tagErotic CouplingsEditor Mine

Editor Mine

bysticky_cherry_syrup©

Callie raised her head as a hand rapped on her office door. "Come—" she started to say, but Todd Waltrip wasn't waiting for her invitation. He breezed into her office with a broad grin on his tanned face and a twinkle in his mischievous blue eyes.

"Well?" he asked as he lowered his trim five-foot-nine frame into a chair in front of her desk and glanced knowingly at the thick white envelope on her desk.

Callie slowly set down her pen, removed her bifocals, picked up her mug of coffee and took a long, prodigious slurp. "I can honestly say, Todd," she replied at length, knowing how hyper and impatient he could be, "I have never read so many 'cocks', 'cunts', 'piss holes', 'pussies', 'tits', 'fucks', 'orgasms', 'cums', 'precums', 'ejaculations', 'fellatios', 'jerk offs', and 'clits' packed into three hundred pages in my life."

She then gave him a dry smile and promptly returned to her work.

Todd sat up a little in the chair, his fingers interwoven between his knees. "Yeah, but did you like it?" he inquired suggestively, with a twitch of his eyebrow. Then, business-like, "Do you think it'll fly with the board?"

Callie sighed. She was already tired and it was only Monday afternoon. But then again, she'd had an enormously exhausting weekend. What she was not going to tell Todd, or anyone else—ever!—was that she'd just spent the entire weekend getting herself off to the first one hundred pages of Nathan Ringer's Western sexcapade, Boundless on the Brazos. The whole book was one long orgy of cowboys and whores, speculators and sluts, doing each other from Brownsville to Odessa. One particular chapter in the book had especially riveted her...and stopped her continued reading then and there.

"Todd," she said finally, peering at him through half-open eyelids, "let's just get this over with. I know what this is all about."

He looked a bit confused: dark eyebrows that contrasted nicely with his graying brown hair drew together. "Oh yeah?" he said, glancing at his wrist watch at the same time. "What would that be? Because Nathan Ringer is supposed to be here any minute now to find out what you thought of it."

Callie sighed again and tilted back her head in her chair. She adored Todd Morris; he'd been her friend and boss for over fifteen years. But some times he took these sexual practical jokes towards her just a little too far. There had been the birthday he'd hired the male stripper to not only strip down to a pouch, but lap dance on her as well; and the triple-X rated video he'd played for her during a "training" session. There had been the enormous dildo that had seconded as a vase containing Valentine roses from him. For Christmas one year, he'd given her a coupon for a free massage that Todd had paid the sexy male masseuse to turn into a sex servicing session. And of late, speculating about her sex orientation, there had been the free salon visit that Todd had paid alluring twin sisters to turn into something much more intimate than a manicure and pedicure. All of these "services" she had kindly but firmly declined, although she had let the women do her nails.

She had no reason to doubt that this "manuscript" was just another of Todd's practical jokes, especially given the fact that she was on the verge of her forty-sixth birthday.

But to drag Nathan Ringer into it? Wasn't that going over the top?

Another tap on the office door, and a handsome brunette head with longish bangs and a gamine grin looked around the edge.

"The receptionist said I could come on back," said the lean and somewhat pale man with black-rimmed glasses and deep brown eyes.

Callie's breath caught in her throat. "Mr. Ringer," she managed, rising to her feet and putting out her hand.

With long strides, he came into the office, enfolding her fingers in electrifying warmth. "Miss Dewitt," he said, smiling broadly now to show beautiful white teeth.

"It's Dr. Ringer, actually," Todd corrected under his breath in Callie's direction. Then, to the younger man who was his equal in height, "Hello, Nathan, good to see you again."

Callie watched as the two men—obviously good friends—chatted for a moment, relieved to have a moment to compose herself. She was, of course, a huge fan of Dr. Nathan Ringer's. He was a noted anthropologist and historian, presently serving in some capacity at SMU or Harvard or Duke...perhaps all three. She couldn't quite keep up with the rapidly escalating career of the man several years her junior. Twelve years, to be exact. He was not even at his peak, and already he'd written a score of nonfiction masterpieces. So to even take the novel, however well-written, seriously, was absurd. There was no way he would stake his reputation on a work that was clearly beneath his intellectual capacity.

