It Stings So Sweet

by Stephanie Draven

  Mrs. Mortimer stares down her nose. “It is against the policy of the Aster Hotel to employ girls of ill-repute. And even if the father of Gertrude’s child decided to make an honest woman of her, customers shopping for elegant evening gowns don’t like to see bloated broodmares behind the counter. Remember this: Young ladies who spend more time thinking about beaus than work end up in a bad way.”

  She’s right, because by lunchtime, I’m in a bad way indeed.

  When I take the elevator up to Mr. Aster’s office, I don’t expect to find him sitting facing the door, leaning forward with both hands on his knees in a keen posture. I stand in the doorway, fiddling with the stem of the rose, and he launches to his feet.

  I drink him in, convinced that a pale blue linen suit never looked better on any other man. Being near him again makes me wobbly on my heels and I’m grateful when he ushers me inside, a steadying hand at the small of my back.

  “How are you feeling, Miss O’Brien?”

  Yesterday he was all smiles; today his serious countenance makes me even more nervous, but I manage to hide it. “Just swell, thanks. I’m looking forward to talking to you about the grievances you promised to hear.”

  “Pleasure before business. I trust you received an apology from Mrs. Mortimer?”

  “And a warning, too … about men who give gifts to women and ruin them for marriage.”

  “Yet, here you are.”

  “Well, I’m already ruined, aren’t I?”

  He pales. “I’m not a rake. You tricked me yesterday, you know that …”

  I’m charmed by his use of such an old-fashioned word. “I tricked you and you romanced me this morning with a rose. So maybe that makes me the rake, sir.”

  I hope he’ll be amused, but his expression gets more serious still. “My father was an ambassador, Miss O’Brien. He’s learned a thousand clever ways to lie. He’d like for me to follow him into politics, but I don’t have much stomach for deception. In fact, the only good relationship I’ve ever seen between a man and a woman is one based on a scandalous abundance of honesty and openness. So if we’re going to play games, they’re going to be honest ones from now on.”

  Why, he’s giving me a stern lecture! It should move me to anger or remorse. Instead, all I can think about is what his voice does to me when he takes that tone. All that bossy talk makes me throb in the naughtiest places. Emboldened by my own arousal, I ask, “You’re still sore at me then, Mr. Aster? Maybe you should give me the punishment I deserve.”

  There’s a shake of his head and finally the hint of a smile. “I’ve been imagining all morning how you’ll look draped over my knees.”

  He still wants to spank me. The confirmation of it makes me weak—all my joints rubbery. And as I watch him pull the chair from behind his desk to make room for me, the throbbing of my body drowns out all other thoughts. “You’re not really going to do it, are you?”

  “Miss O’Brien, once I commit to a course of action, I do so with uncompromising certainty. And I am thoroughly committed to this enterprise. So, yes, I really am going to spank you.”

  My mouth goes dry. “You’re awfully wordy.”

  He sits down on the chair, feet flat on the floor. He pats his lap by way of invitation. “I’ll say it simply, then: Bend over my knee.”

  There’s no mischief in his eyes now. His gaze is frank, direct, and filled with an expectation I don’t want to disappoint. It’s bending over his knee that proves to be the chief difficulty because I don’t know where to put my hands. To my immense relief, when I tilt over his legs, one of his strong arms comes down over the small of my back and shoves me into position. The warm weight of his hand settles over the curve of my backside and I realize again, with a sense of dread, just how big his hands are. “I’m going to pull your drawers down, Miss O’Brien, because I believe you deserve a bare-bottomed spanking.”

  I didn’t think I could be more embarrassed, but that does it. That and the cool rush of air on my most private parts when he lifts my skirts up and bunches them around my waist. When he yanks my underpants halfway down my thighs, only the weight of his arm in the middle of my back keeps me from bolting up in fear. Then he slaps his palm against my bottom for the first time, and I jolt. It’s no playful swat. Nothing tentative about it. And I’m in no way prepared. My back arches right up and I look over my shoulder at him in surprise. I stare at him, agape.

