His by Contract

by Ava Sinclair

  “Spread your legs, Sloane. I’m going to sting that ass, not bruise it. No clenching.”

  I groan as I obey. I know the inside of my thighs are slick, and his next comment fills me with shame.

  “Little slut.” He brings his finger up through my slit. “Your body thinks it’s getting something it wants.”

  I don’t have time to ponder what he means. His arm goes around my waist, and he wrenches me toward his middle. Then he shifts, and in my peripheral vision I can see his hand raise a split second before it descends with a blistering crack of pain that drives me forward on his lap.

  I hear a wail and realize it’s mine. He’s right. It hurts. And I don’t like it. The hand that has brought me such expert pleasure is hurting me. He lands another hard spank, and I’m begging even though I know that this is just beginning, that the stinging heat suffusing my bottom is just beginning.

  I push against his leg, trying to work myself off his lap. He’s spanking me fast and hard. He won’t stop. The smacks resound around the room, thwacks of flesh against flesh. I look back, pleading, and he won’t even look at me. He’s staring at my bottom, aiming his smacks to parts he’s not reddened yet. His huge hand catches the lower portion of both cheeks in an uppercut blow. It hurts the worst. He does it again and again. My bottom is throbbing. I can’t get away. I’m bawling, tears running into my wailing mouth. I feel like a little child. My legs are kicking wildly. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I disobeyed. I try to promise never to do it again, but my words are blubbering nonsense.

  His large, heavy hand hurts as much as any paddle ever could. He’s directing the blows onto the crest of my bottom now. Three smacks on the left side, three on the right. Three on the left, three on the right. It’s a pattern that is increasingly painful with each repetition. He’s applying heat on heat, sting on sting. I can’t take any more. Why won’t he stop? Please stop! Please stop! Please stop! I silently beg him. I strain against his hold until I can’t strain anymore. He’s too strong. I go limp, kicking my feet weakly as the last five blows land on the tops of my thighs.

  I can’t believe how much it hurts. My bottom has a pulse, a painful, throbbing pulse. The pain is coupled with a strong desire to be comforted, to be absolved. When Mr. M. raises me to standing and guides me back to the corner, it feels like being abandoned and my wails become mournful, shameless sobs that I can’t control.

  He doesn’t turn the television on, at least. But I sense he’s left the room although I dare not turn and look. Rationally, I know that he doesn’t leave me standing that long, but it feels longer than the wait. And when his hand finally falls on my shoulder and he says, “Come here,” his voice is gentle again and I follow him back to the sofa like an obedient puppy. When Mr. M. sits down and opens his arms, I climb into them, not caring that the pressure contact with his lap is excruciating against puffy welts his long fingers left on my tender skin.

  “You h-h-hurt me,” I say brokenly.

  “Yes.” He puts his lips in my hair. “But it’s a hurt that will go away, pet. If you’d gone running today… if one of those monsters had grabbed you… the hurt he caused wouldn’t go away. And it would be a lot worse than this. It’s the difference between hurt and harm, Sloane.”

  I sniff. My breath is coming in slow hitches now, and I know he’s right. I should have listened. I promised I’d obey. I didn’t obey. I was corrected. At the tender age of thirty, I’ve just received my first real punishment, my first spanking. For years, I’d been meekly obedient to professors and employers because of my aversion to any kind of correction. In retrospect, it often left me resentful and frustrated. But Mr. M.’s hard, guiding hand proves that even painful consequences aren’t painful forever, and as I nuzzle into his neck, I realize that correction can even be cathartic.

  Mr. M. is right about something else, too. There is nothing sexual about a real punishment, although later, as I reflect on how helpless I was to his strength, on how he could do that any time he wanted at his discretion, I can’t deny the erotic component of this facet of our relationship.

  “I’ll never be bad again,” I say as he kisses the top of my hair. But even as I promise this, I know it isn’t true. I realize it’s okay to be bad occasionally. I am no longer afraid.

