by Mimi Strong
Nobody was around, not even a moose, so I leaned back against a sturdy tree, took a deep breath of the fresh Vermont air, and slipped my hand down the front of my jeans.
Our second writing session of the day went even better, with us laying down a significant number of words. The mystery itself was convoluted, with a number of suspects in the “accident” that Detective Smith Dunham's sexy client Sheri suspected was a murder.
I found myself smiling and laughing internally at the dialog Smith gave Sheri. She wasn't just some cardboard sex object for him to bang, but a real person, with a sense of humor and a strong will. She was exactly the kind of woman he never put in his novels. I loved her.
This session went longer than the first, and by the third hour, I was exhausted and exhilarated. We'd fallen into a rhythm together, where I'd mostly sit and type, being his flying fingers, but now and then he'd pause as though searching his mind for a word. I wouldn't say the word out loud, but would type a suggested word on the screen.
For example, he paused when describing a hotel suite, and I typed the word sumptuous.
In a softer voice than the one he used to dictate the words of the novel, he said, “Ah, yes, sumptuous is even better than elegant. That word wouldn't come to mind because it was the wrong word. But you pulled the right word from my subconscious. You must be psychic.” He touched me on the shoulder.
I was so startled and excited by his touch, I moaned.
“Interesting,” he said softly. He resumed his pacing behind me, and the dictation.
He only uttered three sentences, and they were stilted and awkward.
I turned around to look at him and noticed his posture was drooping. “Time for a break?” I asked.
He collapsed on the nearby bed, face down. “Done for the day,” he mumbled.
He didn't move, and I wondered if he was playing a new game, or actually that exhausted. His eyes were closed, and he looked comfortable enough, so I got out of my chair and quietly left the room, shutting the door behind me.
Downstairs, I came upon a revelation: a land line telephone! I shook my head at my own stupidity. My cell phone had no coverage there, and there was no internet, but I was not entirely cut off from the rest of the world. I called my mother first, to let her know I'd made the journey safely.
My mother said, “Who is this mysterious author? I'm dying to know. Can you tell me?”
“I can't tell you, but she is a nice lady.”
“Oh.” She sounded disappointed. “I was hoping it might be a nice man who'll take care of you.”
“Mom! I can take care of myself.”
“Of course. That's not what I meant.”
“It's still interesting work, Mom. And I'm having fun. It's nice out here in the country and I had a little jog today.”
“Tori, be a dear and give me the initials of her name, just so I can imagine.”
“Um, some of the letters in her name are C and J,” I said. It hurt me to lie to my mother, but I was sworn to secrecy. If it had been anyone else, I would have told her, Non-Disclosure Agreement be damned, but it was Smith Wittingham. My mother was in a book club dedicated to Smith Wittingham's books. Asking her to keep that secret would be cruel and unusual punishment.
As we chatted, with her filling me in on all the adorable things my cousin's baby girl did that day, I stretched the phone's long, curly cord to its limit and raided the kitchen. My meals were included in the contract, but I didn't know which of the portions in the fridge were mine. I didn't want to upset Smith, so I perused all the pre-packaged meals and sampled a small portion from four of them.
The food wasn't bad at all. The typing and the fresh air really had inspired my appetite, and I had to go back for seconds.
After dinner, I stayed in my bedroom. We didn't have internet at the cabin, but there was TV, so at least I wasn't going to die of boredom. I heard Smith shuffling down the stairs and rummaging around in the kitchen, but I didn't go out to talk to him. I wanted to maintain some boundaries, some separation from him, and keeping to myself in my room seemed like the best way.
My room got chilly that evening after the sun went down—summer nights in the mountains were cool. I crawled under my sheets in my nightshirt and closed my eyes. With my eyes shut, my other senses screamed at me that I was not at home. The sheets felt nubby and foreign, and the sounds were all wrong.
I could hear Smith, moving around upstairs. The cabin had good soundproofing, but there was a squeak, and a tap. As I listened, the tap kept going, keeping up a rhythm. Was that his bed? Was he pleasuring himself?
I reached under my nightshirt and pinched my already-firm nipples. Electricity shot down to my pussy instantly. I rolled onto my stomach, one hand down in my panties, and thrust against the firm mattress.
The tapping from upstairs kept going.
All I had to do was go up there, go up those stairs, and offer some excuse. There I'd be, the young college graduate, in nothing but her thin nightshirt. Wasn't that exactly what he wanted? Was I really just there to type?
I rolled onto my back and thought it through. He definitely planned to seduce me, but he probably wanted to draw the tension out, then pick some dramatic moment—something that would fit into his story. His detective would protect his client Sheri from danger, and they'd bone each other senseless in a dirty alley somewhere, smoke still emanating from his spent pistol.
I wasn't Sheri, though. Nowadays, I made my own decisions about who I slept with, rather than letting it just happen. What if I turned the tables on him? What if I seduced him? On our very first night?
