An Edited Life, Part 1

Introduction:
The hot bath was a welcome friend.
My eyes closed as my body sank into the deep tub, the lavender and chamomile-infused water seemingly embracing me as I inched into it, sighing softly as my frame nestled against the tub’s bottom.
It had been a hectic six months. Nearly a year earlier, a developer contacted me about coming to work in a planned community along the Indiana bank of the Ohio River, not terribly far from my hometown. The idea intrigued me, less for its proximity to home than for the town that was being built from nothing but gently-rolling hills and the challenges of the position I’d been offered.
When Alan Mercer first shared his vision, I was, admittedly, skeptical. He’d acquired five square miles of somewhat desolate land, several miles upstream from Louisville, Kentucky. On it, he was developing what could best be described as a playground for the youthful and educated. From the mixed-used buildings – with restaurants and retail and street level and apartments and condos above – to the sprawling riverfront park with its golf course, softball fields and amphitheater; to the winery and you-pick-it farm at the site’s fringe; to the enclosed water taxis that went back and forth to downtown Louisville, Mercer had seemingly thought of everything.
My role was to serve as the assistant editor of the development-owned media, keeping residents and visitors abreast of anything and everything that had to do with The Meadows at River’s Edge. The job was a hybrid of journalism and public relations, but about eighty-five percent of the development’s adults and a fast-growing number of its visitors were plugged in to our work, and neither its importance or its salary and significant perks were lost on me.
As my body absorbed the water’s warmth, it struck me how little I was plugged in to my new hometown. Several months had passed between Mercer’s offer and the actual move, and now six months into my new life, I realized I was living an endless procession of ten- to twelve-hour work days, with little to no human interaction after leaving the office.
That had to change.
My thoughts began to drift more deeply into my loneliness. The only man I’d really given a second look during the past six months was Andre Gregory, my editor. About five years older than me, Andre is a rock-solid six-foot-three, with a shaved head and crystal-clear chocolate skin. His smooth, deep voice is the sort one would want melting them to sleep night after night.
At times, the little smiles that often accompany Andre’s glances seemed knowing, almost taunting, causing my tummy to flutter slightly. Even as he’d always interacted with me as a gentleman, his look – THE look – often made me wonder what he was thinking.
But Andre was not only a co-worker, he was my boss. Tempted? Yes. But I could never let it happen.
As my bath lingered, I noticed the water cooling. No longer was steam drifting from its surface and a chill was beginning to run through me. Grudgingly climbing from the tub, I wrapped towels around my body and head and walked into bedroom, surprised to find that more than thirty minutes had passed since I’d sought refuge in the water.
Tonight, I was going out. This playground in which I’d found myself had become a lonely place, and with the awakening of spring and having the weekend off, this wasn’t a Friday night to be wasted as so many others had been since my arrival.
It’s been so long since my last night out, I felt almost inept to dress myself athletic, five-foot-nine frame for anything other than a day at the office. After what seemed like an eternity of indecision, my hand reached into the closet and came out with a hanger that contained a blue, floral-print figure-skater dress. Admittedly, it was almost too short, its skirt reaching just below my tush. But, hey, one can’t afford to spend a rare evening out unnoticed.
It was but a 10-minute walk from my apartment to the club at which I’d decided to spend the evening it. Strolling along the river, it struck me that I was turning some heads as others passed, including one poor bastard whose wife or girlfriend rewarded his glance at me with an open-handed slap to the back of his head.
The journey was both unsettling and gratifying.
The music from Escape was noticeable from about half a block away, its pulse growing louder with each step. The lobby was crowded as was the club itself, but an open table next to the dance floor beckoned, so I sat, relaxed, ordered a vodka and cranberry juice and began taking everything in.
Journalists are awful about mentally picking people apart, perhaps as a defense mechanism as much as anything. As my gaze flowed around the club, I began to analyze the people around me. That man with the tacky gold chains and his shirt open by about two buttons too many ought to head straight back to 1975 where he belongs. The fifty-something woman just a tad overweight for the spandex in which she was clad was probably mistaken to be hitting on twenty-something men.
Time passed and several drinks had flowed through my lips, and it suddenly struck me that a Friday night at home in front of the television might not have been a bad idea.
It was approaching midnight and nearly two hours had been wasted at the club. It was becoming more and more obvious that with no hope of companionship in sight and after having finished off a couple of drinks, it might be time to leave.
“How interesting,” a familiar voice whispered in my ear, from behind, “my dormant flower has emerged from her hole with the spring’s warmth.”
Though I turned my head, it wasn’t necessary to see my editor before I knew it was he who had teased me, using my dress’s print as imagery to poke fun at my lack of socialization.
His hand reached over my shoulder, grabbing one of the empty glasses on the table at which I sat, lifting it to his nose and taking a breath before snickering, “Drinking vodka and cranberry juice alone while surrounded by people; how absolutely typical of you.”
Though a smile crossed my lips, the emptiness I felt outside of work had become a bit painful. I grabbed my purse from the table, stood and turned, muttering, “I was just leaving actually,” only to feel his hand against my tummy as he said, “Oh no you don’t. You spend six months doing nothing but working and you think you’re heading home at eleven on a Friday night when you’ve the weekend off?”
