Body Politics

by Cara Bristol

  With her eyes she shot another plea, but she wiggled out of a lacy black thong. She sank onto the pillow and rested her torso on the mattress. He lifted the skirt of her dress, then opened the tube of lube and squirted a dollop on his finger. “Spread your cheeks,” he ordered in a quiet voice. It was important she participate in her discipline to emphasize it was consensual.

  “Mark…”

  He waited.

  She separated her rounded globes to reveal the tight, puckered ring. “This is so embarrassing.”

  Within him desire kindled, stirred by her trust, the awareness that where her body went, her heart would follow. With his finger he worked the thick gel into her snug passage, tightened by tension, then smeared the lubricant on the metal plug.

  “If you bear down as I insert it, it will go easier. Relax as much as you can. It will feel cold at first.”

  She jerked when the metal met her entrance. He applied gentle but increasing pressure, overcoming resistance with insistence, until her muscles surrendered and accepted an inch of penetration. She released her cheeks and grabbed for the bedclothes. He paused to permit her body to adjust to the intrusion, then pushed the plug in deeper. When the widest part stretched her sphincter, she mewled and twisted the bedspread in her fists. He seated it, and her sphincter closed around the thin neck, leaving only the flange visible.

  “Don’t move.” He strode into the bathroom, washed, and returned to the bedroom to wipe the excess lube from her skin. He lowered her skirt, assisted her to her feet, then helped her on with the scrap of nothing that served as underwear.

  Consternation and confusion rioted across her face. He hugged her and kissed her ear. “I know all this is new to you, and I recognize the courage it requires for you to submit. Even when I must discipline you, your surrender pleases me.”

  Chapter Ten

  Gingerly Stephanie leaned over to examine a tall vase thrown and fired by the artist. “That’s beautiful,” she said, feeling as fragile as the ceramic urn. If she moved too quickly, she’d shatter into hundreds of pieces.

  “Do you want it?” Mark asked. “Bid on it.”

  “I think I will. We’re number one…?”

  “One hundred seventy-five.” He held up the bid paddle he’d tucked under his arm.

  As the silent auctions used bid sheets instead of callers, paddles weren’t necessary, but bidders received the functional implements in appreciation of their support. The vase already had several bids, and she upped it by fifty dollars and scribbled their number.

  As Mark had feared, they’d arrived late, and several of the earlier auctions had already ended. Fortunately Liz and Otis had reserved seats for them at their table, although they had yet to see them. The crowd was thick; one could hardly get close to some of the items. The din of multiple ongoing conversations filled the room.

  Keeping her spine straight, she eased one foot in front of the other to the next item. Mark cupped her elbow. Since they’d arrived, he’d maintained contact in a myriad of small ways: a light touch against her back, a brush against her shoulder, an arm around her waist. Senses on high alert, she registered each one acutely.

  He guided her close. “How are you doing?” His low voice was both solicitous and commanding, and she couldn’t pretend to misunderstand. Her body tightened around the invasive metal.

  Politely she smiled to a couple who squeezed by them. “Good evening.” She nodded. To Mark she said, “I’m doing…fine.”

  If one defined fine as totally unsettled. The plug shouted its presence with every step, every turn, every twist. She found herself contracting and releasing, as if practicing anal toning exercises. She wanted to expel the unyielding object, and yet she clutched it like a secret treasure.

  Her acceptance disconcerted her far more than the foreign invasion. The moment he’d inserted the plug, she had relaxed. Not her muscles—those had remained fully tense, contributing to the pain of penetration—but her core essence had lowered its shields, thrown down its weapons, and surrendered.

  As naturally as she breathed, she’d submitted. As she’d lain on the bed, her ass and sex exposed, allowing him to impose his will, instead of humiliation or outrage, she’d felt connected, bonded, as if she belonged to him. In a world where uncertainty ruled, she found security in Mark’s possession. He would protect her. It was a curiously heady feeling. She hadn’t realized how much she’d carried her philosophical beliefs and dogma into her personal life until now. Mark had shown her that, and to some degree, so had Bethany. All work and very little play. How burdensome it had been to continually feel she had to prove how tough she was. What a relief to let it all go and relax into Mark’s control. For the first time that she could remember, she was free to just be. If that wasn’t liberation, she didn’t know what was.

