The taxi pulled away, leaving me at the bottom of the long concrete stairway that led up to the majestic, Frank Lloyd Wright inspired house in the woods. Everything was green and beautiful -- a true writer's paradise. My heart was racing, but not at the prospect of staying here for an entire two weeks. No, it was the thought of who lived inside that house, who would the door and greet me, that was setting every nerve in my body on edge.
I set off up the concrete path, coming to the front door. I rapped on it twice, and barely had time to catch my breath before Simon was there, his mouth sinking down over mine, his arms wrapping around my waist as his tongue plunged deep into my mouth.
He pulled me inside, and somehow we managed to get the front door closed and locked. "I've missed you," he murmured.
"You too," I said, before he bent down to kiss me again.
It was spring, again. Over a year had passed since the first time we met. A year of friendly messages online and on the phone and, since that night in July, stolen evenings when we both happened to be in the same city, or near enough that traveling the distance didn't seem to count.
Over a year, and I found myself dreaming of those stolen moments with Simon, when his body touched mine, when we were in private and nobody could see us or know how wrong we both were. Those moments when nothing else in the world, not our writing, not the people around us, mattered.
I had been forced to admit to my friends that I was seeing somebody, without telling them who it was. After all, how could I explain something like this? He was twenty-eight years older than me. He was married. He had a daughter who was only a year younger than me. And Patrick...
How could I tell him that our idol, the one who we had bonded over on long, literary evenings during college, was now the person I dreamed about when I laid down to touch myself at night?
It was an impossible thing, and we were both people who didn't believe in impossibilities. I'm certain we both knew it couldn't last, not in secret, not the way it was. But we were doing our best to make it last as long as it could.
In Chicago we had met after a author's panel. He fucked me long and hard, throughout the night, and because we were both alone in the city it was the first time that he stayed with me until the morning, when he kissed me and told me goodbye for another month.
Then there was the book reading and signing Simon did in my hometown. I met him there and took him back to my place, where I cooked him dinner and, as dessert, got down on my knees and sucked him until he came, all before ever moving the plates away from the dinner table.
The thing about it was, I quickly realized that he was becoming my mentor in more than just the field of writing. As my star bloomed and begun to rise in the literary world, I was becoming less shy and more adventurous during our times together.
One time, in New York City, he took me to his room and revealed a set of metal nipple clamps that he had somehow managed to sneak through airport security. Either that or he somehow convinced his assistant to find a sex shop in the city and buy them for him.
Either way, I learned what it meant to scream in pain and ecstasy at the same time, as he rode me furiously while the clamps bit sharply at my tender flesh.
I also learned to take chances. During that same trip, in New York City, he pulled up the window that separated us from his driver and knelt down on the floor in front of me. He licked my pussy tenderly, furiously, and I came just before the driver stopped to let us off at the Manhattan Book Convention.
It was around that time that I realized, to my horror, that I had fallen in love with him.
Simon Whatley, the impossible man, was quickly becoming the person who I felt most strongly about in the entire world. I felt like my life was hollow -- absent -- in the moments that he wasn't there. It wasn't healthy, I told myself. Not that it mattered.
I had never been in love before. I think now that perhaps I loved him before I ever even met him. Either way, it was a frightening and intense experience, and I was determined not to do or say anything more about it.
Simon pulled me further into his house, his hands roving down my body, pushing my blouse and bra up and exposing my breasts. He bent down hungrily, tongue and teeth devouring first one nipple and then the other, back and forth. Then, pushing me into the kitchen, he lifted me up and pushed my skirt up to my waist. Quickly he unzipped his pants, and without even undressing his thrust himself deep inside me.
So often, our experiences together were about my pleasure. I realized with a gasp that this time it was all about his. He thrust deeply, pounding into me as I leaned back on the table. His hands were grasping at my breasts, fingers digging in. I cried out as he pumped, gasping my name as he did so.
My legs came up, wrapping around his waist. He used the new angle as leverage, pounding even harder now. I could feel him stretching me, pushing far deeper than he had ever gone. I moaned, my eyes fluttering closed as I let the sensations take over me. I didn't see his head come down, but all of a sudden I felt his tongue tracing lazily over my breast. Then all of a sudden he took my nipple between his teeth, biting it gently.
I was wracked with a sudden orgasm. Sweat was now dripping down my chest. He reluctantly released my nipple, moving up to kiss me hard and deep. His tongue thrust in and out of my mouth with the same rhythm of his cock.
Then he let go, and I whimpered in protest as he pulled out of my pussy. He pushed me back down, so I was laying back on the table, and came around the side. Grabbing a handful of my hair he pulled be back so my mouth was on level with his cock. "Relax," he sighed, just before he slid himself into my mouth and, still holding the back of my head, began to thrust in and out of me.
I had never been able to take him deeply before, but with the angle that I was at on the table I realized that with each subsequent thrust he was moving further down into the back of my throat. I did what he was told, thinking only of pleasuring him, as he finally managed to sleep his cock all the way inside me and down my throat.
He groaned, reaching forward so he could grab my breasts while the other hand continued to pull on my hair. I reached one hand up, stroking the muscles of his chest and abdomen as they tightened, signaling his imminent release.
Realizing he was about to come I managed to yank back, his cock falling from my mouth.
"I want it in me," I whispered.
Simon nodded, moving back around and pulling my legs up around him. He didn't miss a beat, thrusting his entire cock inside me in one move. He started pounding again, even harder than before though I'd thought that wasn't possible. He pushed my legs apart, spreading them as wide as he could get them, and slammed into me over and over again.
"You belong to me," he said hoarsely, still pumping his cock inside of me. "While you're here, this weekend, you are mine entirely."
"Your little...ugh...your little fuck slave," I managed.
