One In A Million

by Coleen Singer

  They got into the subject of families. Tom had no surprises or deep-seated emotional hang-ups about his childhood, or adulthood for that matter. His wife had never shared his needs, although he’d spanked her a number of times during their brief marriage for various misdemeanours, he said. They had married young and parted after only four years. They had two beautiful daughters—Kate, twenty-four and Lucy, twenty-two. Both now married. He rarely saw his ex-wife, but when they met on family occasions, they got on well enough. Too much water had passed under the bridge to harbour any grudges. He hadn’t married again, but he too had had a number of lacklustre relationships that were, he admitted, doomed to failure.

  Phoebe told him that she’d lost her only brother in a car crash when he was just eighteen, she, fourteen. She fought back tears as she recounted what happened when the police took her parents to identify Ray’s body. She’d jumped out of the police car before her mother could stop her, and run after her father as he walked into the morgue. When she stepped inside, the coroner had just pulled the sheet from Ray’s face. Her father had nodded sharply, then leant down and kissed his forehead. Phoebe wanted to kiss him goodbye too. Ray’s gentle face had been so pale and so cold against her lips.

  Phoebe noticed that Tom’s eyes were also filling as she told her story, but he kept the tears at bay.

  Ray’s death had had a profound impact on the relationship between her and her father. It seemed that it was only then that he really noticed her existence. He became overly strict and protective—smothered her almost—and she couldn’t stand it. She’d resented it, actually. She’d felt that the seemingly harsh love he bestowed was upon an unworthy substitute for the son he’d lost, rather than for the daughter he still had. As she’d grown older and wiser, she came to understand her father’s actions and didn’t blame him the way she used to. But they still didn’t see eye to eye and she confessed—somewhat guiltily—that she was glad her parents now lived in New Zealand. It meant she could regulate her time with Dad and enjoy it, rather than suffer the tedious daughterly duties that close proximity incurred. The pity was that she absolutely adored her mother and missed their long conversations and laughter terribly.

  She had run away from home at the tender age of sixteen, due to the antagonism between her and her father. And apart from a few lean times when she didn’t have any choice, she’d never really gone back. She’d gained independence at a very early age, and learned some pretty rough lessons the hard way. She was stronger and better for it, though.

  “Did your father spank you?” Tom asked, conversationally.

  “No! Never!” Phoebe snapped. She was shocked by the question, but more by the fact that it did shock her. Why should it?

  Tom held up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, don’t bite. I was only asking.” He rested his chin on his knuckles and studied her thoughtfully. Phoebe began to feel uncomfortable for the first time that evening.

  “Why does that question frighten you so badly?” he asked, fixing her with a steady gaze.

  “It doesn’t frighten me!” she said a little too quickly. “It’s just that ... well, I don’t know ... I never have thought about it.” That was true enough.

  “Do you think that your ... desires have developed because your father never spanked you as a child?”

  God! He was relentless once he got his teeth into something. “No, not at all.” She shook her head and frowned. “I don’t see how it has anything to do with it. Did your father?” Yes! That was a good response. Put the ball in his court for a time.

  “Spank? No. He used his belt on me few times, though. But I bloody well deserved it, as I remember.” He sat back and studied her from a distance. “Do you think you were a good child? I mean, were you obedient and compliant? Did as you were told, when you were told?”

  Phoebe had to laugh at that. God! No. She was a horrible little brat, probably because she didn’t get that much attention.

  “I’d be a bloody liar if I said I was. No. I was absolutely vile. I was constantly getting into trouble at school. Couldn’t keep my big mouth shut.”

  Tom grinned. “Speaks volumes, that, doesn’t it? You obviously haven’t changed much.”

  Phoebe grinned sheepishly. “Well, I guess you’ll be tempering that side of my nature.”

  He laughed. “And how, baby!”

  Then, in what seemed like the blinking of an eye—for them both—dinner was over. They’d drunk at least a pot of coffee each and Phoebe had consumed most of the Champagne. It was time to leave. Phoebe felt more than a little tipsy, and it made she was bold. Too bold. In the past, she’d always held the upper hand. The combination of her looks and sexual power usually had expectant lovers panting for her attention. Tom was different. But the over-consumption of good wine persuaded her to foolishly disregard that fact.