  She hadn’t needed to spend so much time on the phone with Bethany. But she was used to talking shop with her and hadn’t paid attention to the time. Mark’s irritation had been justified. But punishment?

  Surprisingly that seemed justified too.

  The object had no give, its weight and rigidity a continual reminder of his domination, her submission, of what they might have together. Her body hummed with awareness of the new paradigm, every nerve aroused with longing to surrender further.

  I’m falling in love with him. No, not falling. Had fallen.

  She glanced at him, and the desire and tenderness in his dark eyes had her heart and ass contracting in sync. Please be more than lust. She tore her gaze away and scanned the perimeter of the room, where the auction items were on display.

  A poster of little girls wearing tiaras and cotton-candy dresses caught her gaze. “Aw, how sweet.” She touched Mark’s arm and couldn’t help but curl her fingers around his bicep. “It’s a princess party.” As a child she had enjoyed playing dress-up before she’d gotten her growth spurt and everyone had assumed she was much older than she was.

  “Do you want children?”

  A vision of a small replica of Mark charged through an imaginary house littered with dirty sneakers and boy toys. A home filled with laughter, the blaring of TV ball games, and the frenzied barking of a shaggy dog that drooled all over the floor. She thought about baking cupcakes, driving carpool to soccer games, and picking Spider-Man jockey shorts off the floor. She wanted it all, but she and Mark hadn’t talked future yet. They’d known each other only a month. “Yes,” she said. “How about you?”

  He nodded. “Yes.” He eyed the pink display. “I see giggling little girls having tea parties in their playhouse. Little girls with bright red pigtails and frilly pink dresses.”

  Red pigtails. She resisted the urge to touch her hair. “Girls?” she asked nonchalantly. “How many are you talking?”

  He shrugged. “Four maybe.”

  “Four?”

  “It’s negotiable.”

  “I would hope so. I was thinking two. Maybe a boy and girl.” She imagined carrying his baby, and Mark rubbing her feet, running to the store in the middle of the night to satisfy her food cravings, attending her birthing classes and doctor’s appointments, then rising with her to care for the baby, changing diapers, bouncing their son on his knee. He would be a very involved parent. A loving dad. A strict father. One who spanked his children when they misbehaved.

  And his wife. She clenched around the plug, so solid, so insistent. Like the man who’d put it there. Could she cope with a domestic discipline marriage and all it would entail? She was still a feminist. She still believed women deserved to have a choice and not have one imposed upon them. But Mark hadn’t imposed anything she hadn’t agreed to. If domestic discipline gave her the sense of security and protection she felt tonight, she’d run toward it with open arms. But wasn’t she getting ahead of herself? It was too soon to think about a marriage and babies. Wasn’t it?

  Red pigtails.

  Her heart hammered, and she veered away from the topic altogether. “A lot of vacations are up for auction.” She gestured to colorful
posters presenting weekend getaways, ski trips, short cruises, and a trip to Hawaii. “Here’s one for a weekend at a bed-and-breakfast in Carmel.” The beachside community in Northern California had some of the most beautiful coastline in the state. “Enjoy a romantic getaway for two in this quaint B&B located on one of the most stunning beaches in all of Carmel. Your four-day, three-night stay will include breakfast every morning, a fabulous dinner at a different local restaurant every night, and a relaxing couple’s massage,” she read off the item description. “The day we drove up the coast was wonderful,” she said.

  “It was.” His gaze sizzled with heat.

  Her pussy signaled with a pulse that it remembered too. She’d been so sore afterward, but it had been worth it.

  “Would you like to do something like this?” Mark motioned toward the poster.

  “I’d love to, but the bidding is already up to $1,500.”

  He jotted down their number and a bid on the sheet.

  Stephanie peered at it. “Mark! You wrote down $2,500.” She gaped.

