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 o**l s*x on him.