He stared at her with an inscrutable look, his dark eyes glittering. He touched her nose. “I’m not going to give you a harsh spanking—I don’t think it will serve us tonight. The purpose, for boot camp, is to show you just how bad a punishment could be, but you are an angel wife and you never deliberately disobey me. I’m sure you can simply use your imagination to understand how I might spank for a severe infraction.”
“Yes, sir,” she agreed.
“Come, let’s go to the bedroom. You may pick the implement.”
“Belt,” she said immediately. It was the least onerous as far as implements went, sometimes tied with a wooden spoon. “The one you used this morning.”
Luis began rolling up his sleeves, causing the familiar flutter from her diaphragm. He patted her bottom as they walked and gave her g-string a little tug. “You can leave your outfit on,” he said, his voice already lower.
“Yes, sir,” she said in her best bedroom voice.
“Bend over the bed.”
She complied, her bottom already flinching and shivering in anticipation. She could sense Luis’s eagerness, normally so tightly-leashed. She smirked into the bedspread, thinking his orgasm denial for her had made him the one out of control. Indeed, he whipped her rapidly, as if hurrying to be done. After about twenty strokes the whipping stopped and she heard the sound of his zipper.
He checked her readiness with his fingers. “Mmm,” he commented. A moment later he pushed inside her. She spread her legs, pushing back at him. As odd as it seemed, she’d wanted more from the spanking than quick foreplay. He pumped in and out of her, the sensation satisfying physically, but the transition too quick for her mind to get on board.
After a few moments, Luis realized she wasn’t accelerating to the same level he’d reached, and pulled out. “On your hands and knees,” he ordered, giving her butt a slap.
“Spank me again?” she asked timidly as she crawled up into position.
“With pleasure,” came his rumbling reply. He pushed her torso down so she rested on her forearms instead of her hands, a humbled position, much like the Buddhist prostration.
The sting of the belt came as a welcomed bite, her every nerve alive and craving the stimulation. She panted, leaning into the pain, opening to it, drinking it in. This time Luis did not stop too soon—she crossed the threshold of tolerance, burying her face in the blankets and whimpering for his mercy before he stopped.
This time when he entered her, her need for him was beyond measure—he could not take her hard enough. “Oh God, yes,” she moaned. “Now, Luis. Please…”
Luis grabbed her hair, tugging her head back as he continued to plumb her depths. The domination sent her over the edge.
“I’m coming!” she squealed.
“Come, Claire!” he shouted, still pounding into her.
She spasmed, her knees slipping out from under her, only Luis’s strong hands on her hips held her in place as he pumped to his completion. His shout of joy drew her own orgasm out, her muscles continuing their clenching around his thick cock.
Chapter Four
“Ugh. Tell me again why we’re going to see ballet?” Danny kvetched as they climbed out of the SUV in front of the Taos Center for the Arts.
“Because Claire and her students are performing and this show means a lot to her.”
“Yeah but—” Sam trailed off when he leveled him with “the look,” perfected through the last year and a half of dominating Claire.
He paid for tickets and squeezed in amongst the scores of parents and grandparents of the little dancers. The show was cute—both Claire and Kristen, the director of the dance studio had real talent at choreographing dances that made the children look good. Despite his boys’ protests about attending, neither one appeared bored or impatient.
Claire’s solo “Unmet Desire” came close to the end. The lights came up on her sitting on her shins in a black gossamer tunic with long, open sleeves, the center draping to reveal her flat belly, short black shorts making her muscular legs look a mile long. She traced two fingers on the floor, as if she were in a raft, trailing them in the water beside her. A dreamy, wistful quality emanated from her, amplified by an angelic expression on her face.
He could feel the entire audience drawn in, mesmerized by her beauty and the story she told with her body. His sons leaned forward in their seats, eyes widened. Her dance was like a prayer, a conversation with God. Through her face, her gestures, her execution of intricate and lovely dance moves, she conveyed the sense of longing, of desire. Yet it had none of the literal movement interpretation of ballet. It was purely a sense of emotion.
