1 comments/ 33434 views/ 1 favorites My Editor By: omniavincet I looked out the window of the train and thought ahead to my meeting later that afternoon. A professor of political science at a university in Boston, I was on my way to New York City to meet with my editor. She and I had worked together on my previous two books and had always gotten along very well. Despite the fact that we had never actually met in person we had developed a virtual friendship through the endless back and forth of emails and phone calls as each book was published. I had to admit that I especially looked forward to our phone calls. Her husky voice and sense of humor were a great combination. Unfortunately we had hit an impasse on the contract for my latest book. It got to the point where it was getting hard to negotiate long distance and we agreed that it was time for me to visit her offices in New York. I decided to cancel classes on Friday and take a long weekend in the city. After the meeting with Linda I planned to enjoy a steak dinner and a show. After a short cab ride from the station I entered a swanky office building and rode the elevator to the 28th floor. Exiting the elevator I saw her name on the glass wall of a well-appointed suite. I walked over and introduced myself to the secretary, a gorgeous black woman in her mid twenties. "Hi, I'm Eric Johnson, I have a 1 o'clock appointment with Linda Greenhouse. "Good afternoon, Professor Johnson, I'll let her know you're here." She picked up her phone and called Linda, "Professor Johnson is here, ma'am. Yes, ma'am." She hung up and rose from behind her desk. "This way, sir," she said and led me through down the hallway into the back of the suite. We reached Linda's office and the secretary knocked on the door twice before opening it and taking me inside. "Thank you, Elena, you may go," said Linda without looking up from the pile of papers on her desk. Once Elena had left Linda stood up and finally looked at me with a serious expression. She was gorgeous. Beyond gorgeous, actually – she was intimidating. About my height with medium length blonde hair and piercing blue eyes, she wore a classy short-skirted gray suit over a white silk blouse that strained against heavy breasts. Her skirt showed off great legs and fashionable heels that had obviously cost a lot of money. I felt a bit awkward as I walked over to her desk, reaching out to shake hands. "It's great to finally meet you, Linda. What a great office you have." Linda stepped out from behind her desk and reached out as if she were going to shake hands. At the last moment instead of shaking my hand she slapped my face hard. I was stunned, but before I could gather my wits to respond she rammed her knee into my groin. I doubled over and fell to the ground, gasping to get my breath. Linda walked around behind me. While I was seeing stars and holding my crotch she grabbed a bamboo cane sitting beside her desk. In a swift motion that I was in no shape to prevent she yanked at my slacks, pulling them down around my knees. I started to protest but that's when the first blow of the cane landed on my bare ass. Whack! The pain seared through me like I'd never felt. I tried to wiggle away but between my balls being on fire, my pants being tangled around my knees, and being hit with the cane I had no chance. Linda started to cane my ass rhythmically, punctuating her sentences with violent strokes of the cane. "Eric, I thought we had a good relationship (whack). I thought we understood each other (whack). Everything went fine with the other books, but now you're getting greedy and want a bigger percentage (whack, whack). I've had enough of your greedy and selfish behavior, do you understand (whack, whack, whack)?" I groaned in pain, in tears from the caning. "Please stop, please stop, whatever you want I'll do, please," I choked out between gasps. "Tell me that you submit," said Linda. "What?" I said, confused. She smacked my ass three or four more times, aiming the cane to hit fresh skin at the top of my thighs and creating a new series of welts. "Wrong answer, Eric. Tell me that you submit." She hit me again. As I lay on the floor in her office with my pants around my knees, writhing in pain I knew I had to make it stop. "I submit," I said. She threw aside the cane and grabbed me by the hair. Pulling me so that I had to scramble on my knees to follow her she led me to the plush couch a few feet away. When we got to the couch she hauled me over and pushed me over the side of it so that my ass stuck up in the air. Once I was settled Linda started massaging my aching ass. "There, there, that's not so bad now, is it?" she said. "You just have to know your place with me and then I'll take care of you." She started to apply a cool cream to the welts on my ass. It stung a little at first but then it started to take the pain away. I relaxed a little and wondered what in the world was happening. Then she started to rub some of the cream up and down around my anus. I moaned a little without meaning to. Then she stuck a finger slick with cream up my ass, lifting me off the couch in surprise. "Hold steady there," she said, "Just relax and go with it." Her finger started working slowly in and out of my ass and I moaned some more. After a couple of minutes she reached around and began fondling my cock and balls, which were starting to come alive. I lifted my body a little to give her hand more room and she started