My Naughty Little Secret

by Finnegan, Tara

  “Ah, Miss Brennan, come on in,” he said, smiling.

  I didn’t bother telling him my name again; I’d said it on the phone not fifteen minutes earlier. I was beginning to think he just liked calling me Miss Brennan. Besides, I was somewhat distracted. We discussed the case, which very quickly cooled my ardour, and I briefed him on where I was at with the solicitors. I gave him a synopsis on where we stood with the insurance company. All in all, we were in a strong position; the person who had witnessed the employee spilling the water was willing to testify in court or at a tribunal, and had already given me an excellent written statement. It was pretty much an open-and-shut case and the insurance company wasn’t in the least concerned.

  “You’ve done really well on this. Myra’s most impressed. She’s anxious that you handle the upcoming appraisals now. She wants you to be ready for promotion in the event she should leave.”

  Whoa, hold on. Myra quit Banbury’s? No way. There was no personnel director here, so the buck stopped with Myra. I didn’t want her job and I certainly didn’t feel ready for it. At least in Lynham’s, there’d been a few layers of a safety net.

  “Myra’s not leaving, is she?” I asked anxiously.

  “No, not at the moment, but she knows I intend to retire in a few months and she feels she may move on after that. But since she has made her intentions clear, I want to give you the opportunity to be prepared to step into her shoes. I haven’t mentioned it to Dermot or Michael just yet, but I will very soon.”

  Dermot was the finance director, and he had been with Banbury’s for years. I knew he and James went to school together. Myra had been here for fifteen years and she and James were also very close. Where the hell did Michael fit into the mix, I wondered? He only just started before me, as a department head I knew, but still. It seemed he was in quite a position of trust here. Again I thought back to all of the different occasions I’d seen them together. Either they were arguing furiously or chatting intimately. I was so absorbed in the news that I quite forgot that:

  a: I was knickerless.

  b: I had a date.

  c: I was going to get a spanking.

  The day flew by in spite of my earlier apprehensions that it would crawl.

  Myra set me up with all the appraisals information. I had to schedule the interviews, ensure there was adequate cover on the shop floor while they were going ahead, review last year’s appraisals, and check out the budget that had been allowed for pay rises. I hadn’t even time for lunch, and when five-thirty came I wasn’t free to leave. I rang Michael’s extension to tell him I’d be delayed.

  “Ok, I’m going home to put the food in the oven, but you’re to ring me when you’re done; you are not to walk up to the apartment on your own.”

  “It’s only three minutes up the road,” I argued.

  “Jesus, Siobhan, does everything have to be a confrontation with you? Just ring me,” he warned, reminding me about what I was facing into.

  Above all days, James landed down to go through the appraisals procedure and before I knew it, my watch read seven-thirty. I was starting to get anxious and when James finally left, I grabbed my change of clothes and legged it out of the building, forgetting to call Michael in my haste. I crashed into him on the steps again! He grabbed me to steady me and then kissed me.

  “Well, that’s very discreet,” I complained.

  “And you were supposed to ring,” he retorted sharply.

  “Sorry, I forgot, James kept me and it was late.”

  We walked up to his apartment and the smell of food was divine. Coq au vin, prepared yesterday and cooked today. A girl could really get used to this treatment.

  “Food first, spanking later.”

  Oh, God, I’d suddenly lost my appetite, I wanted to skip the food, but he had gone to so much trouble that I didn’t dare. Actually, it was delicious. I’d missed lunch and I was starving and so ate greedily. It was washed down with a cool glass of Chablis. I brought up the subject of James’ retirement. He seemed surprised that I knew, but for some reason I didn’t mention that Myra might also leave. I guess I didn’t want him to know. We packed the dishwasher and the sexual tension was starting to charge the air. We both knew what was next. He surprised me by calling me, not for my spanking but to look at his laptop.

  “Look what I found online. Seems spanking isn’t that unusual.”

