip was already wet. No, this wouldn’t last long. But it was a decent size. I angled my hips and positioned him at my opening.
“Wait. Are you clean?”
“What do you mean?” he asked in between sucks.
I grabbed his hair and pulled his head back up to mine. He winced at the pain.
Jesus, this guy.
I shook my head.
“I mean, if I get so much as a fucking sniffle in the next week, I am going to make your life a living hell. Understand?”
“Oh, oh, you mean STDs? No, I’m clean. Promise.”
I released him, and he returned to my neck, now kissing gently. His cock was still at full staff. I pulled him toward me, guiding him to my center. His head entered, but he stayed there, at the edge, holding back.
He was tentative. Nothing is a bigger turnoff than tentative. Nothing.
When I growled my frustration, he took the hint and sank his cock deep into me.
I wrapped my legs around his back, digging into him with the heels. He grimaced.
Pussy
.
I dug in harder, spurring him to go faster. He stopped being so hesitant and got down to fucking me, in and out in a quick rhythm. I could feel the pressure building in my clit with each stroke. I spread my hips wider, wanting to feel every bump, all the friction. I was getting there. He was worse than a vibrator with dead batteries, but I was getting there with each steady plunge.
With a cry he pulled out and came all over my desk drawers. All the friction disappeared, the small spark of heat gone. I pushed him away.
“What the fuck was that?” I hissed.
“You’re just too hot. I couldn’t stop.” The ages-old excuse of minute men the world over. What a waste of my time.
“Out!” I barked.
He looked down at his rapidly deflating dick, then gazed around my office as if looking for some help for it. There was none.
“Do you have any tissue?”
Un-fucking-believable.
“Get the fuck out of my office. Now.”
He tucked his dick back in, the semen leaving dark stains on the front of his pants. I stood and tugged my skirt back into place. I rearranged my bra and rebuttoned my shirt.
He hurried to the double doors and turned to say something, but thought better of it and darted out. His first smart move of the day.
Now, with the morning sun streaming in, I looked around the conference table. I had more talent in this one room than most firms had in their history. And not just in smarts. One of my better associates, Cassie, could eat my pussy so well that after I came my fucking clit went numb from all the pleasure. Compared to that, Ivy League Prick was no loss.
“Is this because we fucked?” he asked.
He eyed the other associates, no doubt looking for signs of shock or amazement. There were none. My firm had two reputations. The first, and most important: I was the best at what I did. The second: Evangeline Pallida gets what she wants, even if that means an associate is the one giving it to her.
I was an admittedly harsh mistress, but I chose the best and paid them well. When my associates left, nine times out of ten it was on good terms. They continued their careers with my seal of approval and remembered their time with me, if not fondly, then with a healthy dose of gratitude for being shown the realities of how this business works.
Learning the realities almost broke me when I was a young lawyer—or maybe it did break me and all that remained of my younger self was shattered, sharp edges. Either way, the one kindness I did all my associates was to teach them the truth before sending them out into the dark, dirty city. The lesson was deceptively simple: The strong survive, and the only way to stay strong is to always have something to offer.
The problem with Ivy League Prick was that I didn’t want what he had to offer. The free sample was enough.
“If that’s what you call fucking, then you’re even dumber than I thought. And that’s really saying something. Don’t let the door hit you in your limp dick on the way out.”
A couple of my associates snorted, and the other ones—the ass kissers—did their best to stifle their grins.
I waved a dismissive hand at him as he stormed out, no doubt planning to call his equally limp-dicked father and complain about the “bitch.”
Have fun with that.
I continued on with the morning meeting.
