“That a problem?”“Seems premature,” she said after a pause. “I don’t need to be sitting around when there are other clients to oversee.”“You won’t be sitting around,” I said truthfully, “and you can ‘tend to your clients’ from here just as easily. A phone call is a phone call.”“Yeah. Got me there,” she sighed. “You know that I hate that part of a country with all my allergies.”“I promise you if you have any kind of allergic reaction I will let you leave that day,” I said, already looking at the laptop and adjusting her allergic level to next to nothing. That wouldn’t be her only adjustments, of course.“ ... I will be there under protest,” she was saying. “Two weeks it is – and only because I’m intrigued about you turning out so many manuscripts. You swear you didn’t recruit some creative writing class.”“Nope. All me,” I said as I heard a rap at my front door. “Someone’s here. Gotta go.”I was already halfway to the door when I ended the call, and was just a little surprised to see. His hand slid under his desk and fondled the bulge in the front of his expensive pants. A light sweat beaded on his face. He could see his hands on her pale skin, could hear her curses, her cries of pain, her screams of terror.He stopped himself before he ejaculated into his fine dress pants. He wouldn't stain his clothing that way. Leaving himself unfulfilled gave him the edge, ready and alert. He loved that moment, the second before pleasure spurted when tension was at it's most tightly strung. He smoothed the wrinkles from his groping with a firm hand, creases were terrible in this soft wool.He liked fine things, like the feel of silk and satin, Egyptian cotton, fine French wines, symphonies and good food. He drove expensive cars, and he had personal staff members to satisfy his every personal need. He had a good life, even if he had to deal with his cold hearted bitch of a wife to keep it. And to keep his real self buried beneath a facade of a whiny hen pecked husband which had.
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