Jury Duty
"Sequestered for a trial that drags on. No phones, no contact with the outside world. By day three, two strangers are sneaking to each other's rooms."
I almost didn't get selected.
The defense attorney looked at me like I was hiding something. Asked if I could be impartial. Asked if I had any bias against people who worked in finance.
I said no. I said I could be fair.
What I didn't say was that I was desperate to get out of my apartment, away from my phone, away from the constant noise of my life. Three weeks sequestered in a hotel sounded like a vacation.
I had no idea what I was walking into.
Day One
The hotel is nicer than I expected.
Government rate, but clean. Queen beds, blackout curtains, a view of the courthouse across the street. They take our phones at check-in. Laptops. Anything with internet access. We're allowed books, but they have to be approved. No newspapers. No TV news.
Twelve of us. Strangers thrown together.
I notice her immediately.
She's standing at the check-in desk arguing about something—her room, maybe, or the phone policy. Early forties. Professional. Blazer over a silk blouse, pencil skirt that's fighting a losing battle against her hips. She's a big woman—not fat, exactly, but substantial. Thick arms. Wide shoulders. The kind of curves that business casual was never designed to contain.
Her ass is massive. I try not to stare. I fail.
"This is ridiculous," she's saying. "I have a job. I have a family. I can't just disappear for three weeks."
"Ma'am, the judge's orders—"
"I know what the judge's orders are." She turns, catches me looking. I glance away too late.
Her eyes narrow.
I'm fucked.
Her name is Diane.
We find this out at the first group dinner—mandatory, in a private dining room, no contact with hotel staff beyond what's necessary. She sits at the far end of the table, arms crossed, radiating irritation.
I sit in the middle. Try to make small talk with the retired electrician next to me. But my eyes keep drifting.
Diane's blazer is off now. The silk blouse is straining. I can see the outline of her bra—industrial, the kind meant for serious support—and the soft flesh bulging around it. Her breasts are huge. Not perky, not young, but heavy. The kind that would spill out of your hands.
She catches me again.
This time, she doesn't look away.
Day Two
The trial is boring.
Tax fraud. Shell companies. A parade of accountants explaining spreadsheets. I take notes because I'm supposed to, but my mind wanders.
Diane sits three seats down in the jury box. She's wearing a different blazer today—navy—and the same barely-contained situation underneath. I watch her shift in her seat. Uncross and recross her legs. Her thighs are thick enough that the motion takes effort.
At lunch, she sits across from me.
"You keep staring at me."
I choke on my sandwich. "I—what?"
"Yesterday. Today. In the jury box." She takes a bite of her salad, chews slowly. "I'm not blind."
"I wasn't—"
"You were." She sets down her fork. Studies me. "I'm trying to decide if I should be offended."
"And?"
"Haven't decided yet." She picks up the fork again. "I'll let you know."
She doesn't say another word to me for the rest of the day.
But she keeps glancing over.
Day Three
The professional armor is cracking.
Diane shows up to breakfast in slacks and a sweater instead of a suit. No blazer. The sweater is soft, clingy, and it shows everything—the full shelf of her breasts, the round swell of her belly, the way her body moves when she walks.
She's stopped sucking in her stomach. I can tell. The careful posture from day one is gone. She sits down across from me without asking.
"I haven't worn real pants in three years," she says.
"What?"
"Spanx. Control tops. Shapewear." She stirs her coffee. "Every day for work. I'm a VP at a marketing firm. Image matters." She takes a sip. "But nobody here knows me. Nobody here cares what I look like."
"I care."
The words are out before I can stop them.
She goes still. Sets down the cup.
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know." I'm an idiot. "I just—you looked uncomfortable before. Now you look..."
"Fat?"
"Free."
She stares at me for a long moment. Something shifts in her expression.
"Huh," she says.
That's all. Just huh.
But she sits next to me in the jury box that afternoon.
Day Four
We walk in the courtyard after dinner.
There's not much to it—a small square of grass, some benches, a view of the parking garage—but it's outside. It's air. The marshals watch from the doorway, bored.
"I haven't been anonymous in twenty years," Diane says.
We're walking slowly. Her arm brushes mine.
"What do you mean?"
"I'm always someone's something. Someone's boss. Someone's mother. Someone's wife." She laughs, bitter. "Ex-wife, now. Three years divorced."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. He was an asshole." She stops at a bench, sits. The wood creaks. "But here—nobody knows any of that. I'm just juror number seven."
I sit beside her. Our thighs touch.
"Is that good?"
"I don't know." She's looking at me differently now. "It feels dangerous."
"Why dangerous?"
"Because I'm thinking things I shouldn't be thinking." Her voice drops. "About you."
