Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Then evenings, we debrief by the fire, whiskey close at hand. It’s for my book, of course. I ask her what she liked, what scared her, what she wants to try next. She answers honestly, always, even when the truth is “I wanted you to spank me harder,” or “I wished you’d called me a slut.” Most people would be embarrassed. Not Kat. She processes everything, the way a scientist studies her data, unflinching, curious.
By night, we retreat to our corners. She takes her room at the end of the hall; I pretend to write, but usually end up stalking the living room, listening for the soft thud of her feet in the bathroom, the muffled sounds of her laughter as she writes in her journal. Sometimes I hear her humming. Once, I heard her crying. I didn’t ask, and she never mentioned it, but the next morning, she left a perfect stack of pancakes at my door, still warm, and I decided to leave her to her privacy.
Today is the seventh day of Kat’s presence in my cabin, and I’d say that the atmosphere has changed with her gentle, feminine spirit here. It’s softer, lighter, and more comfortable. Plus, seven is a lucky number, or maybe a holy one. It’s also the day I’ve decided to finally penetrate her vaginally with my cock because I’ve been building up to this. It’s killed me to keep my dick out of her so far. Don’t get me wrong because I’ve kissed my young assistant everywhere, sucking at her nipples, her clit, her cunt hole while licking at the delicious wetness there. But today, there will be no more teasing, no more games. I want to be inside her, to ruin her for anyone else. If she’s half as hungry as I am, she’ll thank me for it.
But first, I have to make it perfect.
The study is immaculate. I’ve spent an hour arranging it to look like a corner office in a Manhattan skyscraper: desk cleared of clutter, just a single leather blotter, a Montblanc pen, and a mock contract I whipped up on my laptop (“SECRETARY PERFORMANCE EVALUATION”). The chair behind the desk is mine; the visitor’s chair is hers, straight-backed and uncomfortable, just the way I like my women before I make them beg for mercy.
I dress for the part: navy suit, no tie, top button undone to show a hint of the tattoo creeping up my collarbone. I haven’t shaved, and the stubble makes me look meaner, more predatory. I want her to be a little scared today. I want her to feel the weight of me, to wonder how far I’ll go.
I check the clock. It’s 1:59. The session is at two. At exactly two, there’s a knock.
Perfect.
I clear my throat, modulate my voice to a lazy drawl. “Come.”
The door opens. For a second, I forget how to breathe.
The young blonde’s dressed to kill. The pencil skirt is tighter than I imagined, hugging those wide hips. The blouse is white silk, buttoned just low enough to show the faint line of her cleavage, and the sleeves are rolled to her elbows, making her wrists look delicate, breakable. She’s wearing the nude heels Camille sent with the first shipment of “roleplay supplies,” and it does unspeakable things to her calves. Kat’s hair is up in a bun, severe and clean, but a few golden wisps have escaped and frame her face. Her makeup is minimal, just mascara and lip gloss, but it works. Kat looks expensive, and like a perfect, fuckable secretary.
She walks in, hips swinging, and sits in the visitor’s chair without waiting to be told. Her skirt rides up an inch, and I can see the bare shimmer of her thighs. I make her wait, eyes locked on the papers in front of me, letting the silence expand.
Finally, I look up. “Miss Vreeland,” I say. “You’re prompt.”
She smiles sweetly. “You said two o’clock sharp, Mr. McKnight.”
“Good memory.” I tap the contract with my pen. “Are you ready for your evaluation?”
She nods, hands folded primly in her lap.
I lean back, make a show of looking her over, top to bottom, lingering on her big breasts, her knees, the way the hem of her skirt trembles ever so slightly.
“Stand up,” I say.
She stands.
I point to a spot beside the desk. “Closer.”
She obeys, heels clicking on the hardwood, stopping just where I want her.
I stand too, circling her, predatory, slow. “Do you know why you’re here, Miss Vreeland?”
She shakes her head, but the smile is still there. “Yes, for a performance evaluation, Mr. McKnight. But why do I have to stand? Can’t you tell me while sitting down?”
I lean in, voice low. “You’re standing because I’ve been getting complaints about your performance.”
She frowns, all innocence. “From whom, sir?”
“From me,” I say. “You’re distracting. You’re messy. You make it impossible for anyone to concentrate.”