The piece ended with the stage reduced to the circle under a single blue spotlight, Claire reaching an undulating arm toward the heavens, her face lifted in expectation as the lights faded to black.
The audience gave a collective sigh of satisfaction, then burst into enthusiastic applause, a chorus of “bravo!” and a few whistles.
When the show ended, he sent the boys to wait outside and went backstage with a bundles of roses. Claire was smiling and nodding, receiving the congratulations of countless parents and community members. She caught his eye and gave a little wave. Taking his cue, he slid in beside her, handing her the roses and scooping her in for a kiss.
“You were wonderful. Absolutely radiant.”
She drew back to see his face, beaming.
“Great job, Claire,” one of the mothers said, passing by. “Did you choreograph that yourself?”
“Yes, I—” Claire stumbled back against him, catching her breath. “I—”
Luis caught her as her body went limp, lowering her to the floor, where he cradled her torso in his lap. “Dr. Mulholland!” he called out to one of the parents, a surgeon at Holy Cross.
Claire’s eyelids fluttered open and she looked at him with confusion. He put on his very best poker face, hiding the fear tightening his throat. He winked. “You passed out, querida.”
Dr. Mulholland crouched beside them, taking her pulse. “Are you feeling a little dizzy, Claire?” he asked.
She smiled weakly. “I-I guess so.”
“Have you eaten today?”
She nodded.
“Could you be pregnant?”
Claire’s eyes widened, flashing to meet his. There was no mistaking the wild excitement.
“I—”
“That’s a possibility,” Luis said, coming to her rescue. “I guess we’d better pick up a test on the way home, no?”
Claire beamed at him.
“How are you feeling now?” the doctor asked.
“Okay,” she said, struggling to get up.
He helped her to stand, then scooped her up into his arms. “Luis!” she protested, kicking and laughing. “I can walk!”
“I don’t care if you can roller skate, I’m carrying you out,” he said firmly.
She giggled and someone handed her the canvas bag with her things from the floor. Carrying her out to the SUV, he deposited her in the front passenger seat while the boys snickered at the intimacy of it. He made a quick stop at the grocery store, where he ran in alone for the pregnancy test. Electricity filled the car as he drove home. He could feel Claire’s excitement, her nervous fear of disappointment. He prayed this wouldn’t be another let down.
“You are on day thirty of your cycle,” he told her when they were shut up in their bedroom alone.
“I know.” She smiled.
He wagged his finger, making tsking noise. “You were supposed to stop counting!”
He scanned the directions from the box. “So you could be a day or two late?”
“I could be,” she said, her voice charged with emotion.
“So it says the first urination of the day is more accurate. How about if we do one now, and if it comes back negative, try the second one in the morning?”
She nodded, holding out her hand for the stick.
He followed her to the bathroom, taking the test wand from her when she finis
hed peeing and holding it so they both could watch.
For a solid minute they stared at the blank window in silence. A faint color began to appear but it was too soon to tell what shape it would take. He squeezed Claire’s hand.
“It’s okay,” she said, as if reassuring him. “Whatever happens is okay. You taught me that during boot camp.” He gazed into her beautiful face, her trust radiating.
“Look at it, mi amor,” he said, flicking his eyebrows toward the test stick.
She stared at the pink plus sign forming in the window.
“Positive.”
A TIME TO HEAL
By Sue Lyndon
Chapter One
The sudden pause in conversation left Stephie fidgeting in her seat. She made eye contact with her husband for the briefest second before glancing away. They’d just finished talking about visiting her parents in a month, and now the silence loomed between them, awkward and thick. She circled a spoon in her coffee, watching as the cream she’d just added spiraled and dissolved in an instant. Around her, the steady hum of chatter and morning newspapers being ruffled filled the local diner.
