Bad Boy Boss (3 page)

He rolled off me, turned me around and lay against my back. He reached over and held my breast in one hand; the other was under my waist and, over my stomach, pulling me against him. He stroked me a bit as my body processes plip-plopped their way back into some form of normalcy.

I was relaxed, luxuriating in his touch. He was the gentlest man I had ever been with. Posing me or making love to me, nothing bumped or banged, everything was gentle, soft and wonderful. I was starting to drift off to sleep, when he moved his hand from over my breast down over my stomach and between my legs exciting me again. It didn’t take a lot.

He slowly rolled me toward him, and then he entered me again, up on my side. He pulled my leg up on his side with his hand over my knee. He pulled me close and moved me in a small circular motion, which rubbed my clit against him with rising excitement.

He kissed me. “Some people say that the second time is the best,” he said.

“That really hasn’t been my experience with it.” I stumbled over the last couple words and turned red; he’d hit just the right spot and I shivered. “Oh shit, I guess they’re right. Oh, God.”

He just kept it up and I wasn’t sure where I was for a while. I was lost in sensations I’d only touched on fleetingly. When he came that second time, it was like someone set off a cannon that blasted every nerve ending in my body. Everything was tingling, shivering, alive and begging for attention. I didn’t know I could squeeze anything as hard as I was holding on to him.

I ended up falling asleep against him and partially on him; my breasts were on his chest and my cheek on his shoulder. I was warm and tired and fell asleep easily and deeply.

I woke to someone nibbling at my earlobe, then kissing my neck. When I turned to look, I got kissed and there didn’t seem to be a good reason to stop that. I felt a hand between my legs and my vagina lips slowly, wetly opening with a constant rolling pressure against my clit.

“Do you like to do it in the morning?” he asked. Like I had a choice; I wasn’t even awake and I was hotter than the hinges of hell.

“First time I ever w-w… woke up with someone’ssss hand b-between my legs.” I struggled to get the words out.

With one finger, he was rubbing the inside of my pelvic bone. He seemed to flick the rest randomly, but I’m sure he could tell by listening to me when he hit home.

“I keep hearing evidence of your sexually-retarded upbringing. Didn’t you listen when you and your mom had the talk?”

“I - oh crap, you just made me cum.”

He put me up on my side again and pushed inside me. I moved my leg up of my own accord, but that didn’t stop the attack on my knee, and that damn nerve bundle was working overtime.

Well, that started the day with a bang; I wasn’t sure whether that was fact or pun, probably a bit of both. It was early; it was light, but there was no sun yet in the soft morning dawn. But, like the day before, it was crystal clear and really cold looking.

He came and once again, it blew off the socks I wasn’t wearing. Then I just grabbed him and held on for a while. I admit it, I was totally overwhelmed and if I were given the choice, I could have stayed in bed with him until some politician got pissed at some other politician and blew up the world.

He didn’t seem disposed to let me go for a while either, and that was nice; really nice. Guys bang you and roll over to sleep, then jump up in the morning and rush away. Most guys even bang you with a bang, not gentle or anything. This had been the best night and morning of my life so far. If I got up it would be to call Guinness and report.

Eventually he put his hand under my chin and tipped my head up to look in my eyes. “What do you feel like, eggs and something, waffles or pancakes?”

“What kind of waffles?” I asked. “I mean there are waffles and then there are waffles. You have a spinning Belgian waffle maker and a toaster; either one can produce a waffle.”

“I have a spinning whisk that I can use with cream, a touch of Crème Fraise, and simple syrup. Then I use the Belgian waffle maker and add strawberry preserves. That work?”

“Sounds great.”

“Go take a shower; I’ll make the waffles and meet you in the studio in an hour.”

“What kind of a job is this; no sick days?”

He grinned. “And what sort of affliction do you have?”

“It has a long, involved, Latin name which roughly translated means, ‘an intense, inescapable compulsion to spend the rest of the day naked in your arms in bed.’”

“You have a doctor’s note?”

So I just kissed him and we kept that up for a while. Then he turned me down.

“While the condition is clear, the cure is work, not play.”

And then he did an inexcusable thing and rolled out of bed. Since we had been kissing I was, well, receptive, and he sort of took advantage with his hand in my crotch and on my breasts. So when he got up to make the waffles, my nipples were hard as rocks and my crotch was gushing.

I dressed warmly, knowing that the high altitude would turn the air sharp-edged on a cold breeze between the cabin and the studio. Apparently the squirrel had adopted me because it chattered a “goodbye” as I headed off to an arduous day in the nude. For some reason, he reminded me of Mickey Mouse… probably the high pitched chatter. I dubbed him Mickey. and traded goodbyes with him.

Peter was waiting for me, even though I cut the hour to forty-five minutes.

It was work, on my end anyway. To be a good model took complete concentration. You just couldn’t move and if you lost concentration, you would. Peter made it easy for me by breaking usually under ten minutes, but I would challenge anyone to try it. Hold absolutely still for ten minutes, right after someone just brushed your pubes positioning your leg. Most can’t do it. He would pose me again for the next ten minutes, and that was like major work after the night we’d just spent together. I mean the willpower it took not to just pull his legs out from under him and rape him right there on the floor was incredible. At two o’clock, I was so turned on again that I actually noticed that I dripped on the dais. For the first time in my life, my job was a high stress position.

An hour later, he stopped; instead of posing me, he kissed me.

“Okay, you’ve proven that you are the most beautiful, sexy and desirable woman in the world,” he said. “And we still spent the day working.”

“You believe that?”

“You aren’t what? Beautiful? I start to sketch you and have to stop because you take my breath away.

“Sexy? Last night didn’t convince you? Well, another night is falling.

“Desirable? That is why you’re here. Get dressed.”