  “You want a real spanking, don’t you, Miss O’Brien?”

  My lower lip wobbles. “I’m starting to think better of it.”

  “Do you want me to stop, then?”

  Dear god, no. I don’t want him to stop. So I shake my head.

  “Count, if you wouldn’t mind,” he says, shifting his legs slightly underneath me. When he does, I feel his hard erection press against my side. The urgency of his sexual arousal coaxes an answering rush of heat between my legs. Or maybe it’s the outrageous excitement I feel. “You can start at two …”

  His big hand smacks my flesh again and the sound echoes through the empty office.

  “Two!” My voice cracks. It isn’t so much that the spanks are excruciatingly painful. It’s that I have no way of knowing when or where they’ll fall. In addition to the shame of being spanked is the wildly exciting realization that I have no control over it. The next spank makes me cry out. And each one keeps getting harder and harder until the count of ten. Then I can’t even gauge it anymore. The sting he’s leaving on my bottom spreads lower until my whole body is enveloped in it. My heartbeat is racing, pounding at my wrists, my throat, and between my legs. Surely he can feel the wetness of my sex. I’m so wet and needy now, the pain seems far away, replaced by a sweet ache for satisfaction.

  Shamelessly, I angle myself so that my hips can grind against his body with each spank.

  When I cry out fifteen, my voice is ragged with need. I clench my thighs together, rocking in a way that urges me towards climax. My voice rises on the sixteenth stroke and I know that I’m going to bring myself off. I squeal on the seventeenth, so close. Then moan low on the eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth as orgasm overtakes me. I’m coming, and my climax is like all those effervescent soda bubbles burst at once.

  Squeezing my eyes shut and biting the inside of my cheek, I force myself to stillness to hide it. But it feels so good that I could scream. It’s sweet relief, but it leaves me damp and trembling in his arms.

  All at once, he takes me by the arms and drags me up, seating me in his lap. He wants me to look at him. But I can’t. I look away until he catches me by the chin and forces me to meet his eyes. “Miss O’Brien, did you just take your pleasure from me?”

  With my bottom burning brighter than my face, there’s no denying it. “Yes.”

  His eyes twinkle with instant delight. “You might have warned me that spankings have that effect on you.”

  “How was I to know?”

  “I’d forgotten what an innocent you are.”

  “Besides, you enjoyed it, too,” I say, defensively, eying the rigid evidence in his trousers.

  “Of course I did. The way you squirmed against me would excite a statue. Now here I am, hard as marble and without your enviable talent for easy satisfaction.”

  He says all this with perfect amiability, as if he didn’t know it would awaken in me a profound curiosity and desire. “May I touch you?”

  Those warm hazel eyes of his crinkle at the corners. “You’re quite welcome to touch me whenever you like; you don’t need to ask permission, Miss O’Brien.”

  “I think it excites me to ask.”

  “Oh?” This clearly surprises him. For a few awkward and silent moments, he’s like a man struggling to get his bearings. Eventually, he clears his throat and says, “In that case, I’d like you to ask me again … and this time, with greater specificity.”

  “Greater … specificity, sir?”

  “I want to know exactly what you’re asking permission to do.”

  “May I please, touch you …
your …” Several words for it echo in my mind. Some clinical. Some vulgar and pornographic.

  “You want to touch my cock?”

  His having said it first makes it easier. “Yes. May I please touch your cock?”

  Part of me regrets having asked at all but the other part of me squirms while he weighs the matter in his mind. “As it happens, I don’t think I could bear another day of teasing, Miss O’Brien. Today, I’d like you to stroke it. I want you to use your hand to make me come, and I’m afraid that unless you’re willing to commit yourself to my pleasure, the answer must be no.”

  “But I am willing,” I protest, almost offended.

  He dimples me a smile, then unfastens his trousers with an air of magnanimity. “Show me.”

  I find him hot and hard. His manhood is silkier than expected and my fingertips slide easily down the shaft. When I stroke him, he leans his head back so that it touches the chair, then he closes his eyes.