  Chapter Seven

  I used to like sleeping alone, but sometimes when our adventures exhaust the both of us, Mr. M. and I find ourselves sleeping together at my place or his. And no, neither of us read anything into it. There’s still no strings. But even so, sometimes when I roll over and reach for the smooth, hard shoulder, or seek the warmth of his chest and the embrace of his arms, it’s jarring to find a cool pillow instead.

  Travel is part of my job, and it’s nice to have some time apart, time to remind myself that I’m in this relationship by choice and not by chance. It’s nice to remind myself that should the worst happen and things end, I’ll still be able to take care of myself.

  But for now, I’m still his, and I bring those reminders with me.

  The suit I hang in the hotel room closet was picked and purchased by Mr. M. A black power suit, he says, is always a good choice when meeting a new client. The underthings, as always, were in a plain box; I’d find out what they were when I dressed in the morning. I hoped they’d be comfortable. This morning when I’d dressed, the underthings he’d chosen—a push-up bra and matching panty—were red satin and blessedly comfortable. There’s another package, too, a box labeled, ‘Open at nine p.m.’ That’s also the time he’s scheduled for us to FaceTime, so I’m intrigued.

  A new town means a new place to run. Today it’s the Chicago Lakefront Trail and I realize they don’t call it the Windy City for nothing. I’m running into the breeze, which is both frustrating and challenging. It’s early enough in the day that the trail is crowded, and Mr. M., who’s been to Chicago loads of times, has given me his blessing to take this route. The waters of Monroe Harbor are choppy, and the beaches are all but deserted. I pass other runners along the course, and we raise hands and share a wave and a smile in a show of camaraderie. Some of the joggers have dogs, and I contemplate for the tenth time whether I’d want to share my run with a four-legged companion. The obedient ones, like a blue-eyed husky keeping pace with his fit and handsome owner, make me want to go puppy shopping. But then I pass a lady with an American bulldog, and she’s all but tripping behind it as it lunges left and right trying to smell everything in its path. Maybe I’ll wait on the dog.

  In the shadows of the buildings along Lake Shore drive, the temperature drops a little, but so does the wind, and I check my watch, frown to see that I’m off my time, and increase my pace for the last quarter mile. I arrive seventeen seconds off my regular time, and try not to feel like a complete failure. I can almost hear Mr. M.’s voice, chiding me not to be so hard on myself. And I know I shouldn’t be. I know I need to stop pushing myself.

  It’s my first solo appointment since making partner, and I’m in town to sell our firm’s services to Blake Thornton, who’s looking to franchise a chain of men’s clothing stores along the east coast. I’m scheduled to meet with him and his partner the next day, so I’m surprised when he rings me to ask if I’d like to meet for dinner.

  I don’t say no. While he may have inherited his wealth, Mr. M. admires my drive and ambition, and has told me up front that he realizes he must share me, professionally speaking. Like my running, my business life remains off limits—a decision that was as much his as mine. And Mr. M. has every reason to be secure. There’s not another man who could turn my head, and I have no problem telling him about my dinner date with a client when he calls to see if I made it to the hotel okay. And he doesn’t tell me what to wear, although I’d have obeyed if he did. We chat for a moment about our respective days, but it’s a short chat because Blake Thornton is sending a car for me, and I need to get ready.

  I choose a simple blue dress with a slightly flared skirt and kitten heels. I wore my hair up at work, and debate doing that now, but instead
just brush it out and let it hang to my shoulders in a straight blonde wave. I step back from the mirror, assessing my reflection. Dressing for a casual dinner with a business acquaintance is always a source of stress for me. I never want to look sexy, but Mr. M. says it’s impossible for a woman like me not to look sexy. And I have to agree. The dress hugs my curves, and with the color in my face still high from my run, I don’t need makeup beyond a little lip gloss. Casual chic.

  The car arrives to fetch me at six, and the driver takes me to Oceanique, a well-known—and expensive—Chicago restaurant. I give Thornton’s name to the hostess when I arrive, and am seated at a table for two. Thornton hasn’t arrived yet, so I asked the waiter for a soda water.

  “Soda water? Wouldn’t you rather have a cocktail?”

