She made me blush. I never blush.
I’ve fucked her in the conference room, in the lady’s restroom, in the elevator, and in my Jag. More than once. I won’t eat in my car and this woman has not only tied me to the hood, and the seat and fucked me till I came all over my expensive leather, but she’s also made me finger her while she drove it at high speeds.
No. One. Touches. My. Car.
She’s bent me over her lap and spanked my bare butt, bound my hands with my Armani ties and tortured me with a never-ending blowjob. I’ve kissed her feet, and her ass, been blindfolded and bitten and she’s made me beg for more.
And I can’t even begin to wrap my mind around the enormous anal plug. It was never something I’d entertained before; I certainly wasn’t ready to now.
Last night I read every story, stopping every so often to jackoff because she had me so hard I had to find release.
Some of the things she’s written I’ve done to others, but would never allow done to me. Some things I’ve only seen, but have never done. And some I’ve never even heard of.
The fact that her stories turn me on, pisses me off.
It’s obvious Winnifred Mills has no idea who I am. I am not a man that would ever let a lover bind me in any way. No one who knew me would suggest that I drop to my knees and worship them. The very thought sets my blood to boiling.
“I want you to get me information on a Winnifred Mills in the downtown office.” The first thing I do this morning when Diana hops into the Jag is give her the instruction.
She glances at me with annoyance before closing her door. “Good morning to you, too. How far do you want me to dig?”
“As far as you can.”
“Who is she?” she asks, pulling out a small pad and writing down the name.
“A girl that works in accounting under Brian Campbell. Worked rather.”
“Mm. I see. Is this a business request or does it have to do with something of a more personal nature?”
“Does it matter?”
“No, sir,” my right-hand answers. I expect she’ll get it done fast. She always does. The older woman has been with me for almost ten years, and she’s never failed me. I don’t know how she does half the shit she does, but it doesn’t matter.
“It’s a personal matter. Please keep it that way,” I add and she nods.
I want to ignore the book. It’s nothing more than some unknown woman’s fantasies. But I can’t. Maybe it’s an honest curiosity after what I’ve read. After all, aren’t books a window into an author’s mind? I’ve gotten a peek into her head, and it’s left my own mind reeling. There’s some deep need inside to know everything about her.
And once I do, I am going to make sure she knows just one thing about me.
John King submits to no one.