  “That’s to deter anyone from outbidding me. You like it, I want to give it to you, and the money’s for a good cause.” He paused. “I still wish you could accept the donation.”

  “I wish I could too, but I can’t.” She’d have to be vigilant and snag it before Evelyn spotted it and opened the envelope.

  Another couple approached and glanced at the bid. The man whistled. “Too rich for my blood.” The couple moved on.

  Mark grinned.

  Stephanie lightly punched his arm. “You’re so proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

  His twinkle vanished. “I’m proud of you. You’re beautiful, strong, and sexy, and your receptivity means a lot to me.” He glanced at the bid sheet, then moved them off to the side.

  “The travel posters reminded me that next weekend I have a criminal justice administration conference in Kansas City. I’m filling in last minute for the chief. It runs Friday through Tuesday.”

  “Oh.” Her stomach fell. She wouldn’t see him for five whole days.

  “I’d like you to come with me. I’ll be tied up during the day, but we’d have the evenings.”

  “I wish I could.” She shook her head. “But I have a board meeting Friday night and my monthly meeting with staff and all our contract and volunteer trainers and counselors on Monday morning.”

  “So come for Saturday and Sunday. I’ll get you a ticket.”

  It would be rushed, but she’d have time on the plane to get work done. More important, she’d get to see Mark. “All right. It’s a plan.”

  “There you are!” Elizabeth’s voice broke through the din, and she appeared with Otis and an elderly lady who wore a pink suit, black walking shoes, and a lavender pillbox hat trimmed by a band of feathers. Piercing eyes peered out from a wrinkled face.

  “I was starting to think you weren’t going to show,” Elizabeth said. She was attired in a halter pants suit with a lace overlay jacket. Otis wore a brown suit and dark green tie.

  “We ran a little late,” Mark said. He and Otis thumped each other on the back.

  “Have you met my mother-in-law, Mrs. Lillian Davenport?” Elizabeth asked. “Mother, this is Mark DeLuca and Stephanie Gordon.”

  “A pleasure to you, Mrs. Davenport,” Mark said.

  “Pleased to meet you.” Stephanie shook the gnarled, age-spotted hand and discovered the woman had a surprisingly strong grip. She straightened, ever conscious of the plug.

  “You’re one of those modern Cosmo girls, aren’t you? In my day a woman was proud to bear her husband’s name.” A sharp gaze fixed on her face.

  “Uh—”

  Before she could fashion a response, Otis cut in. “Mother, Mark and Stephanie aren’t married.”

  Mrs. Davenport shook her head. “Bad move, girl. He isn’t going to buy the cow if he can get the milk for free.”

  “Enough, Mother,” Otis commanded quietly.

  Stephanie peeked at Mark. The corner of his mouth twitched. He found it amusing, damn him. “I’m courting her, Mrs. Davenport,” he said.

  She thought of his gentlemanly manners, the way he planned their dates, paid for them, attended to her care and comfort every moment they spent together. Theirs was a romantic, old-fashioned courtship—if she discounted the toe-curling sex, the spanking, and the modern, stainless-steel plug wedged up her ass.

  “Well, don’t wait too long to make an honest woman of her,” the old woman responded. “She looks like she’d make a good wife. She has good hips and a good posture. You can tell a lot about girl by how straight her backbone is.”

  Stephanie almost choked. She didn’t dare glance at Mark.

  Mrs. Davenport turned to her son. “Why don’t you get me a drink? One of those Shirley Temple things?”

  Otis hesitated.

  “It’s all right,” Stephanie said.

  “Are you sure?”

  She nodded.

  He raised his eyebrows at Elizabeth.

  “I’m fine.”

  Otis started off.

  “And have them put some vodka in that Shirley Temple,” Mrs. Davenport called.

  Elizabeth flashed a sympathetic smile in Stephanie’s direction, and Stephanie sent one back. She could only imagine what it would be like to have Mrs. Davenport as a mother-in-law. Her presence at Rod and Cane indicated she’d been a spanked wife, but the old lady was still filled with piss and vinegar. Wow. Imagine her before she’d been disciplined.