  Leaning provocatively across the table, she locked eyes with him. The predatory expression on her face was blatant. “Take me home, Tom. I’m going to fuck you six ways to heaven,” she murmured seductively.

  His face suddenly turned dark with anger and his eyes were icy. Phoebe recoiled, stunned by his reaction.

  “No, Phoebe. You’re not. And if you ever say something like that to me again, I’ll blister your backside for you, and I won’t care if there’s a hundred people around to witness it!”

  Phoebe gulped, humiliated as he tore into her.

  “If I decide to make love to you, then that is what I shall do. Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear to you last night, so I’ll say it again—for the last time. I am in charge here, Phoebe. And you will come to accept it and embrace it, in time.” He shook his head slowly and leant back, beating her with that hard glare. “You’ve a lot to learn, young lady. And the lessons are going to get harder and harder if you continue to fight me on this. Do you understand?”

  Phoebe nodded, but her pride was stinging from the verbal slap he’d just dealt. She fought to keep her lower lip from protruding in its inimitable fashion, but failed, miserably. A sharp retort exited her mouth before her brain could prevent it.

  “Well, you sure as hell aren’t going to be making love to me tonight! Unless of course, you consider rape acceptable behaviour?”

  He tilted his head and glowered at her, his cheeks flushing red with rage. Phoebe would have cut her own tongue out at that moment if she could. That was a dreadful thing to say to a man who’d just demonstrated more kindness, love and understanding in one evening than all the men she’d ever known combined. Her stupid, stupid mouth! She cast her eyes down from his terrible glare and shook her head apologetically.

  “I— I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that. I know you’d never ... oh, Christ, forgive me, please. I’m a mouthy bitch.” She ventured another glimpse at his expression.

  He’d calmed a little, but the lingering frostiness in his eyes told her that this wasn’t over. She’d be doing a lot more apologising before the night was out. Quite suddenly, the golden vignette she’d created around last night’s experience— she couldn’t even think the bloody word now—vanished, leaving a bleak, unpleasant memory of pain, humiliation and fear. The warm glow in her bottom began to itch and annoy her as the thought struck that she might well be in for another dose of Tom’s particular brand of correction. And yet, damn it all, the thought sent an incongruous shiver up her spine, too!

  His voice resumed that all too familiar coldness. “Wait here while I deal with the check.” He stood and walked over to the bar.

  Phoebe waited until he was talking with the waiter before daring to look up. Slowly, she raised her eyes and peeked at him. He turned and looked at her, almost as though he’d felt her eyes upon him. His expression was dangerously devoid of compassion or forgiveness. She quickly looked away.

  “Damn!” she muttered under her breath, realising that the night of passion she’d been hoping for all evening was definitely not in the cards. He was furious—rightly so. The more she thought about it, the worse she felt. Accusing him of being ca
pable of rape, for God’s sake! How could she have said something like that? How bloody insulting could she get? If he’d said something even bordering on that level of offence, she’d have slapped his face and walked out! Her crimes of the previous evening paled by comparison. They weren’t entirely her fault. Circumstance and fate had some small part to play. But this? This was an unconscionable act of blatant rudeness and she deserved everything she was going to get!

  ‘But,” the little devil in her said, “Maybe you can talk your way out of this! Maybe if you’re really apologetic, show him you’re mortified by what you said, then he might come around and let you off. After all, two hidings in a row? And you only met him last night. Surely he can’t be that hard on you?”

  “Are you ready?” His tone was cold, even ominous.

  Phoebe flinched. She hadn’t noticed his approach, as she’d been plotting so furiously. She nodded and stood, suddenly feeling very weak and vulnerable in the shadow of this huge man. He stood aside and waved her ahead of him. Phoebe managed a feeble smile of thanks to the waiter holding the door for her, then strolled—as nonchalantly as she could—outside.

