Daddy’s Solicitor

You check your watch in the car park. Twenty past eight. The last consultation slot before lockdown.

The guard on the gate knows you. Nods. Doesn't check your bag properly anymore. You've been coming here for six months now, always professional, always his solicitor. Except you stopped being just his solicitor around visit number five.

That was the visit where you cried. Stupid, unprofessional, and this man, this client who'd done terrible things, reached across the table and said: "You're better than they see. You know that, right?"

Something cracked open. You told him things. About your father. About your husband. About how invisible you feel despite the partnership, the court wins, the respect.

"Come here," he'd said, and you'd moved to his side of the table like it was the most natural thing. He'd held your face in his hands and kissed you.

By visit twelve you were telling him about your fantasies. The dark ones you'd never said aloud. He listened like they were the most important things he'd ever heard.

And then you were touching yourself in the consultation room whilst he watched.

Somewhere along the way he became Daddy. Because he looked at you like you mattered. Like you were precious. This man in prison for violence looked at you with more tenderness than your own father ever had.

The corridor smells like every prison you've ever visited and you're aware of eyes following you. You keep your face neutral, your posture correct.

The guard unlocks the door. "Thirty minutes, Ms Taylor."

"Thank you."

He's sitting at the table, watching you. He doesn't smile but something in his expression. That look. The one that says he sees right through the suit and the briefcase to what you really are.

You sit across from him. Put your briefcase down. Pull out your notepad like this is normal. Like you're here to discuss his case.

"You came," he says.

"Of course I came. We need to go over the..."

"No we don't." He leans forward. "Tell me what you imagine."

Your pen stops moving. "What?"

"You heard me. Tell me what you think about, late at night."

Your face burns. "That's not appropriate. We're here to discuss..."

"Nonsense, we both know why you're here." His voice is quiet. Certain. "Tell me...all of it."

"I can't."

"You can." He reaches across the table. Doesn't touch you but his hand is close to yours. "Tell me. I want to know."

The silence stretches. You can hear voices from another consultation room. Someone laughing in the corridor. Normal prison sounds. Normal day.

Except nothing about this is normal anymore.

"Sometimes I imagine..." Your voice is barely a whisper. "Sometimes I imagine you've arranged something. A gift. For both of us."

"Go on..."

"I imagine you blindfold me. Here. In your cell and you've... you've arranged for others to come."

"How many others?"

"I don't know. Several. Men you trust." You're not looking at him now. Staring at your notepad with its blank pages. "And you tell them they can... that I'm a gift for them. That I'm there to be used."

"Keep going."

"I can't. This is..."

"Keep going."

His eyes lock onto yours.

So you do. You tell him everything. The whole fantasy spills out in whispered fragments whilst you sit across from him.

---

In the fantasy you're in his cell. He's positioned you on his bunk, your head in his lap. The blindfold is your silk scarf from this morning.

"Are you ready?" he asks.

You nod.

He calls to the door. "We're ready."

The door opens. Footsteps. Multiple men. You can hear them breathing. Feel their eyes on you.

This is insane. Tomorrow you're in Crown Court. Right now you're blindfolded, about to be...

"Isn't she pretty," he says. "Look at her. Came here in her work clothes just for this."

Murmurs of agreement. Your cheeks burning.

"I want you to be a good girl for me," he says. "You're a gift for my friends. Understand?"

You nod. Can't speak.

"Good girl." He kisses your forehead. "Who's first?"

Someone approaches. Shy footsteps. You feel a hand on your foot. Gentle. Cautious.

"Don't be shy," he says. "Feel her legs."

The hand moves up your calf. Finds the lace top of your stockings. The man's breathing gets heavier.

Christ, you wore stockings to prison. To court. Professional attire. And now...

Both hands on your thighs now. Pushing them apart. Your skirt riding up.

"Fuckin' hell." South London accent. Young. "Look at her."

You're about to be fucked by a stranger whilst he watches. Partnership meeting next week. Have to present the quarterly figures. Have to look Helen in the eye and...

"Go on," he says. "Fuck her."

The young one pushes inside you and you gasp. Unfamiliar cock. Wrong cock. You're soaking wet and he notices immediately.

"Fuck, you're so wet. Can't believe this."

You are wet. Shamefully wet. Being used like this with him watching makes you...