Nerves tightened her stomach, and she looked up at Marcus, trying to read his mood. The question she longed to ask rested on the tip of her tongue. Would he finally give her back some of her freedoms? Yesterday marked one year since her cancer had gone into remission. A whole year of being healthy and getting her strength back. Her hair had grown down to her shoulders already, and she’d also gained back every pound she’d lost during chemo. Despite her improved health, his overprotectiveness persisted and threatened to drive her crazy.
She placed the spoon down and cleared her throat. “Marcus?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“I want to drive to New York next Wednesday. There’s an art exhibit in the evening and some of my paintings will be on display. I can drive up in the morning and spend the night with Darla, then come back home on Thursday.”
His face darkened and a chill fell over the table. He might as well not even respond. She already knew his answer.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m sorry, Stephie, but no.”
“But—”
“I said no.”
She huffed and reached for a pack of sugar. As she tore it over her coffee and clanged the spoon around in the cup, she mumbled under her breath. “This is bullshit. This is absolute bullshit.”
“Watch your mouth.” The firmness of his tone sent a shiver down her back, but anger soon followed in its wake, and her face heated as pent up frustrations rose to the surface.
She straightened in her chair and met his gaze. “Or what?” Her voice held a note of challenge that caused Marcus’s eyes to widen. “Let me guess? You’ll say you’re going to spank me, but then you won’t follow through with it? Or even better, you’ll take me over your knee and give me a few halfhearted slaps over my jeans and act like it was a proper spanking?”
“Don’t start this argument now, Stephie. You’re not going to New York by yourself. If it’s really that important to you, I’ll take off work and drive you myself.”
She rolled her eyes. “Never mind.” She didn’t want a babysitter.
Anger simmered inside her as they picked at their breakfast in silence. Why did it have to be this way? When would he start treating her the way he’d treated her before her illness? If a year of health wasn’t good enough, what was? Two years? Three years? She couldn’t continue, day after day, with his constant coddling. They’d taken a break from domestic discipline when she’d gotten sick and hadn’t returned to it until a few months after her remission. Except they hadn’t really returned to it. He still handled her like a delicate piece of China. It maddened her.
A real spanking—a real punishment over his knee that brought her to tears—wouldn’t break her. Allowing her to travel occasionally by herself, as she’d done many times prior to her diagnosis, wouldn’t invite catastrophe. No amount of reasoning and arguing, not to mention intentional misbehavior, seemed to change their current circumstances. Marcus had agreed to start up the domestic discipline part of their marriage again, but it felt weak and contrived. The few times he’d actually decided to punish her, he’d slapped her bottom a few times through her clothing, and that was that.
Tension sizzled between them on the drive home. As Stephie sat in the passenger seat fuming, she decided to spend the day in her studio. Hiding. She didn’t know what else to do. He’d stood by her through her illness and he’d been the perfect, most attentive husband during the most trying time of her life. Now that they’d made it through to the other side though, it felt like their marriage was disintegrating. His reluctance to take her in hand left her angry and resentful, and though she tried to be patient, she often lashed out at him with hurtful words and cold silences.
She hated what she was becoming. She hated the dark cloud hovering over their marriage, and she sensed a real storm brewing on the horizon. Surely they couldn’t continue this way forever. Distant. Struggling. Constantly at odds. It was hell.
But oh how she loved him. A tear rolled down her cheek, and she turned to gaze out the window, letting it fall in secret. Most of her tears fell in secret, usually in her studio as she threw herself into her paintings. The paintings were the only thing she had absolute control over. The freedom to create any image she wished, to disappear into a world of her own making without Marcus standing over her, suffocating her with his overprotection.
The tires crunched over gravel as Marcus turned onto the winding road leading to their home. Their large, three story brick house rested on a clearing in the woods about ten miles outside of town. The entire third floor was an open space that functioned as Stephie’s studio, with wide windows and skylights making the massive room feel endless.