  * * *

  The journey home was the time to begin her apologies. If she waited until he had her in his grasp it would be too late. She had forty minutes to work her magic.

  “Thank you for a wonderful evening. It’s been a real treat,” she said warmly.

  “You’re welcome,” he replied evenly.

  Phoebe swallowed hard. “Look, Tom. I can’t apologise enough for the dreadful things I said. I drank too much ... and ... well, it was unforgivable. You know I didn’t mean it, don’t you?”

  “Mm Hmmm.”

  Not terribly convincing, Phoebe thought. She’d have to work much harder. “I warned you I had a motor mouth. I engage tongue before brain. I always have and I sometimes hate myself for it. Tonight particularly. You’ve been so kind and sensitive and ... and just wonderful. And my approach was vulgar, and I’m sorry for that, too. I deserve to be‑“ She swallowed hard and lowered her voice a tad, “punished, just for that. You’re right.”

  Well done! She congratulated herself silently. She’d shown contrition and acceptance. He’d appreciate that. She went on—she was on a roll now.

  “But, it’s just that, well, after the suggestions you made to me earlier, I ...I,” She felt herself blushing. “I was so looking forward to you making love to me, and‑“

  “Stop right there, young lady!” he snapped, then sighed incredulously. “You don’t even realise you’re doing it, do you?”

  “What? I don’t understand‑“

  “Conniving. You’re trying to talk me out of spanking you again, when you know full well that you’ve earned it.”

  Phoebe drew a breath to respond, but he cut her off before she could speak. “Don’t say another word, Phoebe, you’ll only infuriate me further. Just listen, for once in your life.” He didn’t take his eyes off the road for a second as he spoke. “Yes, you do engage mouth before brain. And it’s the most self-destructive thing about you. I wonder how many times you’ve alienated people with that loose tongue of yours, hmmm? Hundreds probably. You are the classic example of the child who was spoiled by sparing the rod! If your father had tanned your backside for you a few times, you might have learned a little self-discipline. But you’ve grown wild and out of control, so much so that it is beyond your capabilities to keep yourself in check. That’s why you sought me out, Phoebe. Because you do hate yourself for the way you’ve become. And even though you know all this deep inside, the spoiled brat in there insists on dragging you down. Well, not for much longer, Phoebe. I will see to that.” His lips smacked shut with a dreadful finality.

  Phoebe’s breath came in short, panicked bursts. She’d lost control of the situation. He wasn’t having any of it! She’d pushed for an angry reaction all her life, thinking she’d enjoy it, but now that she’d gotten that response—for the second time in twenty-four hours—she didn’t like it at all! She felt small and silly and ... and childish. Hot, angry tears spilled from her eyes and she fought back the heaving insistence from her chest to sob out loud. And the fact he was always so right about her exacerbated the humiliation one hundredfold. She was never going to pull the wool over this man’s eyes. And to make it even worse, she realised she didn’t want to be able to. She’d met her match. No, not her match, her maker!

  “Stop crying, Phoebe. Waterworks will have no effect,” he said flatly.

  And then they pulled up outside her house.

  For just a second, Phoebe contemplated running inside and slamming the door in his face, but she knew she’d never make it, even if she really wanted to. They exited the car together and he walked round alongside her. She ambled along with her head down, dawdling, putting off the dreadful moment as long as possible.

  Tom swatted her tail, hard. “Move!” he bellowed.

  Phoebe yelped and shifted up a gear.

  Once indoors, she headed for the sitting room—no high-backed chairs in there. Tom grabbed her upper arm and steered her toward the kitchen, swatting her again. As they entered the room, she pulled free and swung round to face him, backing away. This was her last chance of a reprieve, she had to try even though she knew it would probably only make things worse.

  “Tom, please! I’ve apologised and I mean it. I really do, I promise. Let me off this time. Give me a break. I’ll learn. You’ve made your point! You’ve frightened me!” she wailed hopelessly, tears falling hard and fast now.