Suddenly Todd turned to her. "Well look, Callie, I'm going to leave you and Nathan to talk about your impression, as our senior editor, of his book. We'll powwow a bit later in the day, okay?"

With a wink and a smile Todd was gone, leaving Callie to gesture to the chair across from her. She sat back in her own, feeling overwhelmed and unprepared.

"You didn't know about this meeting," Nathan said, rather than asked.

Callie looked back up at him, feeling a flutter in her stomach. God, he was a gorgeous man. Thin, yes, and rather pale and drawn from too much time hunched over books...but she was that way, too. At forty-five, she knew she was in good shape for a woman "her age", which gave her little solace. How she wished she could be one of those sassy middle-aged cougars with the big tits and bleached blonde hair, the kind that twenty-one-year-olds would bang at a moment's notice. But she was a book editor in a small Dallas publishing house, with about as much sex appeal as a bowl of cereal. Despite hours a week in the gym, a careful diet, cosmetics, hair color, and a push up bra for her small breasts, she had accepted that she was years past her "sell date". And right now, she was more than a little aware of the huge gulf between her and Nathan Ringer...between her and any man, for that matter.

"Todd only gave me the manuscript Friday," Callie replied. "I don't usually meet with authors or their agents at least until Todd and I have consulted with Marketing. We're a very small house, as you know, and we only publish six to ten fictions a year, depending on how our nonfiction is doing."

"I know all that," Nathan said with a touch of impatience. "What did you think of the story?"

"I...I thought," Callie began. His brown, almost black, eyes were penetrating. She couldn't lie to him. "I thought it was a joke."

He flopped back in the chair, looking devastated. "Ouch."

"Oh no," Callie said quickly. "I don't mean that the book is badly written. It's brilliant, in fact. The prose is fluid, at times even compelling. It's just...the subject matter."

"Yes?" he prompted.

"Well, it's all about brothels and homosexuals and Mexican slave girls. I mean, is that really what you want to write about?"

"It's the truth," he said bluntly.

Callie spread the long fingers of her hands wide over her desk. "I'm sure it's the truth in some capacity, but—"

"No," Nathan said insistently. "It's the truth. The story was taken straight from my great-great grandmother's diaries."

"That's impossible," Callie said softly. "No lady of that era would have written about...about those kinds of things."

"My great-great grandmother wasn't a lady. At least, not when she was young. She was a whore. One of the first whores in Texas. Her brother was a whore, too. They worked as a pair, if you know what I mean. And they serviced everybody. You wouldn't believe the names in those diaries."

"Oh, I saw the names in the manuscript," Callie countered. "That's why I thought you must be joking. That...and Chapter Five," she added dryly.

"Chapter Five?"

"The one about Golda Garrison?" she reminded him.

He shrugged. "What about it?"

Callie lifted her chin defensively. "Golda Garrison was one of my ancestors. I assure you, she was not the best cocksucker west of the Mississippi."

A slow grin spread across his handsome face. "Oh, I get it. You're intimidated."

"No, I'm insulted. And furthermore, I have to wonder if all of this isn't just some prank Todd has orchestrated to rattle my cage."

Nathan snorted. "You think Todd hired me to punk you?"

"I wouldn't put it past him."

"I have the diaries. You're free to read them, if you like."

"They could be forgeries."

"I've had them authenticated." He gave her a long, calculating look. "This really does intimidate you, doesn't it."

Again, not a question. Just a statement. He stood suddenly from his chair. "Okay, look, I don't know how to convince you other than to show you the diaries and let you read them for yourself. I'm staying at the Hyatt next door. We can walk over. I have the entire set in the hotel safe, just in case of fire. We can go in the bar, find a quiet corner, and set you up."

Twenty minutes later, Callie found herself in a booth, pouring over a wonderfully preserved diary dating to 1842. The handwriting was really quite refined for someone who had fallen into such a disreputable life. The first diary was more of a confessional, when a young Celeste Lalumindier had lay stricken with some unknown malady and expected to die. In the first diary her language was quite flowery, masking the kinds of services she and her brother performed for wealthy gentlemen—and their wives—all along the Brazos River.