  He called up a site, Taken in Hand, and we spent the next twenty minutes “taking the tour” of the site. Bloody hell, the more I read, the more turned on I got. I also felt a huge sense of relief. I wasn’t that abnormal; there were others like me—educated, independent, modern women—who found this exciting. Funny thing was so many of them found the difficulty was persuading the man that it was ok, they weren’t bullies; they chose this.

  “That’s exactly what I want, though I never knew it before,” I whispered excitedly.

  “Now, you can do all the research you like later, but for now, I believe you are due a good spanking for your behaviour yesterday. Go across to the sofa and remove your skirt and wait for me.”

  Oh, God, this was weird. Humiliating, exciting, frightening, and so incredibly arousing. I can’t begin to explain how hard it is to bare yourself, knowing a spanking is coming. The automatic instinct is to fight it, either to plead forgiveness or to flat-out refuse to cooperate, but I didn’t know him well enough at this stage to try these tactics, so I obediently complied. I wanted it, true, but that didn’t change the fact that I wanted the pleasure without the pain and the humiliation; if we could just skip straight on to the after-spanking glow and closeness, without the actual thrashing, then I would have. In spite of my trepidation, I could feel that sensation in my clit. Since Saturday night, it seemed to be a permanent fixture. As I was already panty-less, I had nothing to protect whatever little modesty I had left after Sunday. I knew I was blushing, but actually I didn’t care. He deliberately left me standing there bare-bottomed and watched me from the table as he shut down his laptop. The anticipation was building. He didn’t take his eyes off me.

  Finally I heard the sound of Windows shutting down. It seemed like an eternity. But still he took his time, replacing his laptop in its case, still watching, watching. It was so fucking erotic and yet petrifying. Waiting, anticipating his order to go across his lap; that awful moment between him raising his warm hand off my buttocks and my feeling it slap down fiercely. Then the momentary relief after the slap, until he raised his hand again. And so the cycle would continue, until he decided to finish. By the time he reached the sofa, my pussy was soaking. Christ, I was one fucked-up bitch to find this such a turn-on, but I did. I really did.

  He finally approached the sofa, but instead of sitting down straightaway, he grabbed my face in one of his hands and kissed me hard. His brown eyes were black coals of desire. It dawned on me that he was just as big a pervert as I was. He was equally excited. His erection was straining against the fabric of his jeans and I could see a little dark spot where it was moist from his arousal. I moaned as he kissed me.

  “Are you sure this is what you want?” he asked one last time. I nodded my agreement. “Ask me to do it,” he ordered.

  “Spank me, please,” I almost whimpered.

  Bastard, he was relishing this. So was I in my own way, but that wasn’t the point! He sat on the sofa and placed a cushion on the seat for my head. He didn’t speak; he just patted his lap and I knew what I was supposed to do. I stretched myself over his knee. Reading that stuff on the computer had really built up the anticipation for both of us. I felt him knead the cheeks of my bottom tenderly and then he ran his short nails across them, scratching them lightly. Then I felt his hand lift. I caught my breath and waited. And smack. I squealed.

  “We’ll try thirty this time.”

  Oh, dear God, I thought that twenty had been bad enough on Sunday and I was still a bit tender from that. Alternating cheek by cheek, he counted to twenty and I squealed through it all. He lectured me on swearing at him again
and about losing my temper as I lay across his knee. Each smack hit its target, surely and soundly. As he spanked, I wriggled to escape his hand, but he held me fast and there was no escape. My whole buttocks were on fire he went higher and lower, ensuring the scorching was spread all over, making damn sure I’d have no comfortable spot left to sit on. I’d be thinking about him the next day at work as I sat at my desk, all right. My wriggling changed to shouts and kicks, but he grabbed my legs just above the knees so I could do no damage to him or me. He stopped and I thought he was going to show mercy.

  “Two-minute breather,” he said, bursting my bubble.