“Home sweet home,” Marcus said, reaching to squeeze her thigh. He frowned at her when she flinched at his touch. “Stop it.”
“Stop what?” God, she just wanted to get out of the car without a fight.
“You know what.” He arched an eyebrow at her, an action that used to feel like a warning. You’re this close to getting your bare bottom spanked bright red, young lady. But not now. Now it felt empty, because he wouldn’t follow through. His threats were empty, his discipline lacking.
“No really, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Smirking, she reached for the door handle. She knew her behavior was childish and her constant disrespect hurt Marcus, but she couldn’t stop herself sometimes. Panic rose in her chest as she entered the walkway, storming past the yellow and purple mums she’d planted yesterday without sparing a second to admire her favorite fall flowers. She rushed in the house and slammed the door behind her, ignoring Marcus’s shouts to stop. She felt completely out of control. And afraid. God, she was so afraid. She didn’t recognize herself or her husband anymore. They’d become different people. Strangers to each other and to themselves.
She paused to throw her purse on the kitchen counter and clicked her nails on the granite surface. The front door opened and slammed so hard the walls rattled. Her tummy flipped. Would Marcus head directly for his home office? Or would he storm into the kitchen to continue their argument? Even though he treated her like a fragile doll, he always liked to get the last word in. His coddling had some limits.
Heavy footsteps approached.
“Stop clicking your nails. You know how much I hate that noise.” Marcus loomed in the kitchen doorway.
A sarcastic retort ready for launch, Stephie opened her mouth, but soon shut it when she glimpsed the sadness lurking behind his livid expression. Her hand stilled on the counter. He remained in the doorway, his eyes on her. They were in the middle of a fucking staring contest. Or a glaring contest. Whatever. Childish stuff.
He crossed his arms and his expression darkened.
She raised an eyebrow at him, mimicking the stern expression he’d leveled on her. She resumed clicking her nails on the counter. Faster and louder than before.
/> ****
Unbelievable. They were at it again, engaged in a ridiculous fight like two siblings kicking each other under the dinner table. Her clicking her nails. Him barking at her to stop. For fuck’s sake, this had to end.
Marcus cleared his throat and felt his eyebrow lift higher. Still, she kept clicking. Click click click. A smile split across her face, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
He advanced in her direction, but paused halfway to her. She paled and stopped clicking her nails. He itched to give her a proper spanking. Lord knew she needed it. She’d been asking for one for months. But every time he put her over his knee, he couldn’t even pull her pants down. An image of her skinny, sickly form would flash in his mind, and he’d freeze up. How could he possibly hurt her when she’d endured so much pain?
Fear held him captive. The fear of hurting her. The fear of losing her. All the fears he’d experienced during her two rounds of chemo became stuck on repeat, and try as he might he couldn’t shake them away.
“I’m sorry, Marcus.” She broke his gaze and studied her feet. “I’m just so frustrated. Why can’t it be like before? The spanking and the domestic discipline part of our marriage. It’s so . . . so half assed now. Pardon the pun,” she said with a brief smile. “And you not allowing me to travel like I used to is unfair. I feel trapped. Trapped in some ways and too free in other ways. It’s been a year since my remission you know.”
“Sweetheart . . .” He stopped himself from delivering his usual speech. About how it would take time to find their roles again. Christ, had it really been a year? He counted the months backward in his head, and yes, it had been a year.
The pain in Stephie’s eyes wrenched at his heart. She appeared lost as she stood before him in the kitchen, her hair in disarray from her run into the house. Marcus took a deep breath and another step toward her. He wasn’t stupid. He knew what she wanted. She craved his loving authority over her.
But dammit it wasn’t easy. The thought of marking her bottom or bringing her to tears scared the hell out of him. Even though she’d done plenty recently to deserve a punishment spanking, he usually couldn’t bring himself to put her over his knee. Although now she was starting to resent him, and that scared him just as much as the thought of hurting her.
Milestones Page 12