My heart stops.
"What kind of things?"
She doesn't answer. Just looks at me with those sharp eyes, her chest rising and falling, the sweater tight across her breasts.
Then she stands.
"Goodnight," she says.
And walks inside.
Day Five
I can't concentrate on the trial.
The defense is cross-examining some auditor. I should be paying attention. Instead, I'm watching Diane.
She's wearing a cardigan today. Unbuttoned. Beneath it, a thin t-shirt—the kind you'd wear at home, not in public. No bra.
I can see her nipples through the fabric.
She catches me looking. Instead of glaring, she shifts in her seat. The motion pushes her breasts together. The nipples harden visibly.
She's doing it on purpose.
At dinner, she sits next to me. Close. Her thigh pressed against mine under the table. Her hand lands on my knee.
"Room 412," she murmurs.
Then she excuses herself early.
I wait an hour.
Long enough for the marshals to do their rounds. Long enough for the other jurors to drift to their rooms. Long enough to convince myself this is a bad idea.
Then I go to 412.
She opens the door in a hotel robe. Nothing else, I realize, as I step inside. The curve of her calves below the hem. The shadow of cleavage above.
"I've been thinking," she says.
"About what?"
"About what you said. That I look free." She pulls the robe tighter—not to hide, but to emphasize. The fabric clings to her belly, her hips, her breasts. "I haven't felt free in so long. Everything is obligations. Expectations. Being the right size, the right shape, the right everything."
"You don't have to be anything here."
"I know." She steps closer. "That's what scares me."
"Why?"
"Because if I don't have to be anything—" She reaches up, touches my face. Her palm is warm. "—then I might do something reckless."
"Like what?"
She kisses me.
Her mouth is soft.
Not tentative—nothing about Diane is tentative—but soft. Full lips pressing against mine, parting, her tongue sliding forward. She tastes like toothpaste and want.
I pull her closer. My hands find her hips through the robe, and god, she's wide. My fingers sink into flesh. She makes a sound against my mouth—half gasp, half moan—and presses herself against me.
"I haven't done this in four years," she breathes. "Not since the divorce. Not with anyone."
"We don't have to—"
"Shut up." She grabs my shirt, pulls me toward the bed. "I've been thinking about this for three days. Thinking about your eyes on me. Thinking about—fuck—"
She trips. Falls backward onto the mattress. The robe falls open.
She's naked underneath.
I stand there, staring.
Diane's body is a landscape. Her breasts are massive—each one bigger than my head, soft and heavy, spreading toward her sides as she lies back. Her nipples are wide and dark, already stiff. Her belly is a round mountain of flesh, soft rolls folding into each other, a deep navel at the center. Her hips flare wide, wider than the bed almost, leading to thighs so thick they press together even when she's spread.
She's not trying to hide any of it.
"Well?" She props herself on her elbows. The motion makes her breasts sway. "You've been staring all week. Now you can actually look."
"You're—"
"Fat. I know. Two-sixty on a good day, probably more after the crap they've been feeding us." She doesn't sound ashamed. She sounds challenging. "Is that a problem?"
"God, no."
I'm on her before I can think.
She gasps when I kiss her neck.
Gasps again when my hands find her breasts—so much flesh, overflowing my grip, soft and warm and real. I squeeze, and she arches into me. Her nipples are hard against my palms.
"That's—fuck—yes—"
I kiss down her throat. Between her breasts. I bury my face in them—so much softness, surrounding me, smothering me. I find a nipple and suck.
"Oh god." Her hands fist in my hair. "It's been so long—no one's touched me—"
I suck harder. She moans. Her hips are moving, grinding against nothing, desperate for friction. I slide my hand down her belly—so much of it, soft and warm and yielding—and find the heat between her thighs.
She's soaked.
"Please," she gasps. "Please, I need—"
I slide two fingers inside her.
She comes embarrassingly fast.
I don't say that—I'm not an asshole—but she does. The moment my thumb finds her clit, she's shaking, clenching around my fingers, biting down on her own fist to keep from screaming.
"Fuck—I'm sorry—I couldn't—"
"Don't apologize." I keep my fingers inside her, feeling the aftershocks. "That was hot."
"I can do better." She's flushed, panting. "I'm not usually—god, it's just been so long—"
"Hey." I kiss her. "We have all night."
Her eyes widen. "All night?"
"If you want."
She pulls me down, rolls us over. Suddenly she's on top—all two hundred and sixty pounds of her pressing me into the mattress. I can barely breathe. It's incredible.
"I want," she says.
And reaches for my belt.
She's not gentle.
She strips me efficiently—shirt, pants, boxers—and stares at my cock like she's never seen one before. Maybe she hasn't, not in four years. Then she wraps her hand around it and strokes.