  I turned at the sound of a deep voice. The man approaching the table is tall and wears a bespoke suit and glasses. I find myself momentarily speechless, not because I am shy, but because I never thought I’d meet a man as handsome as Mr. M. But Blake Thornton, with his sexy professor good looks and tailored suit is every bit as gorgeous as the man who picks out my underwear.

  But Business Sloane always plays it cool, so I accept his handshake when he says, “Blake Thornton. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Millbank.”

  “Likewise,” I reply.

  He sits down, smoothing his tie. “Martini?”

  “Sure,” I say, and he orders two.

  “I appreciate your flying out to Chicago on such short notice,” he tells me. “I started Thornton’s Clothiers right out of design school. I never expected it to do as well as it did. But its success along with some very profitable investments have me ready to expand. And I want the best legal minds to handle it, and your firm—and you specifically—come highly recommended.”

  This piques my curiosity. “Thank you, Mr. Thornton…”

  “Blake,” he corrects me as the cocktails are put in front of us. We fall silent as the waiter lays out two menus and announced he’ll return shortly.

  “Thank you, Blake,” I said. “I’m always intrigued by how people learn about our firm. Do you mind my asking who referred you?”

  “I’d rather not say,” he demurs with a sly smile. “You know how these well-heeled types are; they don’t like the appearance of playing favorites.”

  “Ah,” I say, dropping the subject. I look down at the menu. “Do you recommend anything?” I ask.

  “The rainbow trout caviar to start,” he says. “And the Maine lobster here can’t be beat.”

  I end up having the swordfish with parsnips and lemongrass, not because I don’t appreciate his recommendation, but because Mr. M. and I had just eaten lobster the night before. But the swordfish is excellent nonetheless, and as we dine, Blake Thornton tells me all about growing up as the son of a tailor, double majoring in design and business and a few stories of two semesters he spent in Paris in the company of his best friend, who was nicknamed Shady. He’s a fascinating conversationalist, and although his background is different from Mr. M.’s, there is something similar about them. Blake Thornton exudes the same air of self-possessed authority, and when he smiles, I felt myself blushing. That makes me uncomfortable, but when I try to turn the conversation to cut-and-dried business, he isn’t having it.

  “Oh, no,” he says. “Tomorrow is the business meeting. I like to know who I’m working with. So, tell me about yourself, Sloane.”

  He hadn’t asked permission to use my first name.

  This is business, I tell myself, and give him the cursory overview of growing up in Minnesota, the only child of parents who pushed me to excel. I make them sound better than they ever were, and go on to emphasize my academic career and early work with a law firm that won me the distinction of being named one of the nation’s top lawyers under thirty.

  “I’m not surprised the firm snatched you up, or that you got promoted.” His gaze moves to my hand. “No husband or wife to share your success?”

  I like that he didn’t assume I’m straight, and aside from Mr. M., he’s the first person who didn’t assume my orientation.

  “My private life is just that,” I say, and hold my breath, praying that he won’t pry. I do not like sharing personal information about myself with someone I barely know. The only thing I like less? Sharing someone else’s. But he blessedly moves on to other topics, mostly about the business climate in Chicago, and the violence. This is a more comfortable topic, oddly enough. I’m a news junkie and for the next hour we discuss current events until the waiter returns with the most decadent caramel-chocolate pots de crème I’ve ever had. It’s the kind of dessert Mr. M. would have ordered, and I shift in my chair. The man across from me is watching me eat, his gaze bold, and I can feel my body responding to the attention of this gorgeous man and I feel guilty, even as my panties become soaked.

  “Would you consider it unprofessional if I observe that your boyfriend, if you have one, is a lucky man,” he says.

  I look him in the eye. “An observation is fine,” I say. “But if you’re flirting, then yes, I’d say it’s a bit unprofessional.” I put my spoon down and dab at the corner of my mouth with my napkin. “I’m not the cheating kind,” I say.

  “And if he were the sharing kind?” Blake Thornton winks at me. It’s a playful wink, and I wonder what he’d say if I told him that sharing me with another man or woman is Mr. M.’s privilege. It’s not something that’s happened yet, but another thing I’ve agreed to, another experience to look forward to.