  He continued walking toward her as she backed herself into the corner. His eyes were hard and cold. Terrifyingly determined. He reached out and spun her round, pushing her nose to the wall. Then he jerked up her skirt so the stretchy velvet bunched around her waist. She tried to pull it back down, but he caught her wrists and held them in one fist, whilst he grasped the flimsy material of her silk panties and ripped them off in a single jerk. Phoebe struggled in defiance, but that just earned her a stinging slap to her now bare cheeks.

  “Put your hands down by your sides and don’t you dare move from that corner, Phoebe, do you hear me?” he barked furiously. “Or believe me, this will go on and on all bloody night if it must!”

  Phoebe heaved a tremulous sob and let her hands fall to her sides as he released her wrists. She felt like she was blushing all over. There she stood, facing the corner like a naughty schoolgirl. Her dress was bunched around her waist, no knickers, only hold-up stockings covering the flesh from mid-thigh downward. She’d never felt so exposed and vulnerable in her life.

  “Now then, you’ll stand there until you ask me to give you your spanking, Phoebe,” he said matter-of-factly.

  Phoebe gasped in horror—and very nearly spun round, but checked herself just in time. “No! You can’t make me ask that! I won’t! It’s just too humiliating!”

  “Oh, yes, you will. And for every minute you make me wait, it’ll add twenty to your total. And every word you utter, other than, please may I have my spanking now, sir, will add another ten.”

  Phoebe screamed indignantly. “Sir! Fuck you! I’m not saying that!”

  “And every curse will add another twenty,” he said, with what sounded very much like an amused and satisfied sigh. “That brings you up to... let’s see now... a nice round one hundred already! How do you like the sound of that, Phoebe, my love?” he said with a wicked chuckle, quickly adding, “And I wouldn’t answer that if I were you. If this doesn’t teach you to keep that razor tongue of yours in check, nothing will! Except, perhaps, a goodly number of repeat performances.”

  Phoebe growled with indignation this time and stamped her feet, squealing like a small child having a tantrum—although she was careful not to actually say anything.

  Tom waited until she’d calmed a little and the screams turned to hopeless sobs before saying, “And that little outburst will cost you another twenty. The clock’s ticking, Phoebe. Another minute just went by. You’re up to one hundred forty, now. I think you’d better
hurry up and ask, before you end up being the first woman to suffer death by spanking!” He barely stifled outright laughter.

  Phoebe screeched again, but with less conviction this time. Her fists curled and uncurled at her side as she struggled with the enormity of her situation. He meant every word he said. And the clock was ticking—she could feel it! If she didn’t ask him soon, she wouldn’t sit down ever again! She felt like she was paying for at least a decade of loose tongue disease right here and now. And he was enjoying this too much.

  She took a deep breath and hissed, “Please may I have my...” She gritted her teeth. “Spanking now, sir!”

  “I’ll be lenient with you, considering what you’ve already got coming, but if you don’t ask me nicely, like the sorry little girl you claim to be, I won’t stop until you pass out.” Any trace of humour had left his voice.

  She heard the scrape of a chair on the flagstone floor and winced. She blurted it out. “Please, may have my spanking now, sir.”

  “Yes, you may. Now turn around, and don’t cover yourself, then lay across my knee.”

  Phoebe swivelled slowly, her breath coming in tight little gasps. He sat on the chair, hands resting lightly on broad, muscular thighs, his brow knitted in a fearsome frown. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and the bulging muscles of his tanned forearms flexed in preparation. And those eyes, as hard as gemstones, glinted with steely resolve. She didn’t stand a chance.

  She inched forward, staring disconsolately at his lap, gulping down sobs. At the last possible moment, she looked into his eyes, pleading silently. His scowl deepened. She looked away sharply. Then she dropped to one knee and lowered herself across his lap. His legs were hard, like granite against her heaving ribcage. He shunted her farther forward so her backside tilted high and her face was only inches from the slate floor. A solid arm clamped across her waist, pinning her. She grunted as the breath squeezed from her body under the force of it. This was agonisingly slow compared to last night’s whirlwind attack. Deliberately, she realised. He wanted her to suffer the torment of waiting. Wanted her to savour the fear of a dreadfully severe punishment. Wanted her to learn from her mistakes.