Typist #2 - Spanking the Billionaire Novelist

by Mimi Strong

  He chuckled, then brought the hairbrush down with a resounding smack.

  I leaned forward and rested my elbows on my knees, ready for the sensation.

  He smacked one buttock, on the side, then the other, then another strike squarely in the middle.

  I whimpered and leaned over more.

  A finger swept up between my legs, feathering its way between the lips of my pussy. The finger slid forward to my clit and swept over once, then withdrew. I moaned and shuddered with fear and pleasure.

  The hairbrush landed one last time, on my right buttock. There was nothing but the sounds of both of us breathing, then he tossed the brush. It landed several feet away from me, but I was still tense with the expectation of more.

  Hands on the sides of my hips pulled me back, pulled me onto Smith's lap, and then guided me onto him. The head of his erection slipped easily into my opening, and I gasped as he pulled me all the way down to him.

  As I rocked back and forth, facing away from him, Smith pulled my dress up over my head and removed my bra. He fondled my breasts and kissed the back of my neck and shoulders, while pulsing into me from below.

  He murmured into my hair, “You're so beautiful. My sexy redhead. Oh, Tori, you're so wet for me, and you make me so hard. I'm going to come. I'm going to come if you don't stop wiggling around on me.”

  I pulled away from him and stood.

  “Not yet,” I said, gesturing for him to recline.

  He complied, pushing himself back and into the center of the large bed.

  His cock was stiff, fully engorged. I climbed on top his warm body and eased him back into me, angling my body forward and resting my body against his. Holding my hips still, his cock hot inside me, I kissed his stubbly chin and soft lips.

  “How's this?” I murmured.

  He grabbed my buttocks and pushed me down, burying his cock within me, filling me up.

  Everything below my waist was tingling and ringing like a thousand bells as I ground down against him, finding my own rhythm for pleasure.

  I came like a dam breaking, biting and sucking on the flesh of his shoulder as my walls clutched at him and I shook with pleasure.

  A moment later, he came, his pulsing member setting off a second wave of my own bliss.

  He growled with pleasure, his whole body tensing underneath mine.

  I fell against him, my body limp and spent.

  I was soaking wet with perspiration, as was he.

  We pulled apart, still breathing heavily.

  I murmured, “That was so good.”

  He pulled me in for a kiss, his unshaven face scratchy on mine.

  I pulled away and rubbed my chin. “Yowch. I bet my face is all red and blotchy.”

  “I'm sorry,” he said, his eyebrows arching up with concern. “I'll shave right away.”

  I nestled up along his side. “You can shave in the morning.”

  “In the morning,” he said. “And you'll be here in the morning. In my bed.”

  “Only if you want me to.”

  “Stay with me,” he said. “Stay here with me. Forever.”

  I giggled and kissed his cheek. “Definitely tonight.”

  He turned off the light.

  As I lay there, thinking about forever, and what a funny word it was, he fell asleep. I got up and used his washroom to have a shower, then returned to the bed with him.

  I pulled the light coverlet over us. I hadn't slept next to a man since my boyfriend Todd and I broke up. I worried for a moment I wouldn't be able to sleep, but I was out before my worries jumped onto that hamster wheel of obsessive thoughts.

  I woke up with something on my cheek. Soft skin. Brushing against my face.

  I opened my eyes and realized Smith was rubbing his smooth cheek against my face.

  He grinned. “I shaved.”

  I grabbed his face in my hands. “Why, so you did.” I smooched him, relaxing my lips to make contact with more of my face. “So kissable.”

  He tried to slip his tongue into my mouth, but I held my lips tight together and pushed him away, citing Morning Breath.

  “Easy solution,” he said, and he grabbed a pillow and jokingly smothered me with it as he climbed on top of me.

  I pushed the pillow away, and he stared into my eyes.

