Momo
I have been invited for Sunday lunch.
It was to be a traditional English roast cooked for the first time by a Japanese wife, Momo.
There was a paralegal present.
John McClinden QC had frequented annual holidays to Hawaii being an elite equivalent to the working classes trips to Thailand or the Philippines.
The QC would often boast about his £1000 bareback ‘massages’ in Hawaii.
I considered it to be quite a poor Sunday roast; however also quite in keeping with the typical English meal in that it was quite tasteless with pulverized vegetables.
Still there was excellent wine that the QC had taken off one of his clients cellars as part of his asset stripping exercises.
The QC’s clients could never pay. He would always overcharge them massively late, typically a day before trial, with bankrupting sized fees totally unexpected for his clients to whom he had quoted way more modest and affordable costs.
In this way, the sociopathic QC would rub his hands in glee as he plundered his client’s assets and collections grafted for their many years of diligent work.
So we drank remarkable wine.
After much giggling MOMO began.
She said that the QC was not a handsome man. She said the paralegal was not a handsome man. She said that I was a handsome man.
The QC interrupted to inform MOMO that she was tired.
He went on to apologise for her tiredness and instructed that proceedings must be wrapped up. We had not reached dessert.
I remember concluding that the apple crumble would not have a sophisticated cinnamon twist and so was easily forgotten.
The strange house in the gated secured community off the kings road had its kitchen upstairs.
I was slightly drunk. My fumbling of the crockery was soon taken over by the QC and his paralegal.
Momo started again wittering on about myself being a handsome man. She got up immediately, elegantly dropping her skirt. As she repeated the words again, she wrapped her arms around my neck, pulling me with her stumbling over to her sofa.
It was at this point that I began to compare my own morals with that of Big John.
Amidst the most stressful litigation ‘what-ifs’ of his own unwarranted fabrication, the QC would take me for the most expensive cocktail in London. At least these places were empty.
Not only did I always have to pay for drinks but I discovered later that the time was billed. At least the £50 cocktails paled into insignificance amongst £430 per hour + vat rounded up.
Other times, the QC would take me to private entry Piccadilly clubs stacked out with beautiful women. These were ‘Russian molls’ he would explain whilst pointing out all those he had kissed and those also penetrated.
He had had all the women, he would explain, because all these men needed lawyers. I remarked, sycophantically, how that must have been good for him & that he had explained why we were there.
Did he have any clients there? No. These, he explained, were not the dirty of clients to have… because they had guns.
At the time, I had merely thought it sensible to avoid anyone carrying a gun. In time, however, the QC’s specific explanation had become clear.
McClinden would vet clients carefully, selecting only those victims most unlikely to forcibly stand up for themselves when he stripped them of their liquid assets.
Some clarification is required here. Whilst the QC actively invited litigation over, he overcharged, late fees in order to enable asset plundering. He did not want those clients who might circumvent the law to challenge him. Specifically, no one with a gun.
The QC had been shot in New Zealand by former clients. That was why he was in Britain. America had guns, he would explain.
At that moment, the QC’s philandering decided my choice.
Only at that moment.
I went with it believing she simply needed steadying on her feet.
In a remarkably skilled maneuver, I was both deeply kissed and manhood expertly handled to a firm sobering attention.
Momo was attractive. There were only minutes available but a clear staircase run of window.
Momo pulled me on top of her, wrapping her legs wide open around my hips.
Urgently Slipping past any dryness, I pushed home.
Momo bared one breast and pulled my mouth onto her hard teet.
Arching my back, it was simply lovely, exciting moments before quite a different unexpected dessert creamed pie.
It was then that Momo sobered up too.
Pushing me off gathering herself tidying her hair rushing me to cloth up though I was already well advanced.
The giggling had stopped.
Things were quite quiet.
Eventually the QC returned and continued instructions to terminate the soiree.
I missed the excellent wine.
