You have an expensive court case on your hand. It's about mistakenly bumping a rich guy's Mercedes and leaving a dent in the door. The moron shouted at and threatened you with financial ruin for banging up his precious car, which he probably loves more than his family. Either way, the bloke's rich and capable of taking you for whatever little you have, while adding to his own not insignificant bank account.
You call up some of your friends, but no one knows a good lawyer at a reasonable price. Except for one friend who gives you the number and address of a lawyer he knows well.
‘Just be careful, bro,’ he warns. ‘She won't charge you and I'll cover the nominal costs, but you need to keep your eyes open.’
‘What do you mean?’ you ask.
‘You need to be careful what you tell her and stick to the point,’ he says simply. He refuses to give any more explanations.
You call up the woman, and she agrees to meet you right away. You reach her plush, oak-wood office in half an hour.
There she is, sitting behind the table, dressed in a dark blue suit with an open neck and tie. She takes a drag from her cigarette and blows five perfect smoke rings into the air. Except ... she has bunny ears, floofy (sic) fur you could stroke for hours, and a rabbit's tail. Classic March Hare. You struggled to remember what your friend meant by ‘be to the point’ but couldn't understand. Weren't all lawyers to the point?
‘So ... you're my new client?’ she asks, stubbing out her cigarrette and dropping it in her ashtray.
‘Yes, ma'am,’ you say with a sigh.
‘So ... case?’
‘I accidentally bumped this rich dunderhead's car, ma'am. I dented his door and he threatened to sue me for everything I had. I actually have very little anyway, so I was thinking whether you could help get me off?’
You rub your eyes wearily and look up at the march hare with a pleading look. Only to see her eyes gleaming with a strange light, and she is leaning forward far more than necessary. Her bounteous cleavage is spilling out of her blouse, and it's now easy to see she has no bra on.
‘Sure, darling,’ she says, slipping the overcoat down her shoulders and throwing it to the floor. ‘It's very hard to get off with such a stressful job, and working eighteen straight hours really gets to you. Let's do it!’
She stands up and walks over to the side of the table, placing her rear on it. She pulls up her blouse, revealing a flat, toned midriff with an outer belly button. Her blouse comes over her head, letting her breasts swing free and proud, topped by two pink areaolae which are already stiff. She definitely wasn't wearing a bra. And you're about to find out if she's wearing panties.
She slips her fingers into the waistband of her skirt, wiggling her butt and pulling downwards.
What do you do?