  “Have you and Otis bid on anything?” Stephanie asked to start the conversation.

  “One of our favorite restaurants donated a dinner for two once a month for a year, and we put a bid on it,” Elizabeth answered.

  “That takes care of dinner one night a month.”

  “Exactly.”

  Stephanie glanced around and nodded approvingly. “This is a nice event.”

  “It’s the fourth annual. The Wives Auxiliary does a good job.” She gestured toward her mother-in-law. “Mother was one of the Auxiliary’s founding members.”

  “You were? That’s a quite an achievement,” Stephanie said.

  “I didn’t know that either,” Mark said. “That is an accomplishment.”

  “Five of us started it, and the first year we had twenty ladies join,” Mrs. Davenport said. “We met for tea every Wednesday afternoon. We weren’t as open then, but we all knew we shared one thing in common, and I don’t mean our love of chamomile and ladyfingers.”

  Stephanie’s face warmed. A lack of openness wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

  “This is your second visit to the mansion, isn’t it?” Elizabeth asked, then focused on Mark. “Have you given her the tour?”

  “She’s seen only the front part of the building.”

  The elderly lady peered up at Mark. “She should have a tour. Let her know what she’s getting into by marrying into Rod and Cane.”

  “Mother, they just met,” Elizabeth said.

  “I would like a tour,” Stephanie said quickly. Otis’s mother saw too much, knew too much. Stephanie had hardly come to grips with being spanked and didn’t think everyone needed to know about it.

  “Why don’t you show Stephanie around, and we’ll meet you at the table for dinner?” Elizabeth said.

  “Sounds like I have my marching orders,” Mark said and tucked her arm into the crook of his elbow.

  MARK STEERED STEPHANIE out of the auction. The double doors clicked shut, leaving them alone in the corridor. His gaze skidded to hers, and they burst into laughter. Her body shook, her girlish peals punctuated by pleas to “stop, please,” and he suspected the plug was making its presence known.

  The effects of his improvisation had exceeded his expectations.

  She’d revealed her discomfort in her rigid posture, her ginger movements. More striking, however, was her overall submission evidenced by her uncomplaining acceptance, the way she clung to his arm, the beseeching softness in her gaze when she thought he wasn’t looking. Her chee
ks glowed as rosy as her ass was going to be.

  He hungered for her with a depth he couldn’t begin to fill, but after his stink about tardiness, he couldn’t rush her home. Furthermore, he had to follow through with the spanking. If he allowed her to seduce her way out of punishment, it would undermine his authority.

  He laced his fingers through her slender, feminine ones. “Come on. I’ll give you the fifty-cent tour.”

  He escorted her to the library, where she perused the titles, seeming to focus on the collection of spanking romances, and pointed out the various meetings rooms, then showed her the men’s parlor, a masculine enclave of patinated leather, old wood, and aromatic cigar. Her eyes went wide at the photographs on the wall, a modern erotic gallery of spanked women.

  “So this is where the men hang out.”

  “This is one of the places,” he said.

  “Do you?”

  “Some men use the mansion as a kind of gentlemen’s club, but I don’t, although I’ve smoked a cigar or two in here.”

  Next he let her peek into the governance chamber, a basic conference room where the business of the organization was conducted. She eyed the drape covering one interior wall.

  “What’s the curtain for?”

  “Privacy.”

  “Privacy?” She arched her eyebrows in curiosity.

  “The curtain covers a two-way mirror. The room on the other side is the disciplinary chamber.”

  “The what?”

  “The disciplinary chamber.”

  “Is that what I think it is?”

  “I don’t know. What do you think it is?”

  “A place where women are punished.”

  “That’s pretty close,” he said. “But it’s not used much anymore. It was originally built for official reprimands in the event an Auxiliary member committed an offense against the organization.”

  Stephanie recoiled. “The Society spanks its women members?”

  “As a matter of practice, no, although the bylaws still permit it. If a wife commits an infraction against the Society, her husband will discipline her at home. But we do have some single female members, mostly adult daughters and nieces of members. We did have a female member physically censured recently.”