Chapter 14
Izzy
He wants to hear my life in a nutshell, like a PowerPoint presentation.
“Let’s see. Born in Australia, I got a degree in journalism in Australia, at Sydney University, migrated to the US, and hit the tail-end of the good times before I was laid off. After that, substitute teacher jobs, other small jobs, the pits, really.”
“Mmm.”
He’s taken to stroking my back through the dress, caressing me here and there, my hips, my hair, the small of my back. He rests his palm on my ass where it’s heated and throbbing from the spanking. His hand weighs me down in the best, calming way. The erotic haze is still there but as a blissful undertone. Lying over him and talking about the past is letting me lift myself above the bad shit that’s been happening. Is it because I’ve chosen to trust him? Maybe.
I might be stupid to trust him but, if so, it won’t be a choice I will regret for long…
I tell him about some of my adventures and mishaps trying to stay financially afloat, and he seems curious, asks questions in places. This is like a massage, and a meditational state sneaks in like a hush on the ocean.
The boat under us rocks but has never showed signs of being in big seas. This is all so very transcendent…
I keep talking, my voice a sleepy murmur, “Then I tried online stirrer as an occupation, fell into some influencer promotional stuff, and it took off from there.”
“Stirrer?”
“Aussie term? Means, umm, a troublemaker. I post about world problems that bug me. Politics, crime, cartels, social matters, oppression of socio-economic classes, religious fucked-uppery. That’s partly why I hated on Montez. I’m like that Greta Swedish-person but with less on-the-ground involvement and more swear words. Then an uncle died, and I ended up with an unexpected lump of money. I was swimming in the cream, so to speak.” Until now.
It’s why I could afford to trek into the wrong country and get myself into deep doo-doo. Yay me. Go hands-on like Greta and die.
“I noticed some of those posts with the cursing,” Adelmo murmurs. “You need chastising for that.”
I snort, and he gives my ass a tap.
“Ready for more games?”
I shift, twist at the waist, and turn over half-way. “Not Red Dead.”
“Not that. I’ll read some of your stalker story and you…” He studies me. “I’ll let you off the hook, and you can stay there while I tell you what’s wrong.”
“Hmph! You are my editor?”
“I will critique. Right word?”
I nod.
“Anything else that happens will be irregular, impromptu?—”
“Big word, for a hitman.”
His glare is scary, but only a little. “I’m making a list, like Santa, of your naughtiness.”
Now, my heart is aching for our lost future. Our future. Am I extrapolating far beyond what is real? Who cares. With teeth, fingers, and claws I will cling to my fantasy of what could have been between the two of us until my last breath leaves my body.
I guess I don’t really believe I will live past tomorrow. There is clearly something about to happen at this meeting that he has no or little control over.
He hasn’t said what it is, but the signs are obvious.
When he finds my story on his laptop and starts reading from it, stopping now and then to make suggestions, it feels so odd. So right and yet so odd. He’s my perfect storyteller with a deep masculine voice that jellifies my bones—and the other sexier parts of me. I want to stay here listening to him forever. His breathing and voice are a background hymn, his hands on me a sacrament. His serenity, and the feel of his body, are my blessing.
I could lie against him and listen to his voice, forever.
And ever.
And ever.
I close my eyes.