Typist #2 - Spanking the Billionaire Novelist (2 page)

“Two,” I said.

He peered up at me, “Exactly how many are we counting up to?”

“How many would you like?” I massaged his butt lovingly. “Or should I say, how many do you deserve? You destroyed my cell phone and my favorite sleeping shirt.”

He gulped. “Ten?”

I brought down the wooden brush for a nice, juicy smack. “Three!”

He groaned and rubbed his stubbly chin against my leg.

Simultaneous with the smack, I said, “Four!”

He bit my leg.

By the time we reached ten, he was squirming around on my lap, seemingly torn between loving the spanking and hating it.

Scratch that, he was loving it.

I could tell by the wood he was sporting, the erection pressing into my leg.

“Dirty boy,” I said, shoving him off my lap.

He stood up, saying, “I'll show you who's dirty.” His face was flushed, as pink as his freshly-spanked bottom, the ruddiness brought out by the white dress shirt he still wore.

I pointed my finger at him. “You're dirty. I'm a good girl. I'm innocent, or at least I was, before I showed up here, to get corrupted and … antagonized by you.”

He moved toward me, but I rolled onto my back and put my bare feet on his chest to keep him at bay. He ran his hands up and down my legs, his fingers sneaking in under the hem of my shorts.

His voice husky, he said, “You like being antagonized by me. You squirm in your chair when I look at you. Your pussy gets all hot and juicy. Every time you call me a bad name, I'll bet that's when you're the most turned on.”

“You twisted freak.”

He shoved his fingers up the leg of my shorts, nudging into my pussy. He looked adorable in only his shirt, his massive erection branching out below the hem, his balls moving as he moved.

“Mm,” he said, looking all smug. “Say it again. You're so wet for me. Call me names until you're begging for me to give it to you.”

“Prick.”

He took an audible breath, his eyes closed, then he unbuttoned my shorts and pulled them off, leaving my panties on.

“Smug bastard,” I said.

He tilted his head to the side, as if to say he couldn't argue with that one. He grabbed my shirt and pulled it off over my head. I still had him at a distance, with my feet on my chest, but I could bend my knees and let him get a little closer, close enough to kiss me.

Bending my knees, I lowered him to me. We kissed as he removed my bra and grabbed my breasts, palming and squeezing them.

I straightened my legs and pushed him away.

“What else am I?” he asked, grabbing my foot and nibbling on one toe.

“Insatiable.”

“I don't see how that's an insult.”

“You're a sex addict.”

He pulled away from me, and I worried I'd gone too far and he was leaving, but he carefully unbuttoned his expensive-looking shirt and hung it on the doorknob, so he was completely undressed.

I still had my panties on, and he climbed onto the bed, on top of me, pressing against me with his hardness. My pussy was wet, and I wanted him inside me, but he took his time, fondling my breasts and staring at them as if he'd never seen a pair.

“I know I'm pale,” I said. “Don't stare like that, I feel like a freak.”

“Your skin is almost blue. I suppose those are your veins.” He kissed around the mound of one breast, then took the nipple in his mouth and sucked, his eyes still open. “Incredible,” he said, then he sucked it harder, sending a twinge of excitement through me.

I moaned and brought my hips up, rubbing my panties against his hardness.

“I must write about Sheri's blue breasts,” he said.

“Shut up about Sheri, you dirty boy.”

He sucked hungrily on the pale pink nipple in his mouth, then switched to the other.

“You're like a hungry baby,” I said.

He unlatched from my breast and slid up on me, crushing his lips to mine. His tongue thrust between my lips as his hand grabbed my pussy through my panties, his thumb above my clit and his fingers nearly inside me.

I panted and rocked my hips against his hand.

He pulled back and yanked off my panties, then returned his hand to the same spot, bare now, and his mouth to mine. His fingers felt so good, and he had them in all the right places.

His cock was still between us, pressing into my hip bone. He groaned, then said, “Any time now.”