I jumped out of bed, flicked on a lamp, and rummaged through the clothes I'd brought. Nothing was any better than the nightshirt I had on, which showed off my firm breasts and youth. One of my professors was always talking about young, nubile flesh—so much, that I'd started to see myself and my friends the way older men saw us. Any girl at nineteen or twenty was attractive, even the ones who didn't think they were.
I freshened up in the bathroom and switched out my underwear for a black pair of lacy panties, the black showing through my white shirt.
My body was aching to be touched, my pussy already swelling at the thought. What if he turned me down?
No, Tori, don't think that way. We were alone at a cabin for two weeks. He and I both knew we were going to sleep together, and this way was better. We could get started immediately. Oh, the things we could do to each other over the next two weeks.
My body tingled with adrenaline, so much that I could barely feel the bottoms of my feet on the stairs as I crept up. I knocked on his bedroom door, which was closed, with a bit of light showing around the edges.
He called out, “Who is it?”
“Killer moose. I'm looking for Tori.”
“Down the stairs, first door on your right.”
I put my hand to my chin and leaned against the wall. That did not go as planned.
I knocked again.
He called out, “Yes?”
“What are you doing?”
“Reading a book. You should try it sometime.”
Well, now he was just being insulting. I shook my head, embarrassed for being so stupid, and started to walk away.
He opened the door, splashing light out into the hallway. His voice deep and sexy, he said, “Can't sleep?”
I turned around, feeling silly in my thin nightshirt. My hard nipples poked out like traffic cones.
I said, “I heard something tapping and I was curious.”
“Sometimes I kick my foot while I'm reading.” He stepped out of the room, wearing a pair of jogging pants and no shirt. He had a broad chest and a great build, a trail of fair-colored hair running down the middle of his stomach.
“That makes sense.” I backed away two steps.
“Tori, did you come up here to seduce me?”
“Is that what Sheri would do?”
“No. It wasn't at all what I had planned.”
I took two steps closer t
o him and cocked my head. I was trying to play it cool, but my heart was pounding, my mouth parched from nerves.
“I'm not Sheri,” I said.
“Would you like to come into my room? Once you step through this doorway, everything changes, Tori.”
I reached down and tugged nervously at the hem of my nightshirt.
“My bed is cold,” I said.
He stepped to the side, waving me into his room. “Then come in and share mine.”
My pulse throbbed in my ears. What was I doing? My voice of reason whispered for me to turn around and maintain my boundaries. I looked at Smith's face, from his all-knowing eyes to his wide, handsome jaw, then I looked down his defined pectoral muscles, his flat, muscular stomach, and to those navy blue sweatpants. The stretchy pants could not hide his secret. He was already erect, a sizable bulge growing for me.
I gulped hard and licked my lips, then I was moving, walking toward him, walking into his room.
I was barely past him, barely through the doorway, and he grabbed me roughly from behind. He sank his lips down on the back of my neck. I sighed and collapsed into him. His hands were everywhere at once, on my breasts and my hips and my legs. His cock pushed into me as he kissed my neck fiercely, holding me tight.
I twisted around within his arms, turning to face him, taking his mouth against mine. He growled against my lips and thrust his tongue into my mouth.
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 cock 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 hips 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 cock 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 breasts rubbed against the hot flesh of his chest, and I ground down hard against him, rubbing my clit 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 cock 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.
We worked all morning, stopped briefly for lunch, and got straight back to work again. Detective Dunham was peeling back layers of the case, and history was revealing itself, like layers of paint and ancient wallpaper. Just when he thought he had his client Sheri figured out, we switched to her point of view for a chapter.
Sheri's back story included a difficult childhood, growing up without a father. Her mother was smart and worked hard, but their hold on a middle-class life was tenuous. As I typed the words, I felt a lump rising in my throat.
I didn't know how Smith knew, but he was telling me my own life.
In high school, I/Sheri fell in love with a teacher. Sheri's was a gym teacher, mine taught math. She'd fallen for his cunning lies and sad story about how his wife was cold and uninterested in sex, and this caused him to have an unbearable aching in his loins—an aching only a woman's touch would heal. They met after school, once a week. He picked her up at a skateboard park a few blocks from the school. They'd drive to an industrial area and he'd tell her how special she was as she performed oral sex on him.
Once, she'd worn red lipstick on one of their “dates,” and he'd yelled at her when he realized she'd gotten the lipstick on his underwear. He called her a dirty little whore and slapped her face.
On the drive back, she cried and cried. Instead of taking her home, he kept driving. She wondered if he was going to take her to a forest and strangle her, and she didn't care. Without him in her life, her days had no meaning. She sobbed until she was gasping for breath.
Bright, neon lights shone overhead. He pulled into a fast food drive-thru and told her to order anything she wanted, his treat.