  The waiter comes over with a small leather check presenter. Blake Thornton doesn’t even glance at the bill as he slides his Platinum Visa into the holder.

  “I look forward to our meeting tomorrow,” he says once the bill is paid. He stands, offering me his arm. I take it and he cordially escorts me to the car, which takes me back to my hotel room.

  There’s an accident ahead of us, and our car waits in traffic. I glance at my watch and am tempted to avail myself of the mini bar. It’s getting close to nine, and I’m worried that I’ll miss my FaceTime date with Mr. M. There’s another delay in the hotel when I realize that I left my room’s pass card behind when I changed purses before dinner. I head back down to the lobby and impatiently wait behind a couple disputing a room charge until another clerk notices me waiting and ushers me over. I get the replacement card and head up after a wait for the elevator. There are several conferences in town and I’ve arrived amid a flood of late check-ins. When an elevator finally opens, I squeeze in among a group of jovial Indian doctors who already seem to be engaged in some sort of animated debate.

  It’s 8:54 by the time I enter my room. I move a small tray table to the foot of the bed as Mr. M. has instructed me to do and place my laptop on it. Then I strip down to my underwear and climb on the bed. The package I’m to open sits on the bedside table. I lean forward, logging into FaceTime. It connects at 8:59. I’ve made it.

  Mr. M’s face fills the screen. He’s sitting in the home office, and I can see the wall behind him with the framed degrees he’s earned interspersed with accolades for his charitable donations. He smiles at me. “Right on time,” he says. At the top of the screen, the time clicks over to nine p.m. exactly.

  “I’d have been earlier, but traffic was heavy on the way back from dinner,” I say.

  “What’s Blake Thornton like?” he asks.

  I lean back, resting my bottom on my heels and my hands on the front of my thighs. He’s gorgeous, is the honest answer. But I just shrug and tell Mr. M. that Thornton is polite and that I think the meeting with him and his associates tomorrow will go well.

  “That’s good,” he says, leaning back in his chair. He smiles broadly and wolfishly. “Now spread those legs.”

  I raise myself up, preparing to lower my panties, but he stops me. “No. Don’t take your panties off, Sloane. Not yet.”

  There’s a lump in my throat, and I realize I don’t want to do it like this. On the way back to the hotel, in the cab, I’d been reflecting on my co
nversation with Blake Thornton. Not just the conversation, but on how he spoke, how he looked while we were talking. And I could feel myself getting aroused at the memory. And that’s normal, right? I mean, men get a hard-on looking at pretty girls. I’m sure Mr. M. does, and I’d not fault him for it. So why am I so reluctant to do as he says? Why am I so reluctant to spread my legs wide so he can see the splotch of moisture yet to dry on the panel of my skimpy underwear?

  “Sloane, I don’t have all night.”

  I lower myself to sitting.

  “Move closer to the foot of the bed,” he says, and I imagine what he’s seeing as I obey, my full torso, then just my belly button, inner thighs, and my pussy covered with a triangle of wet red fabric.

  “Somebody’s already wet,” he says. His tone is so low that I can barely hear it. I glance between my spread legs. My lurid image is confined to a small rectangle in the upper right hand corner, inset in the larger image of my dominant’s face. He’s staring and I am overcome with a full body flush. “So,” he says. “What was he really like?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask nervously.

  He leans back in his chair. I can hear it squeak. I don’t move because I’ve not been given permission to move.

  “Mr. Thornton. How would you describe him?”

  I scramble for words. “Businesslike. Um… clean cut…”

  “Handsome?” he asks. “Was he dashing? Good looking? Sexy?”

  I’m glad he’s looking at my pussy instead of my face. “You know. He’s a guy.”

  “Just a guy? That’s a really wet pussy. It takes more than ‘just a guy’ to get you that wet at a dinner date.”

  Now I’m mad. What the hell is he accusing me of? I break position and move up to the computer, tilting the screen until he’s looking at my face.