Disclaimer: I don't own the characters you read before you. All rights belong to Wolf Films and all that.

Author's Note: This was based from two similar Teen Titans (animated) lemons that I read recently and I thought to make my own spin on it. It was originally going to be another Jack/Abbie lemon, but my new partner-in-crime (since Moonbeamdancer is offline for a good long while), Kokuryu, suggested a different pairing. Proving I don't pigeonhole myself, here we are and a different sort of fare than usual.

And forgive any BS-ing on my basketball terminologies.

Beta: Busy, busy, busy.

Timeline: Post "Corner Office".


Yet another basketball rebounded on the barren gym court. A casually dressed Jack gritted his teeth for his free throw was usually consistent. He again lobbed another rubber sphere at the plastic halo. The orb landed onto the hoop and then tipped towards the outer rim.

He sighed in exacerbation. Outside the courtroom, 'Hang Em High' McCoy still had a reputation as one of the best players within the Bar Association's basketball divisions. The man's ambition refused to concede until his game is perfected.

"Not bad. Although, you need to stop forcing your throw," chimed a familiar female accent.

He grunted and faced his latest A.D.A., Connie Rubirosa, swaggering towards him.

"I didn't know you played," he huffed.

"I don't, but my brother is a major basketball fan, so I have to be."

"Right. So, what do you want?"

"I wouldn't have bothered you here, but I have some papers I need you to sign: sentencing reports and affidavits. I'd do them, but Arthur wants your signature to be seen as to create 'the illusion of importance for the media.'" She tendered him the requested documents and a pen.

"He's definitely turning into quite the politician, isn't he?" he jeered whilst he scribbled down his moniker.

"Better him than us," she jabbed.

"Alright, there, that should sate Arthur." He returned the papers.

"Well, then, I'll let you go practice. But I got to fill out my own paperwork in a hurry. I do wish I could use the room as I'll need the space to sort out my papers." Her lilt had a tinge of imploring.

"Nah, you go ahead and use the court. I've practiced enough for today; I'll be in the showers. I'm debating on a short one or a long one, though." He retrieved a fallen ball and chucked it at the basket with his back turned. The projectile entered straight in.

"That didn't go in, did it?" he solicited.

"Uh, what would you like me to tell you?"



Twilight bathed the sky while Connie hastily dashed on the red tape. Jack already scoured the area and sauntered off as requested. She was amazed he complied — the woman had been riding him ever since the Samantha Weaver case. Nevertheless, he continued to be civil towards her, so would it be unfeasible to respond in kind? Still, why D.A. Branch selected her to endure his anachronistic standards is anyone's guess.

She then packed up her file folders and hiked out of the roofed courtyard. Speed was of the essence for she had to submit the paperwork before 5:00 P.M. She ventured into a corridor, traipsed past the men's locker room, and heard a distinct groan. Her conscience droned on, particularly since the gym was all but deserted. The sole exceptions were the minimal staff and Jack. He did allude to an extended shower, yet his tone belied otherwise.

Rules of gender etiquette be damned, she impinged the space, ready to verbalize, whilst the moan repeated itself. She identified the sound: it was not one of distress, but of pleasure. She was staggered — who would utter that in a public shower. Of course, the place was virtually abandoned, thus who could resist the siren call of unfettered exhibitionism and/or animalistic indulgence.

Her intellect instantaneously highlighted Jack, however, A: he undoubtedly knew better, and B: it was incredulous to consider the senior possessing a sex drive. Her civil duty was set to expose the perpetrator as a male voice throated, "Connie". She recognized the reverb: it was, indeed, Jack's. So stunned was she that her briefcase nearly plummeted to the floor.

Her primary instinct was to bolt, like a bat out of hell. Nonetheless, her primal curiosity was piqued — after all, how often does a man conjure her up in masturbatory fancy? Or, propel her into a cold opening indicative of midnight Cinemax?

Barring the obvious why, she couldn't believe he regarded her in that way. She certainly did not reciprocate the sentiments, in spite of his moderate attractiveness. It was now beyond her self-control for reason and instinct dueled within her brain.

Logic dictated she depart and never reference this again, whereas primordial impulse would have her investigate in depth. Bizarrely enough, her femininity was actually intrigued, if only for the prospect and the flattery. The hothead was at an impasse until he reiterated, "Connie."

Stymied by the flash recurrence, lust triumphed, much to her astonishment. She slipped off her high heels and slithered towards the adjacent passageway. She stealthily skulked inside the sanctorum and gingerly eyed the spacious shower room. The E.A.D.A. was on the furthest end, the waterfall drenching his nude form.

She hoped the boisterous cascade would conceal any potential clamors. If he spotted her, the awkwardness would be indescribable. Underlying mortification aside, she thoroughly appraised his whole body. For someone in his mid sixties, he was in excellent condition: the indubitable by-product of his basketball training.

A blush crept upon her features. Her eyes roamed from his derrière to his hand clutching his solidified penis. Lamentably, the manifesting mist obscured the organ from her line of vision.

The preoccupied male inclined against the streaming deluge, saturating his hair and skin. He buttressed his available hand on the wall and resumed his captivating ministrations. The display was akin to a car crash for Connie: she could not watch, yet she could not spin her head away. Her eyes widened whilst he stroked in escalating tempo.

Every motion absorbed her. Her feet were planted onto the tiled floor, her own body seemingly paralyzed. He fused his eyes shut within the surging crescendo. She concentrated on his ecstasy-laced countenance.

"Oh, Connie..." he murmured as the semen jetted forth and splashed upon the storm drain.

While he allayed himself, her common sense was restored. Just as the evidence was rinsed into oblivion, she should vanish as well. She never sprinted so soundlessly in all her life. All was a blur until she attained her car, panting and slumping on the driver's seat.

Her pulse and mind decelerated. She was stunned with an additional twist: her seeping panties. She slammed her cranium upon the steering wheel in maddening disbelief.


Jack gaited from the elevator, apparently refreshed. Despite his stab at public indecency and exposure, he was clarified of both the sport and the becoming Ms. Rubirosa. Thank heaven for vacant fitness centers. He strolled past Connie's cubicle.

"Morning," he expressed genially.

"Morning," she yawned.

"Rough night?"

"Somewhat." If only she could convey the truth.

"Anything you want to talk about?" the gentleman inquired empathically.

"No." She was ready to launch a putdown, instead she declares, "Ask me later."

"Fine. I'm going to set up in my office." He tottered away whilst the Latina subsided in her chair.

"That's it — tomorrow, I'm buying a vibrator," she mumbled sotto voce.


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