  Oh, no! He was going to follow through with every one of them. I wanted to beg him to stop, but I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction either. So I put up and shut up. He used the two minutes to further lecture me on how offensive he found my language and how goading him would always result in a spanking. Then he stroked and scratched my tender backside. The strokes were lovely, soothing, but the scratches were hell, almost worse than the spanking. His fingers trailed to my clit. It had been alive as I had been anticipating the spanking, but now the blood flow to that whole area had increased and it was aching with desire. He slipped his fingers easily inside me and I groaned.

  “You’re so wet,” he enthused. I raised my hips higher, relishing the relief of his fingers, when he abruptly withdrew them. Then I felt him raise his hand again. The next ten were swift and merciless, as if he wanted to get them over with to get to the good part. While the speed and intensity almost took my breath away, on the plus side it was very soon finished. He held me in place for another couple of minutes while the fire eased slightly, then he pulled me up on his lap, demanding a proper apology for my bad behaviour. Once I had begged his pardon to his standards, he held me tenderly, asking if I was ok.

  I nodded again. He kissed me hard and I returned it just as hard. His erection was digging into my thigh, so I undid the poppers of his jeans with trembling hands, releasing his throbbing cock. I shuffled down onto my knees and took him in my mouth, just as I had the last time. I had never been the greatest fan of oral sex before, but it seemed that there was something submissive about it and I had this urge to feel him and taste him again. Somehow it went hand in hand with the spanking. I sucked him hard and fast, taking him as deep in my throat as I could and as I knelt, the stretch on my buttocks seemed to further scorch my skin, adding to my subservience. I had a real dilemma: I wanted to continue until he lost control, but I didn’t want to be deprived of my fuck either. Michael solved it by pulling my head back firmly by my hair. It was almost painful, but not quite. And almost pleasurable, but not quite. More and more, I was learning about this fine line.

  He fumbled out of his jeans, pulled a condom out of the pocket, and quickly rolled it on. I was already on my knees by the sofa and he lifted my hands to position them on the seat. He knelt behind me and pushed in without ceremony. And my body welcomed him and arched to meet him with glorious relief. I felt whole, complete. I shuddered almost immediately into a violent orgasm, but he wanted more. He wanted me to surrender in exhaustion. He thrust and pumped again and again, ensuring that one orgasm was barely subsiding as the next was rising. He pulled my shirt open and pulled my bra down to gain access to my nipples, and as he pinched and rolled, I could feel the spasms in my womb. Again, pain and pleasure. The pinching was almost painful, but the clenching of the uterus was pure pleasure. I wanted to squeal and moan simultaneously. Finally he was satisfied that he had complete submission and he came, uttering something indecipherable in French.

  We flopped against the sofa, both exhausted and spent, neither of us having the energy to speak. My head was on his chest and his arm was protectively wrapped around me. It was the cold that eventually roused me. Although we were having an unseasonably warm September, it wasn’t quite warm enough for lying around naked on floors. Unfortunately, that broke the easy companionable silence and Michael felt compelled to speak.

  “Sooner or later we’re going to have to talk about this, you know,” he said reasonably.

  “I know, but I’m not ready yet. I feel embarrassed.”

  “But not too embarrassed to do it! Ok, just one question and then I’ll shut up for now. Do you want to try this as the basis for a relationship?”

  “So we’re having a relationship now? Well, then yeah, I think I’d like to give it a try. How’d that be with you?”

  “Jesus, Shiv, you have to ask? It’s like a dream.”

  We showered, which I have to say stung my tender arse like hell, and then retired to his big comfortable bed. Michael rubbed witch hazel onto my burning backside with soft cotton wool, soothing the sunburnt feeling. He said he’d have to stock up on after-sun cream or aloe vera or something if we were going to continue like this, and I laughed. It was sweet of him to think of it, but I doubted he’d remember; after all it wasn’t his ass on the line. We went off to sleep, lying together like spoons with my hot bottom tucked into his tummy. He felt a bit guilty when he felt the heat emanating from it, but I easily reassured him that it had been my pleasure and I’d do it again, anytime. Which was true.