"Christ—"
"I used to be good at this." She's focused, intense. "Let's see if I remember."
She remembers.
Her hand works me slowly at first, then faster. She watches my face, adjusting her grip, her rhythm. When she leans down and takes me in her mouth, I nearly come off the bed.
"Diane—"
She doesn't stop. Sucks me deep, her tongue doing something incredible, her hand working what won't fit. Her breasts press against my thighs—so warm, so heavy. I can feel her moaning around me.
"I'm going to—if you don't stop—"
She pulls off. Wipes her mouth. Grins.
"Not yet." She climbs up my body, straddling me. Her belly presses against my stomach. Her breasts hang in my face. "I've been thinking about this part for three days."
She reaches down, positions me at her entrance.
And sinks.
Fuck.
She's tight—tighter than I expected—and wet, and burning. She takes me inch by inch, her eyes closed, her mouth open. When she's all the way down, she stops. Breathes.
"Oh god." Her voice is shaking. "Oh god."
"You okay?"
"I'm—" She laughs, almost crying. "I forgot. How good this feels. I forgot."
She starts to move.
It's slow at first. Careful. She's remembering how to do this, finding her rhythm. But then her hips start rolling faster, grinding down on me, and she's moaning, and I grab her hips—so much to hold onto—and pull her harder.
"That's it—fuck—yes—"
Her breasts are bouncing in my face. I catch one, suck the nipple. She cries out.
"Harder—suck harder—"
I do. She rides me faster. The bed is creaking, the headboard hitting the wall, and neither of us cares. Four years of nothing. Five days of buildup. It's all coming out now.
"I'm going to come again—" She's almost sobbing. "—oh god, I'm going to—"
"Do it. Come on my cock."
She slams down one final time and screams.
Her orgasm triggers mine.
She's clenching around me, rippling, and I can't hold back. I grab her hips and thrust up, burying myself as deep as I can, emptying into her while she shakes and moans and collapses against my chest.
We lie there, breathing.
"Holy shit," she finally says.
"Yeah."
"I didn't—" She laughs into my neck. "—I didn't think it would be like that."
"What did you think?"
"I don't know. Awkward. Disappointing. That's how it always was with my ex." She lifts her head, looks at me. Her makeup is smeared. Her hair is a disaster. She's beautiful. "Not like that."
"Good."
"Good." She kisses me, soft and slow. "We have all night, you said?"
"If you want."
She reaches down. Finds me still half-hard inside her. Squeezes.
"I want."
Day Six
We barely make it to breakfast.
I sneak out of her room at 5 AM, shower, change. Show up to the dining room looking like I got eight hours of sleep instead of two.
She shows up looking wrecked.
No makeup. Hair in a messy bun. Yoga pants and a sweatshirt—the most casual I've seen her. Her body moves freely beneath the fabric. No shapewear. No armor.
She sits across from me. Doesn't say a word.
But under the table, her foot finds mine.
The trial drags.
Another accountant. More spreadsheets. I take notes, but all I can think about is last night. The weight of her on top of me. The sound she made when she came. The way her belly felt against mine.
I'm hard in the jury box.
Diane glances over. Sees me shift. Smiles.
Day Seven
We're more careful this time.
Separate exits from dinner. Different routes through the hotel. I wait in my room until midnight, then text her from the landline phone the hotel provides for emergencies.
She picks up immediately.
"Room 307," I say.
"I'll be there in five."
She brings the robe again.
This time, she doesn't pretend. Just walks through the door, drops the robe, and pushes me onto the bed.
"I thought about you all day," she says, straddling me. "Sitting in that box, watching you take notes. Thinking about what's under those khakis."
"This is crazy."
"I know." She grinds down. I'm hard instantly. "I'm a VP. I'm forty-three years old. I have a mortgage and a teenage son and a retirement account."
"And?"
"And I'm sneaking into a stranger's hotel room to fuck him." She reaches back, finds my cock, strokes. "Because I can't stop thinking about it. About you."
"I can't stop thinking about you either."
She positions me. Sinks down.
"Then stop talking."
This time is slower.
Not less intense—just more deliberate. She rides me like she has all the time in the world, rolling her hips, clenching around me, watching my face for reactions. Her breasts sway with the motion. I reach up, cup them, feel their weight.
"You like these?" She presses them together. "My ex said they were too big. Ugly."
"Your ex was a fucking idiot."
She laughs. "He was." Grinds down harder. "But I believed him. For years. Every time I looked in the mirror—fuck, right there—I saw what he saw."
"What do you see now?"
"I don't know." Her eyes close. "Something different. The way you look at me—like I'm—oh god—"
"Like you're what?"