“Any time
what
?”

He pulled back, raised his eyebrows and gave me a
you-know
look. “Beg me to give it to you.”

I wanted to spit in his face, but instead, with a flat voice, I said, “Oh, please, Mr. Wittingham, give me your big, fat, juicy cock. I want it so bad.”

A smug smile spread across his face, and he rolled onto his back. “Sixty seconds. As promised.” He put his hands behind his head, utterly relaxed.

With all the spanking, I'd completely forgotten about my promise. Damn him! I was ready to go, so wet, and now I had to …

“You fucking scam artist,” I said, rolling up onto my hands and knees.

I grabbed him around the shaft and looked around the room for a clock. There was a digital one on the bedside table in this room. The time was 7:05 pm. I popped the swollen head between my lips just as the numbers changed to 7:06.

He was musky, with a slight feminine smell, from the fun we'd already had earlier that day. I moaned, sending throaty vibrations into his member, and I breathed in deeply, enjoying our commingled scents. I alternated between taking him as deep as I could and pulling it out so I could lick the tip, flicking my tongue against his soldier's helmet.

His skin was pink, turning deeper pink when I squeezed him hard with my hand at the base. His hair down there was darker than on his head, and curly, but not too bushy.

I loved the feel of him in my mouth, how the skin was so soft over the hard flesh, and it responded to my every touch and suck.

He groaned, then said, “Slow down, or I'm going to come.”

His voice broke me out of my trance. The clock had advanced by more than a minute—much more than a minute. I popped him out of my mouth. “Time's up,” I said.

“You're amazing,” he said.

“I'm just getting started.” I threw my leg over and pressed my chest onto his as I used one hand to guide him inside me. He slipped in easier than expected, as I was wetter than I'd ever been in my life. I shivered with pleasure as his cock moved deeper inside me.

“Hold still,” he said, grabbing my hips with both hands, his face wincing.

I held my breath, motionless.

He nodded. “Okay.”

I pressed my hands onto his chest, bore down on him, and from that point on, there was no stopping.

We clutched each other and moved in rhythm, both our hips and our breathing, until I came, my body melting like warm butter. A breath later, so did he, both of us rolling around, ending on our sides, me with my leg wrapped around his body.

Smith Wittingham was not much of a cuddler, not after sex, at least. I took his not-too-subtle hints (mostly him saying, “Oh, are you still here?”) and left the room so he could hang out by himself.

I got some dinner from the fridge, nuked it, and sprawled out on the biggest sofa to watch the new
James Bond
movie. The thing I warmed up was, upon closer inspection, a salad that was probably meant to be eaten cold. I ate it anyway, and it wasn't bad.

The next morning, I woke up, still on the sofa, wearing my clothes from the day before. Someone had tucked a blanket over me, which was sweet. There was a noise happening, and I thought the cappuccino maker was running, but it was actually a vacuum cleaner.

I wasn't alone.

A stranger was in the cabin, vacuuming.

I sat up, dramatically and fully awake.

She turned off the vacuum cleaner and said, “Sorry, but I already finished the dusting and the quiet things.” The woman was young and pretty, with black hair tied back in a ponytail, and big, blue eyes.

I said, “You must be the … housekeeper?”

She put her hand on her hip. Grinning, she said, “What tipped you off? My tool belt?” She waved her hand across a half-apron tied around her waist, the black canvas holding a spray bottle, roll of paper towels, and feather duster.

I said, “It is
way
too early in the morning for sarcasm.” I rolled off the couch and folded up the soft blanket. “I'll make some tea and perhaps distract you with a cup so you'll keep the vacuum cleaner off for just a few minutes, until my eardrums wake up.”

She untied her apron and set it on the back of one of the sofas. “I'd love a cup.”

I whizzed around the super-clean kitchen and got some tea made, then served it at the dining table along with scones and something called
clotted cream
, which was a new-to-me treat. Despite the gross name, it was tasty, like a fluffy cream cheese, but sweet.