My tummy fluttered slightly at his touch, and I glanced at him and said, “You won’t let me leave?”
He said nothing, smiling as he shook his head, grabbing my purse and returning it to the table before sitting in the chair across from me. Andre then motioned for the waitress standing nearby, ordering another vodka and cranberry for me and a Woodford Reserve on the rocks for himself.
Andre reached across the table, taking my hand in his, briefly saying nothing as he looked at me.
“Not once can I remember you mentioning a date, socializing, anything that would lead me to believe you’ve allowed yourself to enjoy a life outside of our work,” he said.
His observation did nothing for my self-confidence, and I caught myself struggling to find the right words with which to respond.
“The opportunities just haven’t been there,” I said, immediately realizing how hollow my words sounded.
“No,” he said. “The opportunities are there, you’ve just not taken advantage of them.”
Our drinks arrived, and I quickly grabbed my glass, lifting it to my lips before I said something else that left me coming across like a child making poorly-engineered excuses for unacceptable behavior.
“Look around us,” Andre continued. “It’s Friday night, the club is packed with people and I found you sitting here alone. If I had to guess, I’d say you picking them apart, person by person, so that you had a prefabricated veto in hand, in the event that any of them dared approach you.”
I caught myself – barely – before I spit my drink on the table.
“That’s exactly what I’d been doing,” I said with a smirk, realizing how observant Andre had been of my personality during the past half year.
The chat – which was more a polite lecture than anything – continued, with Andre chiding me for burying myself in my work when it wasn’t necessary for me to work at all, given that the trust my parents had set up for me afforded me considerably more financial independence than a career in journalism ever would.
What bothered me most about Andre’s friendly rant was that he left me with no room to object, so I listened somewhat helplessly as he methodically laid out what was wrong with my life.
With our glasses nearly empty, Andre ordered more drinks, but before they arrived, he stood and motioned for me to join him, taking me by the hand and leading me to the dance floor. My first few steps with him were awkward, between the drinks I’d already had and the rarity with which I wore heels.
Andre led me to an open spot on the floor, turned me around so that my back was to him, wrapped his thick, muscular arms around me and guided my body against his as we began to sway together.
Had this man not been my boss, what had happened wouldn’t have bothered me a bit, but here I was, in public and with his arms wrapped tight around me. What if a co-worker popped in? How many of these people had seen both our photos scattered throughout our work?
As these thoughts flowed through my mind, Andre’s hands slid down my sides, grabbing my hips and pulling my ass against his pelvis. Even with my embarrassment, my spine tingled at the attention and almost instinctively, I pressed back against him and gave my hips a playful little shimmy, only to have him lean forward and with that velvet-like voice purr, “Tonight, you’re going to socialize.”
We’d danced for nearly an hour, and I’d felt almost as if I were being publicly displayed before Andre very calmly said, “Now we can go.”
“We?” I replied. “It’s no trouble to walk home. It’s not that far.”
He smirked as he took my hand and led me back past the tabled where my purse – and our untouched drinks – sat. I grabbed my bag and followed him out the door and down the street to his Wrangler, climbing in as he opened the door for me before he entered on the other side.
“You’re coming to my place,” Andre said, as he started the car.
My head turned toward him as I replied, “Pardon? That strikes me as inappropriate.”
He nodded as he softly said, “Yes, it is,” his tone an almost mocking one.
Had Andre not been my boss, none of this would have been a conflict for me. He is a stunning, confident and cerebral, strong in every sense of the word.
As he drove, my mind struggled to grasp what was happening. After half a year of a social void, how was it possible that I’d just spent an hour unexpectedly dancing with my editor and was now even more unexpectedly in his car, tingling from having a bit too much vodka, heading to his house?
Andre pulled into his garage and clicked the remote on his visor, closing the door behind us. He exited the Wrangler, walked around its backside and opened the door for me, and then I followed him into his home.
We walked into his living room and stood behind what appeared to be a fairly expensive leather sofa. His arms wrapped around me again, this time pulling me toward him face-to-face and our lips met, first fluttering together before mine opened and his tongue slid into my mouth, causing me to moan into his as my heart began to race and a vaguely familiar warmth began to build within me.
Instinctively, I struggled, even as the moment was enjoyable. “He’s my boss,” was the thing that kept running through my mind. Andre apparently sensed my hesitation, my doubt, grabbing me all the harder and kissing me that much more passionately.
The kiss lingered, and my mouth felt full as his tongue slowly snaked within it. So focused was I on what Andre was doing with to mouth that I’d failed to notice that he’d grabbed my dress’s hem and was lifting it up my body, and that my arms had risen over my head without me even realizing it. It was only when he broke the kiss – my bra-less breasts exposed to the room’s cool air – to lift the flowery blue garment over my head that I actually became aware of what was happening.
So there I was, standing in Andre’s living room wearing nothing but a blue satin thong and nearly perfectly-matching, heeled sandals.
