Seoul Spankings

by Anastasia Vitsky

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  Seoul Spankings

  Copyright © 2015 by Anastasia Vitsky

  ISBN: 978-1-61333-824-7

  Cover art by Fiona Jayde

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC

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  Dedication

  With love and gratitude to Kate Richards

  Seoul Spankings

  A 1Night Stand Story

  By

  Anastasia Vitsky

  Prologue

  “Say my name,” she demanded, startling me with her fierceness. Korean For Foreigners had told me saying someone’s name was rude.

  “Hee-yon,” I stammered, unable to form the alien syllables. “Huh…huh-yawn.”

  She pursed her lips, circling my chair. “Indi Go,” she enunciated in the odd, separated manner seeming to order me from her presence. “Here, I am not Ee Sajahng. I am Hyunkyung Han, and you will call me by name.”

  “Ee,” I faltered. Some of her employees had said something familiar. “Ee?” I latched onto the only sound I could replicate.

  “Ee Sajahng,” she repeated. “Founder. Investor. A title, not a name. Call me Hyunkyung.” This time, as she walked around me, her knee brushed against mine. A tiny gymnast vaulted somewhere underneath my ribs, and I spoke without thinking.

  “Can’t I say HK?” After all, her staff called me Miss Go. Why insult her by butchering the sounds I couldn’t form?

  She paused behind me, delaying long enough to highlight the ludicrous nature of my request. Yo, Barack ol’ buddy. I can call you BO, right?

  “Sorry,” I mumbled.

  “Americans are so familiar,” she said, in an undertone.

  “Koreans are so formal!” I protested.

  “Yes,” she answered, tapping one manicured finger against another. “Let’s show you how formal.”

  The tiny gymnast saluted the judges before pummeling her feet on the runway toward the springboard.

  “Stand,” she ordered. I obeyed instantly, scooting the chair backward. Would she lecture me on comportment or inspect my fingernails? “Hold the back of the chair.”

  Confused, I turned around to rest my forearms on the rounded leather top.

  “Like this?”

  From the other side, she drew my hands over the back of the chair to grip the corners. She slid a hand underneath my torso to pat my stomach. I flinched, thankful my long hours at the gym had melted away the extra layers brought on by the pints of ice cream I’d devoured after leaving Greg.

  Greg. I’d tried so hard to forget him, but, in this new environment, I could hear his voice.

  Let it go, Indi. You’d be more fun if you weren’t uptight. Be loose, like me. It’s less stress.

  I stiffened and pulled away from her touch, but she held on. “Who is it? Greg?”

  I’d mentioned him in a thoughtless moment, when she’d tipped me over her knee and spanked while standing ankle-deep in the moonlit water.

  Could she read minds? I didn’t want to think of Greg now. I’d flown halfway around the world, but he still filled my thoughts. I wanted his morning stubble against my cheek, his biceps curling around my shoulder. “No,” I lied. But she knew the truth, and I turned away.

  “Hyunkyung,” she insisted, but I couldn’t respond. The tiny gymnast slipped on a faulty coil and flew through the air to crash-land into the judges’ table. Hyunkyung cupped my cheek in her palm, stroking away a tear I had not felt fall. “You are with me now. Hyun. Kyung. Say my name.”

  She might as well have asked me to fly home across the Pacific Ocean, Icarus style. Soaring through the clouds, ever higher, until the heat from the sun melted the wax on my wings. Plunging into the frigid ocean below, broken wings flying every which way.

  Her hand caressed my bottom with more confidence and ownership than Greg had showed during our entire five years together. I struggled to shut down the unwanted memories, but the quickening of my breath brought back images of the last time he fucked me. I couldn’t call it making love or having sex, but an insertion of one body part into another in less time than a commercial break. When I said no, he called me frigid. I made him go to Tiffany, he told me. If I didn’t give him sex, other girls would. Girls with bigger houses, bigger bank accounts, and bigger boobs.

  “Indi Go,” Hyunkyung murmured. “Say my name.”

  She tried to call me to her, but the room melted away, and Greg’s breath filled my nostrils with the stink of beer and cigarettes. What would he say?

  Girl on girl. Hot.

  The phone rang, a gentle love ballad at least two decades old. She rattled off a string of angry-sounding Korean, but paused midway. I heard my name followed first by surprise and then concern. She gave her phone to me, and I fumbled with the sleek, lightweight gadget.

  “It’s your auntie grandmother,” she said. The gymnast in my chest fell off the balance beam, and my heart sped up. Who could it be but Great-Aunt Matilda, who had landed me in this mess?

  “Hello?”

  “Indi!”

  Before I could answer, a switch clicked, and a small buzzing sound came from Hyunkyung’s hand. No. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t, not while I was on the phone!

  She wedged a soft bit of silicone inside my panties, and she tugged on elastic straps and metal snaps until the humming intrusion rested just under the most sensitive part of my clit. I stifled a scream, shoving at the straps to take away the distraction.