We exchanged names and basic details over tea. She was Cassie, and she and her sisters, who lived in the nearby town, had been cleaning Smith Wittingham's cabin for years.

Cassie said, “Is he treating you humanely?” She pressed her lips together tightly with a knowing grin. Whispering, she said, “Just say the word, and I'll take you away from all of this, on the back of my motorbike.”

“The job has its ups and downs, but we've been getting along well enough.” I glanced over at the stairs, expecting to see Smith coming down, but Cassie and I were still alone.

Cassie said, “Has he … you know. Made any moves on you?”

I crossed my arms, then uncrossed them and poured more tea. “Why do you ask? Does he do that with you or your sisters?”

She twisted her lips to the side in a funny frown. “I wish. Handsome rich guy like that? It's almost enough to turn a girl straight.”

“Oh. So you're ...”

“Available.” She gave me a smile that was so sweet and fetching, I actually considered her offer. Her big, blue eyes and black hair reminded me of someone else who was adorable.

“Is Callum your brother?”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course you like
him
. All the cool girls go for Callum. Just my luck.”

Just then, Smith came down the stairs.

“I thought I heard the sound of beauty!” he said.

I had an awkward moment, first blushing from the flattery, then blushing from embarrassment when I realized he was speaking to Cassie, not me.

She jumped up and gave him a big hug. “Smithykins!”

I coughed into my hand. “Smithykins?”

Smith held Cassie out at arm's length. “You are so ravishing. Utter perfection. Have you reconsidered my offer of marriage?”

She laughed and pinched his cheeks. “You are too cute! What about Tori, here? She seems like she could handle a big naughty boy like you.”

He looked up and down Cassie's body appreciatively. She wore tiny blue shorts, revealing miles of leg, and a blouse tied above her navel.

“Tori and I are all business,” he said. “Enough boring stuff. Tell me what you've been up to. Have you written any more short stories? You've got to stop being so shy and share them with people. Like me.”

“Oh, I couldn't possibly,” she squealed.

The scones felt like a pound of dough in my stomach. I pushed my chair back, stood, and muttered something about needing a shower. Neither of them seemed to notice me disappearing to my room and bathroom.

Cassie would be there most of the day, cleaning the house and doing Smith's laundry and ironing. She offered to do mine, but I wasn't comfortable with another woman seeing my dirty underwear.

Even though the girl was a lesbian and therefore not interested in Smith, I was still insanely, irrationally jealous of her. Not only was she adorable, with not a speck of cellulite on those enviable legs, but Smith kept
carrying on
about her creativity.

“She let me read part of a short story once,” he said. “Some people have a gift, you know. All writers can improve, but if you don't have that spark, there's no point in tending a garden full of common dandelions.”

I was sitting at the keyboard, waiting for story narration, waiting to get to work.

“Some people love dandelions,” I said tersely.

“No, they don't,” he said. “Don't be silly. I blame the way your generation was raised, with prizes for every kid, prizes for participation. You know what life doesn't care about? Participation.”

I didn't answer him, but typed on the screen:
Detective Smith Dunham yammered on and on about dandelions and a bunch of shit that Sheri didn't care about.

“Good point,” Smith said. “We should get to work. Read me back the last three and a half paragraphs from yesterday.”

“Three and a half?”

“Fine, read all four, though there's always a danger in me reviewing my work. I become so impressed by my previous work that I get performance anxiety about topping it.”

My face pulled up in a you're-kidding-me expression, and I was glad I had my back to Smith.

I read the four paragraphs as he paced behind me, then he said, “Perfection. And now you see what I mean. How can I top myself?”

“You're a megalomaniac, do you know that?”

He put his hands on my shoulders and squeezed my tense neck muscles. “Megalomaniac, you say? Tell me, Tori, how moist are your little panties right now? Calling me names already … tsk tsk.”