But after Celeste's recovery, her writing became more and more course and graphic. She wrote of "Roman parties" in Waco in which the artesian waters gave men new vigor which they were more than eager to try out in outrageous orgies that lasted for days. It was at one of these orgies that Celeste first met Golda Garrison, then a girl of barely eighteen, with such an appetite for cock that she could suck a dozen men dry a day and often did...in front of their lusty wives.

Callie moved uncomfortably on the hard vinyl of the booth. Reading vivid descriptions of her great-great grandmother's sex life was having a disarming effect on her. She'd been reading now for almost six hours what could pass even today as pornographic. As for Nathan Ringer, he'd gone about his own business for the better part of the afternoon, but now he insisted she eat something.

"I can't eat," she murmured, carefully closing the diary and taking off her bifocals. She was exhausted.

"Why can't you eat?" he demanded, as though he didn't believe her.

"I'm too tired to eat. I'm too tired to think."

He fished a card out of his jacket pocket and passed it to her. "Here's my hotel key. Go up to my room, lie down, rest. When you're done, call the cell number that I gave you before. We'll take it from there."

Ordinarily Callie would have balked at being told what to do; she was fiercely independent. But this time she complied, and she wasn't sure why. Perhaps it was the lack of food. Perhaps it was all the sex talk. In her world of intellects and high brows, sex was for stupid people. And right now, she was feeling incredibly stupid.

Stepping into Nathan Ringer's suite, Callie was relieved that the drapes were drawn and only a nightlight above the bathroom vanity penetrated the intense darkness; her eyes were tired from so many hours of reading. The room smelled like a man. She stopped at the closet, opened the door, and tilted her head towards the clothes hanging on the rack. The scent of a man floated up to her, musky and warm, and she shuddered with desire. Rather absently her hand fell to her linen skirt and pressed to the hollow between her legs. Oh God, she was wet. She was drenched, in fact. She turned to the bathroom vanity and picked up his razor. It smelled of shaving cream, and she had a sudden longing to thrust the plastic handle against her clit. She found his stick deodorant and lifted off the lid, inhaling deeply the stirring scent of something called "midnight". Leaving the lavatory light burning, she wandered into the bedroom, letting her fingers trail over the bedspread. All of her senses were heightened, but in a dreamy, primeval way. She pulled back the comforter, wondering if the sheets had been changed since he'd slept on them the night before. Probably not. She put her face into the pillow. It smelled of him. Groaning, Callie lay back on the bed, lifted the hem of her skirt, and plunged her hand into her panties.

Her fingers were quickly soaked with her juices. Impatiently she kicked off her shoes and panties, then unbuttoned her blouse and pushed down her bra to grasp and squeeze her right nipple. Her left hand snaked behind her left hip; to the observer it may have looked as though she was fingering her ass, but in reality her long fingers reached up into her vagina and made a perfect touch against her G-spot. Relaxing against her arm, she "road" her middle finger for several minutes, alternating her right hand between her long brown nipples.

Finally her clit demanded attention and she expertly maneuvered the index and middle fingers of her right hand on either side of this most magnificent and joyful of female organs. Until her divorce a few years earlier she'd viewed masturbating as something bad, although she'd done plenty of it. Now she relished the act of pleasuring herself. But she'd never pleasured herself quite as much as she had these past few days. Her mind whirled with thoughts of Roman orgies and dozens of cocks to suck. Nathan was there, dark and scholarly looking, smiling and jerking his cock at her. Todd was beside him, smoldering desire in his face as he eased back his Roman tunic, took out his hard dick, and pressed it into her open, watering mouth.

Her eyes squeezed tightly closed in ecstasy, Callie didn't hear the hotel door opening or the clinking of glass and ceramic...and then the sudden stopping of shoes on carpet. She was in the throws of what she called her own precum...when her body was awash in waves of magnificent sensations that could go on for half an hour or more and her female ejaculations soaked the sheets. The multiple orgasms would come later; for now she relished the tip of her finger hovering over her G-spot, her undulating hips forcing just enough contact to spread rapture from the tops of her thighs to the edges of her mouth. At times it felt as though even her eyes were going to orgasm.