  His face was serious, and he used his knees to pry my legs apart. He was at my entrance, and in the next heartbeat, he was inside me. I was tight, not wet yet as I hadn't gotten much warning, but he felt good. I moaned and ran my fingers through his tousled blond hair, and I let him kiss me as much as he wanted. His tongue met mine, and we breathed together as he pushed deeper and deeper inside me.

  He gasped, his face changed expression, and he collapsed on me. His cock pulsed inside me, releasing its efforts.

  “Ugh,” he said into the space next to my neck. “I blame your sexy body. I wanted to wake you in the night, so many times, but you looked so peaceful sleeping, like an angel.”

  “Oh!” I rubbed his back. “Don't sweat it. I'm not going anywhere.”

  “No, you aren't.” He withdrew and shifted himself down my body, kissing my breasts and stomach and moving down.

  “You don't have to,” I said.

  “I want to,” he said, and he licked my clit with the tip of his tongue.

  Well, if he wanted to …

  He stayed up high with his mouth, focusing his tongue and lips on my clit, using his fingers to fill me and stroke me on the inside, his fingers slick with his fluids.

  His tongue worked my nub, patient yet firm, until I was coming, my muscles wrapping tight around his fingers as I started to tremble deep inside. His fingers pulled out mid-orgasm, took the place of his tongue on my nub, and he shifted over me with his body. He slid his erection in, not as firm as the first time, but still plenty rigid.

  I cried out in bliss and wrapped my legs around his hips, his fingers still massaging my clit. It was perfect to be coming with him inside me.

  And then we were back at it, with him thrusting harder and faster, until he shook, ejaculating again, panting above me and looking surprised once more.

  He collapsed on me and laughed at himself for the second time that morning.

  Into my neck, he sighed and said, “You make me fuck like a teenager.”

  I laughed. “I wouldn't know. I've never fucked a teenager.”

  He pulled back and gave me a questioning look, but he didn't ask whatever seemed to be on his mind.

  I said, “I have to pee.”

  “Good luck with a man passed out on top of you.” He closed his eyes and went completely limp, relaxing his body weight onto me.

  After a minute, I feared he might actually fall asleep on me, and I did notice some pressure on my bladder, so I wriggled my way out from underneath him.

  Even as I left the room, he remained there, face-down, pretending to be passed out.

  “I'm going to fry up that nice bacon,” I said.

  He didn't answer.

  “And I'm going to eat all of it.”

  He rolled onto his side and narrowed his eyes at me. “If you do, you'll get another spanking.”

  Both of us glanced over to the hairbrush on the floor, where he'd tossed it the night before.

  He started to climb off the bed, his gaze on the brush, but I darted over and grabbed it quickly, then ran squealing out of the room.

  He called down the stairs after me, “I can always spank you with my hand!”

  My heart was still pounding when I got down to my room and climbed into the shower.

  The feeling I had—the excitement mingled with fear and warmth—it reminded me of summer camp, and all the silly things the girls would dare each other to do, like sneaking over to the boys' cabin and trading underwear with them.

  Smith and I were at this cabin, on our own, and we were like little kids, playing games and pushing each other's buttons, trying to see how far each could push the other.

  I'd spanked him, but then I'd also let him f
inger me in a crowded park, have sex with me in an alley, and he'd given me quite the spanking the night before.

  In the hot shower, I checked my buttocks for red marks, but everything looked as fine as ever. That must be why people spank each other there, I thought. It felt good, but didn't leave a mark.

  Soon, this typing contract would be over, though, and I'd return home.

  Being with Smith certainly felt good for now, but would it leave a mark?

  5: LET'S GO SOMEWHERE FOR DINNER

  After I got dressed, I fried up the bacon as promised and made us some eggs. I wasn't totally sure how Smith liked his eggs, but I'd seen him eating them scrambled, so I scrambled a batch.

  He came down the stairs, dressed impeccably as always. We were out in the country, yet he had on a perfectly-wrinkle-free, white, button-down shirt and a pair of khakis. I glanced down at my own outfit, which was comprised of the new clothes we'd bought in town: a pair of short, black shorts, and a ruffled white top that revealed my midriff. That was when I realized he'd been dressing up for me, just as I'd been dressing up for him.

