by April Hill
When I finally started home, I was still feeling cocky and defiant, but after a few minutes, I realized that I didn't know where I was, and had no idea at all how to get back to the condo. I didn't even know the address. I was no longer tipsy. What I was, was lost. What I knew was that the condo I was looking for was on the ground floor of a tall white building, in someplace called Destin or Dustin, and that it overlooked the Gulf of Mexico. And that it had mint green wall-to-wall carpeting and fish wallpaper in the bathroom. There are, by conservative estimate, probably fifty thousand condominiums on the Gulf of Mexico that fit this description, of course. The state trooper who stopped me for suspected drunk driving knew of at least sixty. The officer was extremely polite and helpful, and by this time, most of the margaritas had worn off, but he still gave me a ticket for not wearing a seatbelt, for having an open container in the car—and another for driving, not drunk, but "impaired"—a reference to the two casts.
I finally gave up and called Will a little after midnight— two hours after he'd called the police and tried, without success, thank God, to report me missing. He was waiting in the parking lot when I drove in, and he didn't look happy.
First came the lecture, in three parts: "Do you have any idea how worried I've been?" (Well, of course, I did, silly. That was sort of the point, now, wasn't it?)
"You didn't have a seat belt on, did you?" (Since he'd watched me arrive, this was obviously a trick question. Very sneaky, and designed to trap me in a lie.)
"You're damned lucky the cops didn’t stop you, and find you with two broken limbs, for God's sake!" (Since my goose seemed to already be thoroughly cooked, I simply handed him the ticket, without comment. I didn’t have to mention the margaritas. The friendly trooper had emptied the remaining tequila onto the side of the highway, and the empty bottle rolled out when Will opened the door.)
Spanking Number Three was nothing at all like the first two, possibly because Will had had several hours to plan the event. This time, though, my cooperation was required, and I wasn't about to give him the satisfaction.
"Take down your pants and bend over the back of the couch," he ordered, the moment the front door closed behind us.
"No," I said, flatly. I then flashed him the fiercest defiant look I could muster. Okay, it seemed I had misunderstood. My cooperation hadn’t been so much required as requested.
When I declined his request, Will simply did the honors himself, and accomplished the entire thing much, much faster than I could have. He simply leaned forward, tipped me head-first over the back of the couch, and stripped my jeans and panties down to my shaking knees. And even with me squirming and kicking for all I was worth, he still managed to get his belt off and explain to me (in what I felt was unnecessary detail) exactly what was about to happen to my naked, quivering buttocks.
The first stroke was probably the worst. (That's what I thought, anyway, until the second one landed squarely across the lowest part of my ass—where butt becomes thigh, if you know the spot I mean.) When the third and fourth blows caught me across the backs of my thighs, it was all I could do not to scream, and by stroke seven and eight, I 'd given up even that battle. It's funny, in a way, because in between anguished howls, I remember thinking how grateful I was that Will's sister Bron owned the place, and wasn't just renting. If ever there was a "party" loud enough to break a lease, this was it.
After the first dozen blazingly painful swats, I was on fire from mid-butt down and wailing full volume. Every time I thought I could "handle" the next blow, Will seemed to read my mind, and found a fresh, unlashed spot to lay the belt. Was this never going to end?
It did end, of course, and when it was over, Will dropped the belt and helped me up from the couch. I didn't fight him when he took me in his arms, but lay there for several minutes, sniffling. I never actually cried, which surprised me, and I wasn't mad at him, which really surprised me. And what made me very happy, or maybe just peaceful, was that he didn't seem to be angry with me, either.
I may not have been mad right then, but after I went to bed, I lay awake for a long time, trying to sort through a tangle of conflicting emotions. I was confused and miserable. One moment I hated Will, and the next moment I was convinced I was in love with him and wanted to bear him six children who looked just like him. The only thing that was absolutely clear was that I was humiliated, and that my rear end still felt hot to the touch. And then, because I didn't know how else to feel, I decided to be mad as hell.