The fingers of her right hand gently stroked the hood of her clit; no reason to make contact yet. That would come later, when twenty minutes after her first vaginal orgasm, her engorged clit would force another one, and then another one after that. She moaned deep in her throat at the thought of what was to come for her and arched her back against the mounting desire. The image of Golda Garrison sucking cock flooded her brain and Callie abruptly lifted her right hand from her clit, plunging her middle finger into her mouth. The taste of her own juice aroused her more and greedily she wetted her fingers again deep in her pussy, relishing the momentary sensation of both of her hands in her vagina at one time. Then she licked the juice off, savoring the sweet, salty taste before sucking on her middle finger as eagerly as Golda had cock.

A sound...zipper...penetrated her fuzzy brain and she lifted her heavy eyelids, seeing—but not really seeing without her glasses—the shadowy figure in the dimly-lit room. "Nathan?" she breathed, not believing her eyes as something stepped closer to her.

"Shhhhh," came a voice.

"Oh shit!" she cried, and started off the bed.

Hands pressed her down. "No," the voice whispered urgently. "Don't stop. Please don't stop. I was about to unload in my pants. Callie, please...."

Something nudged her face, something hard and yet spongy, and, though it had been awhile, she recognized the head of a penis. A dampness was there as well and she knew it was precum seeping out from the piss hole. At that moment her vagina exploded at the wildness of it, of being watched and turning him on, and her lips parted, taking him into her mouth until she gagged. He was thicker than she would have expected, and he had the most amazing taste. She opened her jaws wider to take all of him in, until the tip of her nose brushed the curls of his pubic hair.

Callie lifted her hand to cradle his scrotum, kneading and squeezing his balls until she was sure he was going to come. She tilted her head away, bringing her hand with her as she slowly lifted her lips from the head. With her tongue extended, she serviced the underside of his dick, starting at the little V at the top and working her way down, keeping her tongue flat against his flesh. He must not have had it that way before because he suddenly grabbed her hair and started to pump towards her face. More precum was seeping out and she slid his head into her mouth, letting the manjuice settle in a little pool on her tongue before sucking it off and swallowing. He was out of control now, breathing frantically, and it aroused her to no end that he was so turned on. Sitting up suddenly, she used both hands to push his pants down all the way to his ankles, then quickly repositioned herself so that she lay on her back, her feet away from him and her head tilted back to take him upside down.

With a groan he spread his legs wide and bent over her to lower his dick into her waiting mouth. The sensation was unlike anything he's ever felt, as the hard ridges on the roof of her mouth pushed against the sensitive underside of his dick, and he moaned endlessly as he quickened towards orgasm.

Callie wrapped her hands around the back of his hips, grabbing his butt cheeks and spreading them wide with her long fingers. She wanted to touch him the way Golda Garrison had touched men, licking their perineum before slowly, agonizingly, rimming them as she jerked them off. Her neck arched away from him and, with a single push of her feet, she managed to scoot back several inches so that his balls were right above her mouth. Before he could react she licked and sucked first one ball and then the other, relishing the taste and smell of him. Next her tongue traveled to his perineum, rubbing the small flat space of flesh with the flat side of her tongue, not even caring how close she was getting to his hole. She had never been this intimate with a man, not even her husband of twelve years.

"No," he said huskily as her tongue began its final journey, and he jerked away from her, only to strip off his shoes and pants and shirt and boxers and socks before throwing himself down next to her sixty-nine style. He grabbed her knees and pressed them apart, then dove into her well-trimmed bush with an eager, probing tongue. First he explored her slit down to her gushing vagina, dipping deep into her well to discover her richness and texture. When his thirst had been satisfied, he spread her legs wider, and found the placed she had so adventurously aroused in him. Callie cried out, and only then realized that she'd completely forgotten about his heavy, throbbing cock next to her head. She turned and gave it the attention it deserved, pressing the flat center of her tongue against the V on the underside of the head, and rubbing it ever so gently until streams of precum rewarded her for her efforts.

He rose up a little and came down on her clit, working a magic she had never known. He had his mouth encasing the entire top half of her pussy, sucking and licking and stroking her with his lips, all at the same time. Against her will she pressed her groin into his face, grinding herself against his teeth and chin. "Oh fuck, oh fuck," Callie cried over and over again, because it was the only thing she could bring herself to say. At last her clit exploded and she bucked against his face, wanting it to go on and on forever and yet embarrassed that a total stranger had just gotten her off.

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