  He poured some tea and kissed me on the cheek. “You'll make someone a fine wife some day,” he said.

  “Ha ha,” I said.

  “I'm serious! A lot of women your age don't know how to cook.” He took a seat at one of the stools near the counter and watched me.

  I could feel his gaze on me, and got nervous and dropped some utensils. “I can cook all sorts of things. Baked beans from scratch, lots of soups, pot roast.”

  “Poor people food,” he said, smiling.

  “That's rude,” I said. “Baked beans are yummy. Not everybody has the budget for foie gras.”

  He sipped his tea, looking nonplussed. “Exactly. It's poor people food.”

  The air around me turned to ice. He was insulting me, lording his wealth over me, like it made him better than everyone else.

  I set down the silverware a little harder than necessary. “I should make you some red beans and rice so you can really slum it. You can fuck your little poverty-stricken typist and then eat the food of her people, the poor.”

  He gazed down at his tea. “Poverty-stricken? Are we perhaps exaggerating just a bit?”

  I piled my plate high with bacon and scrambled eggs, then tossed the remainder into the garbage bin below the sink.

  “Make your own breakfast,” I said. “I'm not your personal chef.”

  “You're not that poor. Your mother's a hospital administrator, not a waitress at a truck stop.”

  I put my plate back down on the counter. “How do you know what my mother does for a living?”

  “You must have told me.”

  “No, I didn't.” I stared hard at him, looking for cracks in his expression. “Did you do some sort of research on me before I came here?”

  “Like hire a private investigator? No, I did not. I assure you.”

  “Then what?”

  He shrugged.

  I took my plate over to the table and started eating, acting like I didn't care. It bothered me, though. What else did Smith know about me?

  Finally, when I couldn't stay quiet any longer, I said, “It's not fair.”

  He joined me at the table with a bowl of granola and milk. “People who say 'it's not fair' are usually those who are too meek to take what they want in life.”

  “First you insult my food, and now you're calling me meek?” I picked at my food, my mouth sour with unhappiness. “I'm not feeling so great. I may call in sick to work today.”

  “You can work a half-day.”

  I coughed into my hand, frowning. “I don't think so. I feel a … a migraine coming on.”

  “You don't get migraines.”

  “First time for everything. Dealing with extremely conceited people can cause enough anxiety to bring on stress-related illness. And my current boss is a real buttplug.”

  He kept eating his cereal. “I hope all this stress doesn't cause your hair to fall out.”

  “You know, you could just apologize for being a buttplug. It would probably help my stress levels.”

  “I already apologized for coming too soon this morning. I haven't done anything wrong since then. In fact, from the way you were moaning my name, I think I was doing everything right.”

  His gold-brown eyes twinkled, and he smiled, which nearly broke through my anger and got me to smile, but I resisted his charms.

  I said, “How do you know what my mother does for a living?”

  “She told me.”

  “Did she phone here for me and get you, instead?”

  He tipped his head to the side thoughtfully. “Sure. That sounds plausible.”

  I pushed away from the table. “Why must you be so infuriating?”

  He rested his chin on his hand. “Is that a rhetorical question?”

  I stood. “No, it's a real question.”

  “You're adorable when you're angry.”

  “I want to strangle you.”

  He closed his eyes. “I bet you're so wet for me right now.” He licked his lips. “I want that pink little pussy of yours so bad I can taste it.”

  “I hope you have a good memory, because you're not getting it again.”

  His eyelids flicked open quickly. “Challenge accepted.”

  I grabbed my plate of food and stomped off in the direction of my bedroom. “Fuck you, Smith Wittingham!”

  He called after me, “I'm ready if you are!”

  I let out an exasperated cry and slammed my door shut behind me.

  After about ten minutes of punching my pillow and calling him all sorts of bad names, I picked up the land line telephone and dialed my mother. She didn't want to talk long, because she was at work, but I cut to the chase.