  I like that. It’s easier to experiment when he’s not watching me. I squeeze tight, marveling at the size of him in my grip. He groans when I do that and groans again when the flat of my palm smears some of the dew on the tip of his shaft. He gets excited. Very excited. Then his big hand closes around mine, and he teaches me to do it just as he likes.

  I’m mesmerized by the way he trains me to his desires.

  I like it. I like it so very much. And it makes me feel strangely … powerful. He’s the one who cries out when his cock throbs and spurts warm and sticky semen into my palm. But I’m the one who wants to shout with victory because in this one moment, he is mine.

  CHAPTER

  Four

  He takes the pocket square from his jacket and uses it to gently wipe my fingers, but the cloth isn’t nearly absorbent enough to clean up all the mess. There seem to be rather copious amounts of the milky remnants of his ecstasy and he murmurs something about having to change his pants.

  I glance at the enormous grandfather clock in the corner, almost dizzied by what I see. “I have to go!”

  His golden head snaps up. “What? Why?”

  “My lunch break is over. Mrs. Mortimer will skin me alive if I’m late.”

  “What kind of ogre do you think I am, Miss O’Brien? Surely you didn’t think I was going to let you return to work without having lunch.”

  “But Mrs. Mortimer—”

  “Works for me,” he interrupts. “Mrs. Mortimer works for me and for that matter, so do you. So, if I should require your services on the rooftop instead of at the boutique, neither of you are in any position to complain.”

  I feel my eyes widen. “You’re abusing your power, Mr. Aster.”

  He chuckles. “Perhaps you ought to bring it up at your next organized labor meeting.”

  He’s teasing; I know he is. But it doesn’t stop me from feeling guilty. This is exactly the kind of thing we talk about. Predatory employers who take advantage of their workers in every possible way. Except … except, I’m here of my own free will, aren’t I? “Speaking of organized labor—”

  “Let’s save that conversation for dessert, shall we?”

  He produces a new pair of trousers from his cabinet, leaving me to wonder how often he finds the need for new clothes in the middle of the day. He swiftly changes into them without any self-consciousness, as if he were quite accustomed to women seeing him in various stages of undress. I watch him do it, my eyes drinking in the powerful muscles of his bare legs underneath his sock garters. As soon as he’s made himself presentable, he leads me from his office into the corridor, at the end of which are two beautiful French doors that open into the rooftop garden.

  The giant dome of glass and steel overhead affords a perfect view of the city. It’s a popular spot for tourists and for the wealthy; it’s usually filled with the noise of hundreds of guests clinking their glasses together, forks and knives clashing over elegant meals, waiters hurriedly bustling in and out of the kitchen. But this afternoon, the rooftop dining area is silent but for the bubbling water in the fountain.

  I come to a halt beside a lattice all covered in vines. “What—what is this?”

  “It’s lunch. Won’t you please join me?” He takes several purposeful strides to a lone table in the middle of the dining room, covered in white linen and gilded china plate. Then he pulls out one of the chairs for me.

  “Where is everyone?” I ask, bewildered.

  “I closed the rooftop for us this afternoon. I thought we might like some privacy. I hope you’re hungry. The menu is a Waldorf salad to be followed by medallions of spring lamb served with asparagus au gratin and Venetian ice cream for dessert.”

  My hands go to my cheeks. “Oh … I couldn’t.”

  “Why not? Are you too sore to sit?”

  The reminder of my spanking makes me flush. “No, it isn’t that. It’s just that I should be working the counter in the boutique. Ethel and Irene will have to work twice as hard to make up for my absence.”

  “For a Marxist-Leninist, you have a remarkable work ethic. If it troubles you, I’ll give them a bonus. Now, please sit down.”

  “They aren’t the same,” I say, annoyed.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Marx and Lenin. They aren’t the same. Dr. Marx was a philosopher and an economist who theorized about how to advance justice and prosperity. Lenin was a murderous, power-hungry thug.” When Mr. Aster tilts his head as if I were a great curiosity, I quickly add in defense of myself, “I like to read books.”