  “Got your message. This better involve blood and ambulances, my girl,” Great-Aunt Matilda rasped with her usual brusqueness.

  “Oh!” I let out a ragged breath as the vibrations increased. “Can I call you back? I’m a little busy now…. Oh my God!” I lurched forward as Hyunkyung snapped the tip of something rubber against the back of my leg. The jolt of pain, combined with the pleasant warmth flooding my core, awakened every last sensation in my already-alert body.

  “Say my name,” Hyunkyung cooed into my ear, drawing the ridi
ng crop in circular patterns up and down each leg. “Say it correctly, or I’ll switch the butterfly to pulsating. And tell you not to come.”

  I nearly burst into climax at her words, but I gave Great-Aunt Matilda a rattled good-bye before hanging up.

  “That was not well done.” Hyunkyung tsked, taking the phone back. “I did not give you permission to end the call.”

  “Hi-yahn. Huh-yahn. Heeyunkyung!” Desperate for relief, I babbled every possible combination of syllables that might be close.

  “It looks like you don’t have sufficient motivation yet.” She reached back to unzip the top of her dress, allowing the white collar to billow around the tops of her shoulders. A red satin bra strap peeked out from either side, and my mouth watered at the creamy, delectable cleavage. I felt as if I should pinch myself. Could I be plain old Indigo Adams, former barhop and newly unemployed?

  “Say my name the right way,” she said, “and I’ll unzip my dress another few centimeters. Say it wrong, and I’ll spank you with my crop.”

  “Oh my God.” I writhed. How could she make me choose only one?

  Chapter One

  Twelve hours earlier….

  “When she shakes your hand, support your elbow with the other,” Miss Cha urged for the tenth time. “Don’t squeeze too hard, and don’t get familiar.” She loosened the ties on the back of my bolero jacket and patted them into place. “Don’t show your teeth when you smile. Don’t laugh too loudly.”

  I tottered forward on sky-high, chiseled black heels, praying I wouldn’t fall on my face in front of Hyunkyung Han, the director of Han Incorporated. She could give me a job to end all jobs, or she could send me home on the next plane.

  “Miss Cha,” I whispered. “How do you say her name again?”

  “Ee Sajangnim,” the petite woman replied, confusing me once more.

  Great-Aunt Matilda had promised an interview with Hyungkyung Han, but this woman had a different name. No one could explain the discrepancy in the rush to prepare me for the meeting. When I showed up in my tank top and cut-off denim shorts, shivering after the twenty-four hour trip from Spillville, Iowa, Miss Cha had gasped in dismay and strode into the airport shop to purchase a new outfit. She insisted I put it on, and I understood once I saw the sleek limousine. I couldn’t show up at Daddy Warbucks’ mansion looking like Little Orphan Annie.

  Great-Aunt Matilda hadn’t mentioned Ee Sajangnim or Hyungkyung Han’s wealth, personal assistants, or status in this strange new country. She’d handed me a plane ticket and said to make something of myself.

  “Ee Sah…Esau…Easy…. Oh, forget it!” I tripped and muttered a bad word, catching myself against the wall with a sleek, polished arm unrecognizable as mine.

  On the tenth floor of the Han Incorporated headquarters, I had been entrusted to Miss Lee for a shower and personalized wash. She had scraped a netted green cloth across my skin, more painful than any loofah. In exchange for donating half my skin cells, my body shone.

  “Indi. Go,” came the greeting from Hyunkyung Han, crisp and clear.

  I backed up, wondering whether I should remove myself from her presence. I kept my eyes cast down, as Miss Cha had instructed. “On,” I mumbled, struggling to remember Miss Cha’s repetitions. “Onion hashoo.”

  “Annyong haseyo,” corrected the voice, silky and stern. Pointed tips of black Manolo Blahniks came into view, professional and alluring at the same time.

  “Onya,” I mumbled, as if I gargled with marbles. How had Miss Cha done it? That wasn’t right, either. The black-suited assistants tittered, holding up manicured hands to cover lipsticked mouths.

  “Unacceptable,” the voice pronounced, and I flushed. “If you haven’t learned properly, this is a waste of time.”

  What did she expect, anyway? Who speaks Korean in Spillville, Iowa? I had wanted to go to France, but Great-Aunt Matilda had bought the ticket. I hadn’t wanted to come here, but no one had the right to deem me unworthy at first sight. Wasn’t this discrimination?

  “I flew halfway around the world, and if you think you can shove me—”

  The polite titters changed to gasps. Fearful, as if retribution could strike at any moment. Miss Cha unleashed a torrent of apologetic Korean, but she stayed well behind me. Did she use me for her human shield? I closed my mouth, staring at the floor but breathing hard. Who did this Hyunkyung snob think she was, anyway? I didn’t need a job this badly.

  “Look at me,” the snob demanded instead of asking, and I debated pretending not to hear. She could speak to me with respect or not at all.

  Unwillingly, I raised my chin. I took my eyes away from the floor, and it was my turn to gasp. “I thought Koreans were short.”