  “Mom, have you ever spoken to that author guy, Smith Wittingham?”

  “We've exchanged a few emails, but I'm sure it was someone at his publicist's office, not the man himself.”

  “You're sure it wasn't him?”

  She sighed. “I wish.”

  “Did you tell this publicist or whoever what you do for a living?”

  “We chatted a few times, and I even sent a photo—that nice one of the two of us, at your graduation.”

  “You sent him a photo of me?”

  “What is this about? That author you're doing the secretarial work for—does she know him?”

  “Yes. She knows him a little too well.”

  I heard keys tapping. “How about you tell me all about it tonight? Call me after seven?”

  “Sure. If I'm not on my way home.”

  There was a long pause, then she said, “You'd better finish that contract so you get a good recommendation. You have to start taking your career seriously now.”

  “Oh, it's pretty serious.”

  “Or marry rich and don't worry about work.”

  “Mother!”

  She chuckled. “Gotta go!”

  I hung up the phone and sat on my bed for a moment, until the quiet of the Vermont forest felt like it was suffocating me. I picked up the phone to call one of my friends, but I didn't know anyone's number off by heart. My poor cell phone was completely fried, and with it, all my phone numbers.

  Smith tapped timidly on my door.

  “Go away,” I said.

  “Tori, I just wanted to offer a blanket apology for being rich and snobby.”

  I got up and whipped the door open. “Blanket apology?”

  “I, Smith Wittingham, apologize for making disparaging remarks about the dining habits of you and people in your social class. I'd like to take you somewhere fancy so that you can even the score by making fun of rich people food. I know a place that serves flavored air as an appetizer.”

  I couldn't help but giggle at the mention of flavored air. “That's ridiculous.”

  “We're all ridiculous. We're basically monkeys with driver's licenses. I can't believe humans are in charge of the planet.”

  “When did you email my mother?”

&
nbsp; “I'd rather not say.”

  “Was it last night at the picnic in the park? Or the other day, when we were at the little restaurant?”

  “Neither.”

  My mouth went dry. “Was it before I came up here?”

  “Yes.”

  “So ...” I grabbed onto the door frame, feeling weak as thoughts raced through my head.

  “I do believe I fell in love with your photo. And I know this paints me in a negative light, but—”

  He didn't finish, because I had my purse on my shoulder and I shoved past him. A moment later, I had my running shoes on and was out the front door, my heart pounding.

  Though my body was confused, my head told me to run.

  RUN!

  I ran.

  I ran down the shorter trail, the one that led to the highway. I'd thumb a ride into town, or maybe further. I'd go as far as I could.

  Smith was yelling for me, calling my name.

  My feet pounded the dirt, putting space between me and him. My stuff. I'd left behind my clothes and my hair dryer and … also the guy who'd lied to me. Omission of key facts was lying, plain and simple, and he'd done it. I couldn't trust him … certainly couldn't sleep in the same bed as him.

  Gagging, I stopped to put my hands on my knees and catch my breath. Was I that out of shape? No, the tightness in my throat was emotion. I sobbed—animal moans, and then I threw up. As I dry-heaved, I heard the sound of an engine. Smith had gotten the quad and he was chasing me down.

  I spat on the ground and wiped my mouth on the back of my hand, then I started running again. It sounded like he'd gone down the other trail, which meant I could probably get to the road before he caught up to me.

  There were no distance markers, but I ran as hard as I could. The engine noise got closer, and I considered dodging off the trail, but my legs were like rubber, and getting lost was the last thing I wanted.

  The vehicle got closer.

  I tried to talk myself out of a panic. Smith wasn't a serial killer, not as far as I knew, just … wrong. It was wrong to see a photo of some girl and then arrange for her to come work for you. That's exactly what I would tell him before I demanded a ride into town.

  He stopped the vehicle ten feet from me and turned off the engine. He stayed there, not moving toward me.