Then, he lifted my skirt, folding it neatly over my back. His hand brushed over my panties.
My pussy begged for his touch.
His hand came down, softly in swats that left a light sting dancing across my skin. His words made my knees feel weak. Softened my hard attitude.
Little girls who sass get put over knees and corrected.
The spanking hadn’t hurt. At all.
But somehow, having his hand spank my bottom over my panties, mixed with his gentle correction, completely melted my attitude away, leaving me feeling feminine, vulnerable, and... sweet.
He had held me in his lap afterwards. His hand smoothing my hair.
See, now? All better. Just a little spanking to clear away your bad mood and sweeten you up for the day.
I had leaned my head on his chest, my finger picking at the buttons on his shirt as he spoke.
I had never felt safer, more cared for, than I did in that moment.
I wanted him to kiss me. He didn’t. With a final pat of my bottom, he sent me right back to work.
Since then, he hasn’t laid a finger on me.
I wish he would.
I have come to realize that the sexual sparks I feel between Bronson and me must be completely one-sided.
And so, I tell my pussy to cool it, and accept the strange, non-romantic relationship Bronson and I have settled into.
He asks me one more time. His voice is softer than before. “Is that alright with you?” His hand reaches out as if to touch me, then falls back down beside him on the desk. I’d answered yes, accepting his discipline, and his care. Nothing more.
I guess you could say we’re friends.
Meeting Bronson made me realize there’s a void in my life.
I want to be with someone.
Or at least, to go on a date.
Last week, Mr. Dobbins’ grandson, Peter, came in for a visit from Buffalo. He was sweet, kind, and almost funny. He had asked me to dinner for Saturday evening. And I had accepted.
Now, I’m standing before my closet, trying to decide what I will wear to work. It’s seven. Since my last spanking, I’ve never been late. I curled my hair this morning and put on extra primer beneath my makeup. I’ll be meeting Peter straight from work, and I hope that my hair and foundation will last till dinner.
I flip through dress after dress. They all seemed so... stolen. Now that I have a proper salary, I have begun to feel a bit guilty about my conquests.
But I have nothing else to wear.
Giving a shrug, I pull out the emerald green. Not too slutty for work, but sexy enough to be a date dress. I hold it before me, gazing at my reflection.
It will do.
I slide the dress on over my matching black lace bra and panty set (you never know what could happen on a first date) and slip into my black heels.
I pick up a can of hairspray—the Aqua Net I borrowed from Ingrid—and spray the holy hell out of my hair. I know my curls will be drooping, then completely gone by noon, but I owe it to Ingrid to try. She had said I looked like an angel when she had stopped by my room earlier and offered the spray to set my curls.
Time for my coat.
Fall is quickly turning to winter and I am beyond grateful for Gorgeous. I put her on, adding the bright red scarf and gloves that had mysteriously shown up in the pocket of my coat one day after work. (Oh, Brauny! You shouldn’t have.)
I peek my head into Mr. Dobbins’ room. He’s snoozing in his chair, wrapped in the flannel robe I had made him promise me he’d wear, even though the heat has been fixed. I tiptoe across the room toward him. Lifting the quilt from his bed, I lay it over him, tucking it in by his sides. He startles, then his head flops back down. He lets out a tremendous snore.
I leave the room, headed to Bachman’s.
He waits for me, as always. Watching me arrive, in the window.
I hate to think what would happen if I didn’t show up one day. Would the NYC police arrive at home, scaring everyone in their search for me?
“Hello. How are you?” I ask, shaking the cold from me. I pull my gloves off, one at a time. I slip them into the pocket of my coat.
“Hello. I’m well. And you?” he asks, helping me out of my coat.
“I’m good.”
“You’re well. You do good. You are well.”
“Huh? Whatever,” I shrug. He’s always trying to improve my grammar, expand my vocabulary. I unwind my scarf and playfully hang it around his neck. “Why don’t you do some good, and hang up my coat for me?”