  “Admirable. But what does any of this have to do with why you won’t join me for lunch?”

  It’s only the rooftop garden, but at the moment it feels like a foreign world. “This must have cost you quite a bit of money …”

  “As I have rather a great deal of money, that isn’t a concern for me.”

  My insides are topsy-turvy. “I can’t afford a meal like this.”

  “Miss O’Brien, I intend to treat you to lunch.”

  “I like to pay my own way.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I said I was trying to be less of a gentleman, not that I intended to forsake all notion of civilized behavior.”

  Somehow, it seems wrong. I don’t know how it can seem so much more wrong than bending over his knee in his office, but it does. “Here you are, spending all this money on me when you could use it to pay better wages to your staff. How am I to enjoy an extravagant lunch when thinking about that?”

  Mr. Aster crosses his arms. “Has it occurred to you that none of the people in this hotel would have any jobs at all if it weren’t for people willing to spend money on extravagant lunches? Moreover, if today were just like any other day, the wait staff would be working themselves into a lather to serve the crowd. Instead, everyone in the kitchen is having a bit of a lazy afternoon because they only have to prepare a meal for the two of us. Besides, when we come to dessert, you can tell me one of your grievances and consider it your good deed to your fellow workers and oppressed peoples of the world.”

  When he puts it like that, it makes me feel rather foolish. “I wish you wouldn’t ridicule me.”

  “I only meant to poke fun—nothing whatsoever so disrespectful as ridicule. You have my apologies. The whole purpose in my arranging this lunch was to make sure that you didn’t feel mistreated. I shouldn’t spoil it with jokes.”

  He means it. He’s so earnest that I take the seat that he’s offered and resolve to be grateful. Still, I worry that I’m too disheveled for a place like this. Trying to smooth my hair back and straighten my clothes, I become aware of every loose thread and wrinkle in my dress. The women he’s brought to dine here before have, no doubt, been of a different class altogether, so I try to use my best manners, remember to keep my elbows off the table, and watch him for a clue as to which fork to use.

  When the first course is served, he tells me, “I was terribly anxious that you wouldn’t come back to my office today.”

  To be the cause of anxiety for an otherwise carefree playboy is unexpe
ctedly flattering. “Were you?” I ask, as unsure of the man as I am of the apple, grape, and celery salad served with a mayonnaise dressing. “What would you have done? If I didn’t come back, I mean?”

  He gives a wry grin. “I’d have gulped down enough liquor to put myself into a stumbling oblivion. Which is how I spend most of my evenings, come to think about it, but in this case, I wouldn’t have waited for the evening to do it.”

  “Oh,” I murmur, thoughtful. “Why do you drink so much?”

  He stops, salad fork poised midbite. “Oh, for pity’s sake, don’t tell me that you’re one of the dries, too. Miss O’Brien, is there any cause of social reform to which you do not subscribe?”

  His exaggerated look of horror at the idea I might be in favor of Prohibition is so terribly funny that I laugh into my napkin. “So you don’t mind Communists but the temperance movement is beyond the pale?”

  He smirks at me. “And yet, you told me not to tease you …”

  “I told you that I wished you wouldn’t ridicule me. But I can stand being teased a little bit. And you’re very good at it.”

  His gaze narrows provocatively. “It’s not the only thing I’m very good at …”

  As I’m not brave enough to ask about the rest of his talents, I work on eating my salad, the unusual combination of flavors and textures more pleasing than I would have guessed. “To answer your question, when it comes to alcohol, I’m in favor of temperance, not abstinence.”

  “How very dull.”

  “I can think of more exciting things to do than get drunk.”

  “Your journal certainly attests to that.” The mention of the journal is a sharp reminder that this isn’t just a pleasant lunch with a pleasant fellow, but a meal that comes on the heels of utter debauchery with my boss. And at the memory of his big hand crashing down on my bottom, I squirm in my chair. “Have you ever been drunk before, Miss O’Brien?”

  “Well, no …”

  “Have you ever even tasted liquor?”