  Not the best line to make a good first impression. But she was tall, taller than I had expected. At five-foot-six I was average height at home, but I had expected to be taller than most Koreans I would meet. Her long, lean frame rose at least a full inch above me. I shrank as her eyes pierced the cosmetics, borrowed dress, and jewelry Miss Cha had arranged over my body as if I were a store mannequin. I lifted my chest and adjusted the sheer bolero jacket. Its tiny cap sleeves made me look feminine, but the elastic ruffles got caught in my dress whenever I raised my arm. I felt like a schoolgirl presenting herself to the headmistress for inspection.

  She batted my hands away and pulled the seams of my jacket toward the front. I wobbled in sleek heels, the highest I’d ever worn. Greg didn’t like me in heels, no matter what they did to sculpt my calves and my butt. Greg. I tried so hard not to let my mind go there, but he refused to stay submerged. Whenever I least expected it, he popped into my thoughts.

  “Forget that boy,” Great-aunt Matilda had said, placing the envelope into my hand. “Go and make something of yourself.”

  How could I forget the last five years of my life? The marriage proposal that never came, the apartment I let him lease with my money, and my blue silky robe that he gave to Tiffany after impregnating her with the child he’d refused to give me.

  I forced my mind back to the present. Before me stood the most striking woman I had ever seen. Miss Cha, Miss Lee, and all of the other employees were well-dressed, well-coiffed, and impossibly dainty in their neat suits with a bow here or a ruffle there. This woman was another creature altogether.

  Glossy black hair fell in a shimmering waterfall, curving underneath toward her chin. A natural, pale line, neither straight nor crooked, parted the hair on the left side. The light danced on the surface that shone like obsidian. The strands looked soft enough to touch, to stroke, and hold next to my cheek. Unlike my mousy blonde-brown hair that never could decide its color, this woman’s locks called to me with their Siren song. I tugged at the ends of my pixie cut. No amount of professional hairstyling could make me look like that.

  I shook myself. So the rude woman had nice hair. So what? The same hairstylist had worked wonders with me, too, even if not to the same degree. I, at least, looked more like Jennifer Lawrence and less like Ellen DeGeneres.

  She reached toward me, and the white décolletage of her dress shifted to reveal a creamy, impossibly luscious shoulder. I swallowed. Every inch of her skin glowed with a radiance Miss Lee had failed to abrade out of my farmer-girl tan. The neat, trim black suit accentuated every curve and left little to the imagination. The woman was fully clothed, and yet her delicious figure begged to be noticed, touched, and savored. My gaze traveled upward to her piercing, dark eyes.

  She wasn’t older than I, according to Great-Aunt Matilda, but she carried herself like a princess. She rattled off a string of harsh, guttural sounds. I could almost see her scepter as her eyes clouded first in disbelief, then puzzlement, and finally anger when I remained silent.

  “You speak no Korean.”

  I did, technically. It wasn’t my fault she didn’t like the pronunciation. Could she stop beating up on my perceived flaws? My high school had offered two years of French, and I had been lucky to have that. After I graduated, the school board cut foreign l
anguages and music to make room for more standardized testing. Priorities, right?

  I couldn’t retort, “You speak no English,” because her American accent was flawless. Except for a slight lilt to her words and a soft coloring of her Rs, she spoke English better than I.

  I lifted my chin. “If you wanted a Korean speaker, you should have gotten a Korean. I’m American.”

  “An arrogant one.”

  The cheek! Who was arrogant here? Who’d flown halfway around the world and squeezed herself into borrowed clothes? Who was stumbling over ridiculous foreign sounds to make a good impression? Who dismissed her efforts with insults?

  She turned on her heel, beckoning to one of her assistants. “Hyojung-ssi, book Miss Indi Go on the next flight. Minhee-ssi, tell Madame Eve-nim to send another referral.”

  “Yes, Ee Sajangnim, but Madame Eve-nim said she chose Miss Indi Go especially for you.”

  Who was Madame Evening? The beautiful, hard woman in front of me fixed the speaker with a glare that withered away all sound except for a mumbled apology.

  “I am sorry, Ee Sajangnim. I will contact Madame Eve-nim.” Minhee-ssi scurried away.

  Hyojung-ssi scrolled frantically on her phone. “Ee Sajangnim, all of the flights for today are full. The soonest available is tomorrow afternoon at one.”

  I stared from right to left in growing fury. “I quit my job, moved out of my apartment, and flew through God knows how many layovers, and you’re dismissing me without an interview? This is discrimination! It’s un-American. It’s…it’s….” I stammered. “I’ll sue you!”

  The jet-black curtain of hair swirled in a filmy cloud that could have dissipated to reveal a genie rising from a bottle. Her chin set, she stared me down. My heart hammered, but I glared right back. This backward country was no France, and she was no sophisticated Frenchwoman with a right to sneer. She probably slept on the floor and ate dogs…or was it cats?