His brow cocks. “Mind your manners, little girl.”
Little girl.
The words send shivers down my spine. When he says things like that, it makes me second guess my theory that he sees us as ‘just friends.’
I give him a long look. The words tumble out before I can make sense of what I’m saying. “I have a date tonight.”
And then my answer is written on his face.
I realize the reason for my outburst. I am testing him. I want to see his reaction.
Am I just a friend to you?
But his face has fallen.
He quickly catches himself, arranging his features into a mask of indifference.
But I saw it.
His words are tight, forced. “Is that so?”
“It is so, in fact.”
“With whom?”
“Why is it your business?” I ask. I have no idea what’s gotten into me but I suddenly feel feisty as hell.
He leans in. “Don’t make me pull your panties down.”
I gulp. “His name is Peter Dobbins. I met him at the home.”
He sneers. “You’ve only just met the man and you’re going out alone with him? How responsible.”
I want to quip back, but I don’t want to be spanked. I avoid his gaze.
“Well, have a nice time.” He takes my coat from my arm. He turns, strides to his office. My red scarf is hugging the back of his neck.
Alice sidles up beside me. “That was strange. He usually talks to you forever when you first get here. What did you say to him?”
I watch as the office door close behind him. “I told him I had a date.”
“Oh.” Alice stares at me. “What are you going to do?”
I grab the polishing cloth, getting to work on the glass. “What do you mean?”
She buffs along beside me. “Well, he obviously likes you. And he was not very happy about hearing you have a date.”
“He wasn’t happy, was he?” I muse.
“Not at all. And when Bachman’s not happy—”
“Ain’t nobody happy,” I echo.
The door opens and we muffle our laughter, arranging our faces and bodies into the perfect saleswoman posture. I have a lot riding on today—Hank is scheduled to start on the bathroom renovations Monday.
Ten o’clock comes. He doesn’t come out... The latte he’d left on the counter is gone. I’m feeling a bit peaked.
Eleven o’clock comes. I am with a customer when he finally emerges. He’s briskly making his way out the door. His eyes are avoiding me. I ignore the queer feeling in my stomach. Half an hour goes by. He’s back, and he’s returned with my usual breakfast. He delivers it to me with a tight-lipped smile. He doesn’t stay to chat and eat my cantaloupe.
A shocking disappointment washes over me.
But I have a date tonight. With a nice, smart boy who—
Why am I calling him a boy? Peter’s probably the same age as Bronson. But next to Peter, Bronson seems like such a... man.
Bronson’s decisive. Assertive. Protective.
Dominant.
Peter is... nice.
As if reading my mind, Alice elbows me, lifting a piece of toast from my plate. “So who’s the lucky guy?”
I pretend to be hungry, though my appetite has left me. I pick up the fork. “Peter Dobbins. A teacher from Buffalo.”
She takes a bite of the toast and licks the butter from her finger. “Oh, I adore men who teach. Such
sweethearts.”
Sweethearts.
“Yeah,” I agree. Piercing the egg with my fork, I twirl the bite on the white plate.
“Where’s he taking you?” she asks, nibbling at the bread.
“Dunno. He’s meeting me here when I get off work.”
Her eyes light up. “Goody! I’ll get to meet him.”
“Sure,” I say. I put the fork on the plate. “He’d like that.”
She picks it up, polishing off the eggs as she makes light chatter about Peter. Where was he born? How did I meet him? What color eyes does he have?
He was born in New York, like me. He’s the grandson of a patient at the home. His eyes are blue. Light, translucent almost. Friendly eyes.
Not deep brown, almost black eyes that burn like coal.
I sneak a glance at the office door. Closed.
A customer walks in. Alice’s turn. She wipes her fingers on the napkin, leaving me with the plate, and greets the couple at the counter.
My eyes go to his office.
I want to march over, open the door, and yell, If you don’t want me, Bronson Bachman, then don’t be a grouch when I finally have a decent man ask me out.