jerking me off in time with the finger she had in my ass. I had never felt anything like it before and I started to breathe heavily. As I was getting close to coming Linda stopped jerking me off and took her finger out of my ass. I groaned in disappointment and wiggled my ass at her. "Don't get too excited, Eric. You need to remember who's the boss around here. But I don't think you'll have any questions about that in a minute." And with that I felt a huge pressure at my ass and grunted as a huge cock entered my asshole. As I tried to get up Linda started smacking my already sore ass with all her might. My ass exploded in pain and tears sprang out of my eyes. "Don't even think about it," she said. "I'm going to fuck you so hard that you forget what it's like to be on top." She drove her huge cock steadily into my swollen ass. I writhed in pain as she penetrated me. Once she had gotten herself fully lodged in my ass she grabbed my hips and pressed hard against me, groaning with deep-throated pleasure. She was clearly relishing her dominance of me. I couldn't believe what was happening. Having her cock inside me felt like being turned inside out. I moaned quietly in defeat and raised my ass to her. She began to grind, pulling slowly out and then thrusting slowly back in. As my ass got used to her invasion she started moving a little faster. I was going out of my mind with lust. I forgot all about getting caned. All I wanted was for her to fuck me. I moved my ass back to meet her thrusts, inviting her cock deeper inside me. "You slut," Linda sneered. "I knew you wanted it. But I didn't tell you to move. Stay still." She spanked my ass twice. The pain pushed me over the edge. "Fuck me, please fuck me. I'm your slut, please just fuck my ass." Just then Linda slammed her cock deep inside with a savage thrust, shutting me up. She reached around and started roughly jerking me off as she pumped her cock into me harder and harder. Soon Linda's jerking stopped as she gripped me again with both hands and built up to a huge orgasm, thrusting so hard I was driven into the couch. Hearing her come was the last straw and I exploded all over the couch. I lay there, totally spent, too exhausted to protest the fact that the monstrous cock was still inside me, splitting me in two. At last Linda pulled out and came over to waggle a life like strap on in my face. Then she scooped up my come and rubbed it up and down the cock. "Clean it, bitch." I said nothing as she slid the cock between my waiting lips. I closed my eyes and tasted my utter submission. She held my head and slowly pumped the strap on in and out of my mouth as I savored the musky smell of her pussy. My jaw was getting sore when Linda pulled out and took my chin in her hand. "Oh, Eric. I'm going to teach you so many things." My Editor and Me I had been sharing my stories with you and the others for about a month when I "met" Brad. That wasn't his screen name, but when I asked him to edit my work, he wrote back, sharing his name. I had tried to find an editor of my own gender. I thought I would be more comfortable pouring out my intimate fantasies that way. But one after another, the ones that I tried either didn't write back, or turned out to be men who were posing. There was always something to give them away. Brad's online profile was casual and funny. I read the few stories that he himself has shared, and they were genuine and rich. And obscenely erotic. He agreed to give it a try, and I sent him my next little piece, a mostly-true story about my husband and me and some light bondage play. My husband knows that I've been writing these for you. It was odd at first, though, when I discovered that the passages I'd written when he was around seemed forced and dry. I came to realize that I wrote more naturally when I could be naked, almost always touching myself while I let the images come, unbidden and welcome and always surprising. As often as not when I write, I am not seeking orgasm. I write (and I read) these fantasies because they make my heart soar. Yes, I love my husband and yes, there was a time when giving our bodies to each other made me feel that way. But we were grown up now, partners and comfortable lovers, and I'm glad of that, too. Sometimes while I'm writing, I do pass the point of no return, and I will orgasm as I sit at the computer, unexpected new fantasies pouring into me as I shiver, and I have to dry off my fingers to type them all out. I had never told Brad that this was how I wrote. In two years of reading and tweaking my naughtiest thoughts with me, Brad had always been a gentleman. I have had private (and public) feedback sometimes that is less so. Now, I hesitate to admit it, but, I get a little smile every time a man tells me that one of my fantasies teased him to orgasm. And while I do gasp sometimes opening an email unexpectedly telling me that a reader wants to spray his jizz on my breasts or my face, I like those, too. I know why I write and we read, you and me. I take care with all of them to write my sincere thanks. Brad wasn't like that with me, though he could be frank in expressing when he found one of my stories especially arousing. He found polite ways. Once, I had asked him what he meant when he wrote that one of my scenes was "full stop erotic." He wrote back "It means I had to stop reading for a little while ;-)." That was the closest he ever came to saying flat out to me that he pleasured