Our second writing session of the day got off to a rocky start.
He paced behind me for ten minutes, not saying a word. He'd gotten dressed, in a crisply-pressed dress shirt and a pair of khaki trousers. The man almost looked respectable, but I knew better.
I got so bored waiting for him to dictate something, I pulled up the computer menu and looked for a game to play. Even solitaire would have been welcome, and I hated that game.
“No!” he said. “I'm ready to start.”
I pulled up the document again and waited. And waited.
Finally, I said, “Are you punishing me?”
“Not everything's about you.”
“Do you have writer's block? I thought you said you had a new idea for a chapter.”
“Don't quote me to myself. I have an excellent memory.”
I turned around in my chair. “Your tone could be more pleasant.”
“Like your tone, with the delivery boy? You were practically sucking his dick, in my kitchen.”
I put my chin on my hand. “That was nothing but a little friendly banter. There's absolutely no comparison between that … and my world-champion-quality dick-sucking.”
“Hmm.” His face softened a little, the tip of his nose becoming less pointy as he stopped frowning. He ran his hand through his ash-blond hair, ruffling it up and re-feathering the longish sides.
I felt an awakening between my legs. Now that Smith Wittingham was dressed again, looking like a respectable author, I wanted to get his clothes off. Flirting with the delivery boy had made me feel alive, sexy. I wanted to be touched.
“Tell you what,” I said. “Let's get a thousand words typed. That'll buy you … one minute of dick-sucking. Two thousand, and you start getting bonus items.”
His gold-brown eyes brightened and he stood up straighter.
“Two thousand words buys a spanking!”
“Deal,” I said, and we shook on it.
What followed was the fastest typing I'd done yet. The chapter wasn't bad, either, except the part where a delivery boy showed up at Sheri's mansion and whipped out his micro-penis.
I stopped typing and commented, “Subtle.”
We checked the words and found we'd surpassed the two-thousand-word goal.
“Go get the hairbrush,” he said.
I ran down to my room and got the flat-paddled brush, then came into the room, whacking it against my palm.
“Trousers off,” I said.
He gave me a sidelong look. “Let's do the spanking first.”
I smacked the brush into my palm again. “Exactly. Get your trousers off, you naughty boy.”
His eyes went wide, and he stammered unintelligibly.
I took a seat on the edge of the king-sized bed that was inside the office bedroom. Patting my knees, I said, “Come and lie across here.”
“But I thought ...”
“We never specified who would be the spankee. I'm in a spanking mood. Why don't you indulge me, for once?”
“Will it hurt?”
He looked genuinely frightened, and I fought the urge to giggle.
“Haven't you ever been spanked before?”
He shook his head, no.
“Not even as a child, by your parents or a babysitter?”
He shook his head again.
I patted my knees. “I'll be gentle. And if you take it like a big boy, you'll be rewarded. Pants off. Now.”
He slowly undid his trousers and slipped them off. Inside his boxer shorts, he had a semi-erection.
“Shorts off too,” I said.
He slipped them off and used his hands to cover himself, then he came over to me. His body movements were jerky and unsure, but he obediently rested his torso on my thighs.
“Other way,” I said sternly. “I'm right-handed.”
He whimpered and made his way around to the other side.
I brought the hairbrush down on his buttock with a resounding smack.
He tensed, but didn't cry out.
I massaged his butt with my hand, soothing the red mark, and then I smacked him again with the back of the brush.
“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 pu**y 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 pu**y. 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 br**sts, palming and squeezing them.
I straightened my legs and pushed him away.