But that would mean that I’d be admitting to him that I want him.
And possibly have to face his rejection.
My neck aches from tension. I feel a headache coming on. I’m overthinking the situation.
Bronson is way out of my league. He’s not an option for me. Even if he is fighting feelings for me, this isn’t going anywhere.
A bird in the hand is better than two in the bush. I think that’s what Ms. Jones is always telling me. It means better to take what’s offered to you, rather than spend your life pining away for a man who just wants to feed you and spank you. I pull my phone from my dress pocket. I type a message to Peter.
Can’t wait for tonight!
“What are you doing with that?” Bronson growls.
I jump about a foot in the air. “Where did you come from? You scared me half to death.”
“We have a strict no cell phone policy here at Bachman’s.” His brow narrows. His face is taking on a dangerous look—one that I haven’t seen before. It makes me feel shaky.
I jut my chin, feigning confidence. “I know, but you are nowhere in sight today—”
“So you use your phone whenever I’m not around? Even though you know it’s against the rules?” He’s seething.
We all use our phones every now and then. As long as he isn’t around, we figure it’s safe to send a quick text or two.
Ding!
That would be Peter, replying to my text.
I shift my weight from my right foot to my left. Waiting for this to blow over. He doesn’t speak.
“I’m sorry,” I say. I slip the phone back into the pocket of my dress.
“Too late.” His words are like ice. “Meet me in the office. Two minutes.”
He leaves. Alice is by my side. “What happened?”
“He saw me with my phone. He wants to... talk to me in his office.”
“Ouch,” she says with a raise of her brows.
Does she know? Or did she just throw the term out there, like, sucks to be you? I don’t ask, just head to the office to face my fate.
I knock on the closed door of the office. He tells me to come in. I open the door, peeking around it to see where his mood has landed.
Still pissed.
I walk into the office, hovering by the door.
“Come in and close the door,” he says.
I obey.
I sit in the armless chair, awaiting further instruction. He doesn’t speak. Just stares at me.
My hands wring in my lap. I clear my throat. “You know, Bronson, plenty of girls sneak their phones during the work day. And you don’t punish any of them—”
“I haven’t entered into an agreement with any of them. I’ve made it clear to you, you aren’t just another employee. I’ve taken you under my wing. God knows, you need it.”
His words rub me the wrong way. I was doing perfectly fine on my own, before him. Wasn’t I? I say nothing. Just stare at my hands in my lap.
“Anything to say for yourself?”
“No.”
“Let me have your phone.” He holds his hand out toward me.
“Why?”
“I want you to stare at it while I punish you.”
My cheeks burn and I hand him my phone.
He takes it, placing it on the desk before him. I have no idea what he has in store for me... what he will do to me to make me remember his rules.
He stands and walks around the desk. He stops next to me, his hands behind his back.
“Bend over this desk. Present yourself to me. Skirt up, panties down.”
I want to argue. Fight. Tell him no. Instead, I find myself standing. Taking a step toward the desk. Putting my fingers in the waistband of my panties and slowly pulling them down beneath my skirt. I roll them till they are at my mid-thigh. I bend over the desk, then tug the skirt of my dress up and over my back.
I look to him and ask, “Like this?”
He gives me a sneer.
I turn and look at my phone. It’s in front of me on the desk. The light comes on and I see Peter’s unread text flashing at the top of the screen, but the words are too small for me to read them.
There are fingertips at the cleft of my ass. I turn around. “What are you doing?”
“Plugging your bottom,” he says.
I stand straight up. “What is that? What does that even mean?”
“Lay yourself back down.” His voice is cold. His tone, low.
I don’t want to obey him, but I do. I lie down over the desk. He lifts my skirt, putting it back into place.
His fingers return. I try to relax but I’ve never had anyone touch my bottom like this. His fingers are crawling, exploring. They are slick—he’s lubed them—and they press further between my ass cheeks.