I got dressed and walked out; he had a piece of sketch paper on his board.

“Okay,” he said, “you are here.” He poked a dot on the paper. “South is the forest, this is the 600 block, the San Bernardino forest is over 800 straight south. You are 610-620 Los Angeles. No one delivers mail here, so it’s just a way to be found. Two blocks north is Laurel. I knew a very special lady with that name, so I center everything on it in Sugarloaf.”

“Tell me about Laurel.”

“Later.”

“Now, Peter. I’ve leaked all over your damn dais all day.”

“At my cabin, I promise. First subject…”

“I have no idea where your cabin is.”

“So shut up and listen. You go two blocks north to Laurel. The studio is south of the cabin. Turn right, go six blocks to Highland. The second cabin to the south on the west, the right side is 402.” He stopped there and swept me up in his arms. He kissed me and let me go.

“I expect you at six,” he said. “Not at five-forty-five, at six.”

I dressed up. I had a skirt that was cut almost to my waist, it was a wrap and fell off with a flick of the waistline clamp. Next came dancer’s tights, shimmering in silver, then boots in black, polished until they were mirrors. I chose a silk halter top in an alligator pattern and no bra. This was topped with a leather bolero; almost too cold, too revealing.

Mickey chattered his goodbye again as I took off for dinner. I found Laurel and followed directions. His cabin had parking space in front, but no garage. The great room and kitchen were a bit bigger than in my cabin with a bedroom and bath correspondingly smaller, as both cabins seemed the same size. The setup was also similar, with a bar separating the kitchen from the great room.

He was cooking in the kitchen as I came in. Yes, I knocked and yes, he yelled, “Come in.” I took off my jacket, hung it up and then sat on one of the bar stools, which made my skirt fall open.

“The subject was Laurel,” I said.

“Laurel was a neighbor when I was growing up. She was a divorcee, and when she was twenty-eight and I was eighteen, we had a bit of an affair, which lasted through my senior year in high school. I went to an all-boys academy, one of the last and one of the most expensive in the country, so there were no distractions. The fact was I was far from the only rich boy at Stubbins Academy to have an older girlfriend. Being rich makes having girlfriends easy, and older women are just better lays, having had the necessary experience.

“Laurel was athletically built and pretty much as good between the sheets as anyone could get. She taught me how to love her, and the same technique seems to be pretty adaptable. You’ve tried it; do you have any particular complaints?”

“Now that you mention it, making me so hot that I leave a trail all day wasn’t the best thing you could have done,”

“Laurel liked it, said it was like having me with her all day long.”

“That was planned? I was supposed to spend the day sexually frustrated? Exercising enough willpower not to strip you and rape you on the floor of the studio? Or did you expect me to?”

“Well, actually, it did help. It sort of showed through the sketches. I was getting a hard on drawing some of them; it was all coming through big time and I had to exercise as much control as you did, not to throw you on the floor and get it on; remember, you’re the one who works in the nude.”

“So it’s like a normal thing?”

“No, a special thing, if it ever got to be normal, it wouldn’t work.”

“So where’s Laurel?”

“Rich boys go Ivy League. I went to Princeton; when I came home for Christmas, she was gone. She married a Stubbins boy five years after their senior year affair. He had been her first – the pioneer, so to speak – so the four of us accorded him proprietary rights; we were all invited to the wedding, and we all went that June. The oldest was twenty-one, so he bought us all two bottles of Jack Daniels and we proceeded to get smashed. Now, every June fifteenth, we meet at Jackson’s Hash House in Rancho Cucamonga, where the wedding was, and have dinner preceded by a triple Jack Daniels in a water glass and a toast to her.”

“So we have the doctor’s wife and the cradle-robber; any other women that, if I ever meet, I will snatch bald-headed?”

“Surprisingly enough, only you.”

“After three days?”

“I was ordered to love you, and I have always been good at following orders.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

He made red spaghetti for dinner; actually, he showed me how to make it. Apparently, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize I was no pro in the kitchen, but he seemed happy enough teaching me some of his tricks.

First, he took pancetta – Italian bacon – and rendered it, basically cooking it until all the fat turned to liquid. Then he boiled spaghetti in a mixture of half wine and half water so it was red when done. Then he drained and rinsed it, adding it to the rendered pancetta with five different types of cheese: mozzarella, fontina, parmesan, romano and provolone. The rendered fat melted the cheese and flavored the spaghetti. We had that with a salad and a bottle of Chianti.

As we finished dinner, he looked in my eyes and not at my legs, like through most of dinner. “You up for a game of strip pool?”

“Okay. I saw the pool sticks on the wall when I walked in, but where’s the table?”

“Well, it’s actually strip bumper pool and the table is right over there.” He pointed. “The top of the table comes off and there is a poker table on the other side of it.”

“Now I see the pockets. So… by the ball or by the game, and are shoes and socks separate?”

“By the game and shoes and socks are four separate strips.”

“Top to bottom or bottom to top?”

“Top down, except for panties and underpants, winner gets to pants the loser.”

“Done.”

Well, he was good and it wasn’t my game; still I was good enough at straight pool that a ‘poor little helpless beginner’ like me could hustle a few bucks from time to time. My mistake was to let him win the first game so I had to take my top off. It was a strategic mistake to assume I could use my tits to distract him… should’ve figured that out when he didn’t rape me all day long; what can I say? I get pretty stupid around him sometimes.

He won with both socks still on, though I could tell that I surprised him a bit. Next time I come over I’ll bring my cue, then we’ll see who gets who’s panties.

He lifted my legs, one at a time with his hand behind my knee to remove my panties, then he picked me up and carried me into the bedroom; after the day I had just spent, the flesh to flesh contact almost produced an orgasm. He pulled down the cover and laid me under the blanket and comforter.