  Chapter Eight

  Sometimes I felt like Elizabeth Bennett, when she discovered that Mr Darcy wasn’t such a proud disagreeable man. So many of my preconceptions about Michael were being thrashed, one by one. As time was passing, he was mixing much more at work and he got on famously with Tara. Claire took a little while longer, as she found it hard to get past the fact that he spanked me and it took me quite a time to convince her that it was actually my idea. I eventually showed her the Taken in Hand site and, after reading for days, she seemed to forgive him a little. She even started to ask questions about it. I learned a valuable lesson though, and I didn’t share that information with anyone else.

  Michael was astonishingly caring and affectionate. Most weekends he came up with something different that he thought I’d enjoy doing. He attempted (poorly!) to respect my need for privacy at work and overall wasn’t doing too badly on that score, although he kept saying he’d prefer if it was out in the open. I took this to be a reflection on his innate honesty. And if Michael had his way, he would have been with me twenty-four-seven. He was already making noises about me leaving some of my stuff in his apartment so I wouldn’t have to pack an overnight bag each time. All in all, he was shaping up to a pretty damn good boyfriend. And the sex and spanking only got better as we got to know each other better and discover each other’s wants, desires, and limits. Looking back now, I realise the intensity and rapidity of our feelings was a largely attributable to the intimacy we enjoyed as a result of spanking.

  There were a couple of things troubling me. I knew that he had been in a relationship just before leaving France and I didn’t know if that meant he would go running back the minute his six months were up. Also I had met none of Michael’s friends or family; he always seemed to have some excuse whenever I suggested it. Yet he did meet up with them himself on the nights he wasn’t meeting me. I wondered if I was too “common” or “Irish” for him. Was he ashamed of me? He was, after all, fairly upper class as far as I could make out. You might think I should have asked him or somehow forced the issue, but to tell the truth, I was too scared of the answer. If he was ashamed of me, then it meant it was the inevitable end and I wasn’t ready for that, not so soon at any rate. This was way too much fun, and let’s face it, it wasn’t every man you could entrust with that sort of power and expect him not to abuse it. It could be years before I found this again. But still, as a result of both of these factors, I was afraid to let myself become too close. I didn’t want a broken heart.

  When we made it to the two-month mark, Michael had a surprise up his sleeve, to “celebrate” it as he said. Again, he didn’t tell me what it was, just to pack lots of warm clothes and my swimwear. To my absolute delight, he had organised a weekend surfing, my absolute favourite pastime. We drove up to Norfolk on Friday evening and first thing on Saturday morning we were out
on the waves. Michael hadn’t a clue, bless him. I laughed ‘til I cried as he tried to stay up even for a couple of minutes. He spent half the day with an instructor and was down in the water more often than he was up on the board, but I got to catch some great waves. I was exhausted and exhilarated by evening.

  Both of us too shattered to venture out of the hotel, we ate in the restaurant downstairs and then retired to the hotel bar. It was really relaxing to be able to be in public without worrying about anyone from work seeing us and I really chilled. But Michael seemed more uptight than usual. Something was eating at him and it didn’t seem to help when I mentioned I was thinking of going home to Ireland the following weekend.

  “I don’t suppose you’d like some company? I’d love to see Easkey,” he asked tentatively.

  “Not this time, I haven’t been home for three months, and I’d like to catch up with everyone. If you come, I’d be worrying about you being happy. Do you not trust me out of your sight?” I asked.

  Deep down I was resentful that he wanted to come and meet my friends and family when he couldn’t be bothered to introduce me to his. Wouldn’t I look like a right fool for bringing him home after only two months when he dumped me for one of his own, or worse, if he went back with his tail between his legs to his Parisian girlfriend. Hell, as far as I knew, he still hadn’t even decided if he was staying. I tried to broach the subject.