"Don't wait. She can take more."

Another approaches before the first has finished. Grabs at your breasts through your blouse. This one's confident. Greedy.

"Put out your hand," he commands.

You do. He places his cock in your palm. Already hard.

"What are you going to do with it?"

You start to stroke him. Then braver. Open your mouth. Guide him in. The young one is still fucking you and now you're sucking another and...

This is what you've become. Solicitor. Partner. Mother. Whore.

The young one pounds harder. "You're a whore. Fuckin' whore, innit."

"You can come inside her," he says.

And the young one does. Shuddering. Filling you. You moan around the cock in your mouth.

He pulls out. Moves away. His cum starting to leak from you.

The older man in your mouth is close. Grabs your hair. Pushes deeper. You're gagging, eyes watering under the blindfold.

Someone else climbs on the bunk. Doesn't wait. Shoves his cock into you, pushing the first man's cum deeper. Rough. Biting at your nipples through your expensive silk blouse.

Helen bought the same blouse last month. Mentioned it in the lift. "Great minds," she'd said.

And now you're here with cum in your mouth and another stranger's cock pounding into you.

The older man finally comes. Down your throat. Pulls out and you're gasping.

The third man finishes. Another load inside you.

For a moment you think it's over.

"OK, now the rest of you."

The rest? How many are there?

You hear shuffling. Breathing. Laughter. You're surrounded.

"Don't keep her waiting."

The sound of multiple men wanking. All around you. Aimed at you.

"Daddy," you whisper. Needing reassurance.

His fingers push into your mouth. You suck them desperately.

Then the first one comes. Warm ropes hitting your stomach. Your blouse. Then another. And another. Your face, your breasts, your thighs. Covered. Drenched. Marked.

So degraded. So wanted. Such a good girl.

---

"And then?" His voice pulls you back.

You're in the consultation room. Across the table from him. Both of you breathing hard.

"Then they leave," you whisper. "And you take off the blindfold. And I'm covered in them but you kiss me anyway. To show me I'm still yours."

The silence is thick. Loaded.

You can see the front of his prison trousers. He's hard. Visibly hard.

You shift in your seat. Your knickers are soaked. Have been since you started talking.

"That's what you imagine," he says. Not a question.

"Yes."

"When you're home. With your husband."

"Yes."

"And you touch yourself thinking about it."

Your face is burning. "Yes."

He leans back. Studies you. "And what do you imagine I do after?"

"What?"

"After I kiss you. After they leave. What do I do?"

You swallow. "You... you fuck me. Whilst I'm still covered in them. Claim me. Make me yours again."

"Show me."

"What?"

"Show me. Right now. Touch yourself."

"I can't. The guards..."

"They won't come in. Show me."

Your hand trembles as it moves under the table. Under your skirt. You're soaking through your knickers.

"That's it," he breathes. "Let me see your face whilst you do it."

You work your fingers over your clit. Watching him watch you. His hand moves to his lap. Touching himself through the prison trousers.

"Tell me again," he says. "Tell me what they do to you."

So you do. Whispering it whilst you touch yourself in a prison consultation room. Whilst he touches himself across from you. Describing the fantasy in fragments whilst you both get closer.

"I'm covered in them. Used. Ruined. And you kiss me anyway. Then you fuck me. Hard. Claiming me. Making me..."

You come. Shuddering. Biting your lip to stay quiet. Watch his face as he comes too, his hand stilling, his jaw clenching.

For a long moment neither of you moves.

Then you slowly pull your hand back. Straighten your skirt. He adjusts his trousers.

You're both breathing hard. Can't look at each other.

"Ms Taylor?" A knock on the door. The guard. "Five minutes."

"Thank you."

You start packing your briefcase. Notepad still blank. No notes about his case. Nothing professional happened here.

"Same time next week?" he asks.

You should say no. Should request a different solicitor for his case. Should report this. Should...

"Yes," you hear yourself say. "Same time."

At the door you turn back. He's watching you with that same expression.

"Next time," he says quietly, "I can tell you what happens after."

You nod. Don't trust yourself to speak. Your knickers are still wet. Tomorrow you have court. Partnership meeting next week.

Tonight you'll go home to your husband and you'll touch yourself again thinking about this. About him. About what you've just shared.

Because the fantasies will never be enough but you can't stop.

This is who you are now.