We were moving backwards, and I was pushed back against his bed. I closed my eyes and he yanked my panties off. The lights were on, the room bright.
Then he was on me, his jogging pants gone, the head of his c**k against my opening.
I opened my eyes and found myself staring into his golden brown eyes.
He pushed into me, setting off the nerves around my opening like birthday cake sparklers. I moaned and tilted my head back, eyes closed.
He kissed my neck hungrily as he thrust in and out of me, going deeper and ever deeper, until he was completely inside me.
My body moved by instinct, my h*ps rising up to meet his.
He paused, just for a second, and I pushed him off me, onto his back.
He opened his mouth to say something, but I was astride him in a second, guiding that thick, hard c**k back in. He filled me, right where I wanted him. As I rocked back and forth, I pulled my nightshirt off over my head so I was naked.
His gaze traveled over me appreciatively, both of us warm and golden in the light of the bedside lamps.
I felt myself starting to come, almost there. I adjusted my position, getting down on my elbows. My br**sts rubbed against the hot flesh of his chest, and I ground down hard against him, rubbing my cl*t against the firm flesh at the base of his cock.
Moaning and sighing, I came, a wave of orgasmic relief crashing over me.
He grunted and held my face with his hands, locking our mouths together. His c**k tremored inside me and his body tensed, and he was coming too. He groaned like a beast, the pulsing of his orgasm commingling with my tremors.
I smiled, because it was even better than I'd dared hope. Oh, the fun we were going to have.
But then, just as quickly as we'd begun, he pushed me off him. He stood, went into his washroom, and shut the door. The lock clicked.
I lay there, alone on Smith's bed, for ten minutes. I waited for him to emerge, but he didn't. The shower went on. Did he want me to join him in there?
I found my panties, half-way across the room, and pulled them on, as well as my shirt.
The bathroom door was, as I suspected, locked.
Did this mean I won Round One? Or had I inadvertently done exactly what he wanted me to do?
I walked out of his room and back down to mine, where I locked the door.
It had all happened so fast, and I was satisfied, yet not satisfied. He hadn't even asked about birth control. I had an IUD, which meant I wasn't going to get pregnant, but could he have known? I'd filled out a lot of information and had that physical exam before coming to Vermont. That schemer, he knew everything, didn't he?
Curled up in my own bed, I grinned. Perhaps seducing me had been his plan, but I'd definitely given him something to think about. What wicked thing could I do to him next?
I'd appreciated his exciting slam-bam approach, but that wasn't going to cut it next time. I'd probably have to tie him up to get him to take his time. Tie Smith Wittingham up? I liked the idea of that.
2: Leash-Training Your Beast
The next morning, we had tea and toast for breakfast, and neither of us acknowledged what had happened the night before—not directly, at least.
Smith Wittingham sat across from me at the long table and said, as he spread a liberal amount of marmalade on some multi-grain toast, “Sleep well? I trust nothing went bump in the night.”
“Something went bump, but not for very long, and I immediately forgot all about it.”
He stifled a grin, his lips pinched tight. He hadn't shaved that day, and had light-colored stubble on his chin, picking up the morning sunlight.
He said, “I hope you're well-rested, because today may test your stamina.”
“Oh, I doubt that.” I sipped my Earl Grey tea.
“If we hit Chapter Six before dinner time, perhaps we can find a way to celebrate.”
I turned to look out the picture window. “Such a gorgeous day.”
“Then it's settled.” He crammed half the toast into his mouth and then spoke with his mouth full, “We'll hike into town for dinner.”
That wasn't quite the celebration I was expecting, but it sounded fun. I'd only seen the little town briefly, on my way there. It was what the older folks would call a “one horse town,” but I'd seen a few cafes and shops. There had also been the literal one horse, painted as a mural on the side of a watering hole.
After breakfast, I followed Smith Wittingham up the stairs, getting another look at his butt. I'd barely seen it the night before, but it was the kind of ass you want to sink your teeth into: round and firm. It was the kind of ass that begged to be spanked, because Smith was a very naughty boy.
Inside the office, I sat in the chair and he immediately began to pace the room, dictating.
I glanced over at the bed as I typed. Typing was the last thing I wanted to do, but … to my horror, within a few paragraphs, I got drawn into the story he was narrating.
Detective Dunham was visiting his client, Sheri, at her mansion, to get more details about the case. She seemed to be handling her grief well, focusing on adjusting her posture to display her tits at the best possible angle. I rolled my eyes and kept typing. Dunham kept going at her, probing. He probed and probed until he penetrated her veil of secrecy.
I stopped typing.
“Probed and penetrated?” I asked.
He calmly replied, “What would you say my vocation is?”
“Um … writer?”
“And what's yours?”
“Typist.” I withered in my chair.
He put his hands on my shoulders and gave them a squeeze. His voice soft and deep, he said, “And neither of us is the editor. The editor reins in the writer, pulls the writer back from the edge of the cliff. That happens later, though. The writer's job is to climb onto that motorcycle, rev the motor, and fly through the ring of fire.”
I whispered, “I'm sorry.”
He massaged my shoulders for a moment, his touch making my heart ache as much as my loins.
“I know you're more than a typist. I will come to a point where I'll need you. I'll need you more than you can imagine. And I'll ask you for something.”
I turned and looked up at his face—so sharp and intelligent-looking. Was it the nose? His was refined, almost pointy at the tip. He was so smart, probably a genius, and he knew it.
“I'm ready to resume,” he said, giving me a nod and a smile.
I shifted my position in the chair, straightened my back, and put my hands over the keyboard.
He stayed near me for a while, his hands casually touching the back of my neck under my hair and rubbing my shoulders as I typed. His confident touch took my mind to carnal places, and I had difficulty keeping my fingers moving over the keys, but we fell into our rhythm once more. At times, I felt like his voice was coming from within me, telling a story I'd always known.