His finger is on my bottom hole. I gasp. The jelly is cold and wet and my mind goes blank. I’m almost in shock as he forces his way past the rim of my ass.
Panic runs through me. My protest catches in my throat. His finger pushes past my tight entrance, right into my most taboo orifice. Shame, humiliation, curiosity, and pleasure spin into a tornado of emotions. Tears prick at the backs of my eyes as his finger slides in up to his first knuckle.
No one has ever touched me here. No one has even mentioned doing so.
Now, his finger slides out. There’s a cold metallic feeling thing pressing, wanting to go where his finger had been. My ass cheeks clench, trying to protect myself. For that I get a sharp slap on my bottom.
“Relax.”
I obey, taking a deep breath and loosening my muscles.
“I’m going to slide this in. And you’re going to wear it the rest of your working day. I’m afraid you’ll be quite uncomfortable, but it will be an excellent reminder to you. Every time you feel the plug stretching, pulling, filling you, I want you to remember my rules.”
“Yes, sir,” I whisper.
“Good girl.” His hand is on my lower back. Slowly, he pushes the intrusive thing inside of me. My muscles clench and fight despite my best efforts to comply. But the plug wins. I lie over the desk, taking in the sensation of the wretched thing.
It is pulling. And burning. I move my hips, testing. It’s uncomfortable. As he said it would be.
“Now, for your spanking.”
“What? Two punishments for one little—”
My ass is peppered with spanks, immediately cutting off my complaint. “Are you the one that doles out the punishments here, or am I?”
I don’t answer and I receive two sharp slaps on the tops of my thighs. I quickly call out, “You are, sir.”
“That’s right.” He spanks the center of my ass and it feels as if the plug is pushed further in. He spanks again and I worry that it will bury itself in me.
“How... how do I get it out?”
&nbs
p; “It has a handle. I’ll remove it when the workday is through.” He spanks me several more times, ensuring both cheeks of my ass are fully burning.
His hands go to my panties. Despite the pain of my punished bottom, goosebumps rise on my thighs as he rolls them up and over my bottom. My dress is put back into place and he helps me up from the desk.
As I move, the plug moves with me. An intruder.
He looks at me. I can’t read the expression on his face.
He sends me back to work.
My face is flushed as I leave the office. Alice shoots me a worried glance. She’s with a customer. I give her a smile and go to an open counter. I shift my weight on my feet, trying to find a comfortable standing position with the queer feeling of my plugged bottom.
My pussy is starting to ache.
I’m already wet from being spanked.
My bottom is throbbing.
I can’t focus and I’m glad there’s no customer coming in the door.
I realize I left my phone on his desk.
Should I go back and get it? Get it later? Would he see the text from Peter?
I bet Peter doesn’t plug women’s bottoms for using their phones. My pussy pulses at the memory of Bronson’s words as he slid the thing inside of me. I roll my eyes and sigh.
I get through the next hour. I decide it’s safe to go and ask for my phone. I knock, and he tells me to come in.
There’s nothing on the desk. He’s just sitting there, staring out of the window.
I stand there, hovering. Not sure if I should leave or not.
Finally, he looks at me. “I’ll take out the plug now.”
“Thank you.” Relief washes over me. It’s made me uncomfortable and horny and I want it out. I bend over the desk.
He comes behind me. He reaches underneath my dress, pulling down my panties. He’s much more gentle than before. He slides the plug from me. He puts my clothing back into place. When I turn around, I don’t see what he’s done with the thing, but my phone is in his hand.
He gives it to me.
“You’re dismissed for the day,” he says. Disbelief washes over me. “What?”
“You’re dismissed for the day.” He leaves me, returning to his chair.
He can’t be serious. “Why? For one text?” I balk.
“For insubordination. You’ve just freely admitted you’ve broken the rules constantly. Behind my back.”
Bronson: A Mafia Billionaire Romance Page 6