“Lose the shoes,” he said, and I nodded, lifting each foot, in turn, before tossing the sandals toward where my dress lay on the floor.
Andre slowly turned me, leaving me facing the sofa’s back. His hand found the middle of my back, bending me forward, and my own hands grabbed the sofa, leaving me bent at the hips and nervously stammering, “W-W-What are you …” before he shushed me.
The few seconds that passed seemed like an eternity. I could feel Andre looking at me, inspecting me before I jerked forward as a sharp sting exploded within me, his hard black hand having come crashing onto my ass. He laughed when a high-pitched whimper passed through my lips then said, “I told you back at the club you were going socialize tonight.”
My grip on the sofa tightened, expecting to be spanked again, but nothing happened. As my fingers relaxed, another slap shot through the air when he struck my other bun, this time hard enough that my knees buckled and I squealed, “Holy shit!” as I struggled to hold myself up.
That my rump was burning didn’t stop Andre from groping it with his powerful hands. As he kneeled behind me, his palms rotated, his fingers having been pointed toward the floor while he was standing, then ending up pointed toward my back by the time he reached his knees.
He slipped his forefingers into my panties’ waistband and pulled them over my hips, drawing them down my legs. As they reached my ankles, I lifted first one foot, then the other, stepping out of them. Andre’s hands returned to my ass, pulling me open and then he smirked, “I am soooooooo gonna enjoy this.”
As he kneeled behind me, he took a slow, deep breath as his nose hovered oh so close. My legs trembled as his warm exhale flowed through my crotch, and it struck me that his nostrils had to be filled with my musk. His grip on my ass tightened and he pulled me open even further, to the point that it strained me enough so that I rolled to the balls of my feet.
Again, seconds passed and nothing happened before he jolted me again with the flutter of his tongue against my folds. I dared not release my grip on the sofa’s back, and my body began to writhe with his licks, and I could hear him chuckle as he teased me with his lapping at my pussy.
As Andre’s tongue flowed through my vulva, the guilt within me grew. It was nearing 2 a.m. on Saturday and my editor’s face was in my snatch and my honey was dripping onto his eager tongue. How the hell would we face each other at the office on Monday?
Having been lost in my remorse, I’d not even noticed that Andre had stood up till I looked over my shoulder and saw that he’d been upright long enough to shed his clothes and toss them to the floor to our left. When he brushed up behind me, a gasp escaped my lips as I felt his rigid shaft against my tush as he leaned forward, guiding my hands from the sofa’s back and bending me completely over it.
The cold leather made be break out in goose bumps, despite the heat that raged within me. My areolas were rock-hard at the ends of my full, round breasts and Andre’s hands found those spots where the backs of my thighs joined my buttocks, his thumbs pointing inward and pulling me open, as he deeply, calmly said, “I’m about to change your life, Gabi.”
He held me open as the head of his thick, brown cock hovered at my entrance, as if he instinctively knew I’d never had a black man inside me, as if he wanted to give me a moment to ponder what he was about to do to me.
And then, it happened.
With one vicious thrust, Andre filled me, his pelvis crashing hard into my white ass as my warm, slick womb engulfed every last inch of him, his cock’s crown stabbing my cervix. I’d never felt so full, and my scalp began to tingle beyond the voda’s effect as his hands slipped to my hips, grabbing them firmly as he began to slide in and out, my lips emitting intermittent moans as he began to use my body for his pleasure.
The tickle from my crotch was overwhelming, resonating through me from head to toe as he flowed back and forth, my slit dripping its nectar down the back of the couch I was bent over with the longest, thickest cock I’d ever taken making itself at home inside me after having gone so many months without.
As Andre pounded me again and again, my guilt gave way to raw, primal lust. No man had ever robbed me of control and used me this way, and I found myself savoring the moment, as if falling into a trance.
“Fuck the shit out of me!” I growled, the words escaping me before I’d even realized it.
“All … weekend … long,” he calmly replied, hammering me all the harder.
My feet lifted from the floor, my legs drawing up as Andre’s prick filled me again and again, my weight teetering on the couch’s back, my head spinning as I wondered whether he was serious, whether I’d spend the weekend with him between my legs, digging myself an even deeper hole before the new work week began.
As my body rocked atop the sofa, Andre’s hand slammed against my ass again and a shriek passed through my lips, his cock likely the only thing from keeping me from falling over.
My sense of time was lost as Andre impaled me unmercifully, seemingly thousands of times, to the point that my snatch ached and convulsed as it never had before, only a brief glance at the clock bringing me to the realization that it was after 3.
He groaned as his rod began to twitch violently, deep inside me.
Andre didn’t withdraw immediately, holding himself in me long enough that his prick began to soften. When he finally slid out, my legs uncurled and my feet again touched the floor, and his jizz began to run down my inner thighs.
He guided me around to face him again and I looked up at his ebony face, blushing deep red as I muttered, “All weekend long?”
“Yes,” he said confidently as he nodded, “As I said, I’m going to change your life.”
Andre grabbed my hand and led me down the hall to his bedroom, and I nuzzled against him as we drifted to sleep, my mind filled with hazy images of what the rest of the weekend might hold.

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