"Like I'm wanted."
I flip her over. Pin her to the mattress. Her eyes go wide.
"You are wanted," I say. "You're fucking incredible. Every inch of you."
I thrust, hard.
She screams.
I fuck her until neither of us can move.
Her on top. Her on her back. Her bent over the desk, my hands sinking into her hips, her ass rippling with every thrust. She comes three times. Four. I lose count.
When we're finally spent, we lie tangled together.
"This is insane," she murmurs.
"Probably."
"I don't even know your last name."
"Peterson."
"Diane Walsh." She extends her hand, mock-formal. "Nice to meet you."
I shake it, then kiss her knuckles.
"What happens when the trial ends?" she asks.
"I don't know."
"Me neither." She presses closer. Her breasts flatten against my side. "But I don't want to think about it yet."
"Then don't."
She tilts her head up. Kisses me.
"Goodnight, Peterson."
"Goodnight, Walsh."
Days Eight Through Twelve
We fall into a rhythm.
Days in the jury box, pretending to be strangers. Meals with the other jurors, our legs touching under the table. Nights in each other's rooms, learning every inch.
I learn that she's ticklish behind her knees. That she comes hardest when I'm behind her. That she likes having her nipples bitten, but not too hard. That she cries sometimes, after—not sad tears, just release.
She learns that I like when she sits on my face. That I can go three rounds if she gives me twenty minutes between. That I want her to leave marks.
We're reckless.
We should be more careful.
We don't care.
Day Thirteen
The prosecution rests.
Defense starts their case tomorrow. The judge says we might be done by end of week.
In Diane's room that night, we're both quiet.
"Five more days," she finally says.
"Maybe less."
"And then what?" She's lying on her side, her body a landscape of curves. "Back to real life. Back to being VP Walsh and whoever you are."
"I'm a high school teacher."
"Really?" She laughs. "That's—I didn't expect that."
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know. Accountant. Lawyer. Something boring." She traces a finger down my chest. "But a teacher. You help people."
"Sometimes."
"I like that." She kisses my shoulder. "I like you."
"I like you too."
"So what do we do?" Her voice is smaller now. "When this ends?"
I don't have an answer.
Day Fifteen
Closing arguments.
The defense says reasonable doubt. The prosecution says clear evidence. We're sent to deliberate.
Diane and I sit across the table from each other, surrounded by ten other jurors, and pretend we haven't spent the last ten nights wrapped around each other.
It's torture.
We deliberate for two days.
The vote is eleven to one—guilty. The holdout is a retired lawyer who wants to argue precedent. I don't care about precedent. I care about the clock running out.
On the second day of deliberation, we finally get unanimous.
Guilty on all counts.
Day Seventeen
The verdict is read.
The defendant is remanded into custody. The judge thanks us for our service. Our phones are returned.
Just like that, it's over.
I find Diane in the lobby.
She's back in her armor—blazer, skirt, heels. Hair perfect. Makeup flawless. The transformation is startling.
But when she looks at me, her eyes are the same.
"So," she says.
"So."
"I have a car coming. Teenage son to get home to. A job that's probably buried me in emails."
"I understand."
"Do you?" She steps closer. Lowers her voice. "Because I don't. I don't understand any of this. Two weeks ago, you were a stranger. Now—"
"Now what?"
She presses something into my hand. A business card.
"Now I don't want to be strangers anymore."
Her car pulls up. She squeezes my hand once, then walks out the lobby doors.
I look down at the card.
Diane Walsh, VP of Marketing.
On the back, in handwritten pen: Call me. Please.
I wait three days.
I tell myself it's strategy. Give her time to settle back in. Don't seem desperate.
Really, I'm terrified.
On day four, I call.
"Hello?"
"Hi. It's—"
"Peterson." I can hear her smile. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me."
"Never."
"Good." A pause. "So. What now?"
"I was thinking dinner. Somewhere nice. We can actually talk—learn each other's last names, middle names, first pet's names—"
"I'd like that."
"Friday?"
"Friday works." Another pause. "And Peterson?"
"Yeah?"
"I haven't put the shapewear back on yet." Her voice drops. "Haven't wanted to. Feels wrong now, after—everything."
"Good."
"Good." She laughs—that same laugh from the hotel room, unguarded. "Friday, then. Don't be late."
"I won't."
I'm not late.
She shows up in a wrap dress that clings to every curve. No armor. No hiding.
She's exactly who she was in that hotel room.
And when she smiles at me across the restaurant table, I think:
Seventeen days.
Seventeen days to become strangers. Ten nights to become something else.
And now—
She reaches across the table, takes my hand.
—now we get to find out what comes next.
I squeeze her hand back.
I can't wait.