himself while editing me. He never asked to meet me; we never shared where we lived; he was always just business. And I grew to appreciate having his masculine view. "A guy probably wouldn't do it that way" was invaluable to me, because I want to share fantasies that are vivid and real. I know my writing is better because of him. So we never got personal, but I always felt a warm gratitude for his really thankless work. I once worked up my courage to write, just for him, a fantasy of the two of us meeting. It was different for me, writing a story that had neither happened to me nor sprung into my head from the unknown source of my fantasies. It felt a little bit forced, and I don't much like writing that way. But I thought it came out ok. I was so anxious when I sent it to him, this little surprise, hoping with more than my usual nagging doubt that it would please him. It was done just for him initially, but he has urged me to share it with you. Here is what I wrote: I let myself into the room, using the key you had left at the desk. Through a doorway I saw there were flowers on the bed: yellow roses. There were closed doors hiding unknown places. A closet, no doubt, and maybe a second bedroom. I went into the bathroom, closing the door, and quickly showered. I had told you I wanted to be fresh and clean for you. I quickly dried off. Not covering up, I came out of the bathroom. I moved the yellow roses to the bedside table and stretched out, face down on the bed, with my arms making a halo around my head. A door opened and closed, and there was a knock on the bedroom door. "Are you ready?" It was Brad. The first time ever hearing his voice. "Yes I am. Come on in." In contrast to my bareness, he was still wearing grey boxer-briefs and an unbuttoned white dress shirt, as we had agreed in advance. I had told my husband that I was going for a massage -- something that I did at a real spa about once a year or so. Brad's underwear did nothing to hide his near full arousal. If anything, they enhanced it, drew attention to it. Still, they represented the limits we had set. I could hear him warming the massage oil and then I felt his warm hands pressing firmly against me. He started with my shoulders and the base of my neck, brushing my long auburn hair out of the way. When he worked his way along my arms to my fingers, the touch there sent little waves of lightning from my fingertips right to my core. There's a reason why holding hands, in our culture, is a hallmark of lovers; we have so many sensitive nerve endings there. Eventually he worked his way down my back, rubbing the warm massage oil into my bare skin. His fingers touched and traced the crack of my buttocks without parting them. Moving on to my legs, he gently moved them apart to reach the tops of my thighs, and I felt the cool air, but never his hands, caress my pussy. Every once in a while, with my head turned to the side, I would open my eyes and take in the shape of him under the grey cotton. His arousal had grown; when he stood up straight the tip of his penis pushed at the waistband. And when the loose shirt moved just so, I could see the curves of his ass. My own fragrance was filling the room, my arousal no secret. When Brad reached my ankles, he nudged one hand against my buttock and asked me to turn over. I rolled onto my back, and among the things I revealed to him by doing so was a smile that I could not suppress. "Hi Brad," I breathed. "Hello, beautiful," he smiled kindly in return, tucking a pillow under my knees. He started at my feet then, and I could tell he was trying not to spend the whole time stealing glances at my private things. He massaged my legs and the crest of my hips, just barely avoiding my trimmed pubic area. Oh, when he came close there and rubbed the oil into my skin, my clit grew so hungry for touch. I drew deep breaths and closed my eyes. When he reached my breasts and tenderly smoothed the oil there, going softly over my enlarged nipples, I moved my legs apart and let a hand slide down and gently caress myself. When we had started planning this day in our emails, I had told him I might want to do that, and I asked him if it would be a problem. "I'd be honored" was what he wrote back. He finished the long, slow massage, and stood just running my hair through his fingers when at last I let myself come. I let out small sounds and hard breaths as it gripped me. He caressed my forehead as I came back to him, smiling his kind smile and watching my eyes. Then Brad stepped to the bathroom and brought back a soft white robe that he found there. He spread it over my bare body, and it felt so warm and welcome. Then he turned off the light, and was gone. Three days had passed after I sent that to him, and it seldom took that long for him to reply. I began to wonder if I had gone too far. He had never told me whether he was married. I imagined a wife finding a story that used his real name. She would forbid him ever to write me again. But finally, on a Monday morning as I sipped my coffee, I had an email from Brad. My heart pounding, I opened it, and read. "Sorry I took so long," he wrote. "I had to read it over a few times :-). On first read, I thought it might be too short, and that some of your readers might be disappointed that he doesn't have an orgasm. But I've decided it's good just as it is. Very good." "I caught a few typos, see below." "You do have a wicked imagination." "Regards, Brad."