I woke up the next morning feeling exactly the way you’d think. Hung-over, sore, and thirsting for revenge. When I went into the bathroom and lifted the tail of my nightgown. I beheld the specter off my ass strewn liberally with wide stripes in various shades of pink. Not my favorite colors, I should add. I could hear Will moving around in the kitchen, so I went back to bed and pulled the covers over my head, grumbling to myself. An hour later, he knocked, and I hurled a telephone book at the door and told him to go fuck himself. When he knocked again, I threw a couple of shoes and what I hoped was a cheap vase.
You know the only thing worse than waking up with a hangover and a sore butt? It’s waking up with a hangover and a sore butt, only to be dragged out of bed, thrust into a cold shower, then deposited rudely over the side of a bathtub with your drenched pajama pants down around your ankles— all to have your bare, wet, already extremely sore butt set on fire with a plastic bath brush.
Two hours later, he knocked again.
"What do you want, now?" I yelled.
"Are you all right?"
"Fine," I muttered. "Never better. I may need a buttock transplant, however. Go away."
"May I please come in and talk to you?"
"It's your house," I said, coolly. "Do what you want."
He came in and sat down on the edge of the bed. Then, maybe for something to do, he took my wrist in his hands and inspected the cast. "Is it bothering you?"
"I told you, I'm fine. Despite your best efforts, Doctor, I'll live."
He sighed. "You want me to say I'm sorry, right?"
"Are you sorry?"
"I'm sorry it happened, yes."
"But you're not sorry you did it?"
I could see his jaw tighten. "No, I'm not. What you did yesterday was just plain stupid, and what's more, you did it on purpose, to scare me. For that, you deserved every swat you got with the belt, and then some. This morning was kind of impromptu, but you still had it coming. So no, I'm not sorry I gave you either whipping, but I would like to know why you're trying so hard to be a pain in the butt, and why you keep getting yourself into these kind of messes. Do you feel like talking about it?"
"Oh, so now you’re a psychiatrist, too?"
"No, but I'm not a bad listener."
"All right, I'll tell you. Frankly, I don’t know what I'm doing here."
Will brushed the hair out of my eyes and smiled. "Sure, you do." And that's when he pushed me back on the pillows and kissed me. Five minutes later, I was naked again, but this time, I enjoyed everything that happened.
* * * *
I wish I could tell you that the rest of our dream vacation was spent in romantic ecstasy, but Will apparently still had an agenda, other than simply ravishing me several times a day. With the clock running, he seemed determined to eliminate as many of my offensive habits as possible in the limited time he had left.
On day seven, for instance, we had a smallish disagreement about sunscreen—specifically my refusal to use it. It's greasy, I explained, and what I wanted was not to get greasy, but to get a really good tan. This was one of those conversations that clearly falls into the category of "choose your words very carefully" and/or "be careful what you ask for." I did indeed get well tanned, though not on the precise part of my person I had in mind.
I learned two things that sunny afternoon. One thing was that Will's sister (an avid cook) kept a large collection of unusually large decorative wooden spoons in her spotless country kitchen. The second lesson was that wooden spoons can b
e used for disciplinary, as well as a purely culinary purposes.
On day nine, I surprised both of us by fainting at a local mall. By day ten, we had the blood work back from the emergency room, which confirmed Will's own diagnosis, that my blood sugar was "all screwed up." (My words, not his. I can't spell most of his.) Still concerned, Will called his office and rearranged his schedule, so I could get a few more days rest. On day eleven, while Will was busy at the computer, I rummaged through the pantry, then consumed an entire family-size sack of Reese's Pieces. I was working my way through a full package of Twizzlers when I was apprehended by my jailor.
(Red Twizzlers, in case you're interested, leave interesting but very painful welts, especially when used three at a time, with the victim divested of her bikini bottoms and up-ended over a wicker lawn chair.) On day thirteen, I grabbed my morning coffee, and snuck out onto a hidden corner of the deck to grab a quick cigarette—only my fourth since we arrived in Florida, which in my judgment was tantamount to quitting cold turkey.
Apparently, though, I hadn't correctly calculated the wind velocity and drift, because Will showed up a minute later, highly pissed. He plucked the cigarette from my lips, dropped it into my coffee cup, and regarded me coolly. "I'm going to say this just one time," he said quietly. "No more smoking."
"I'm outside," I said, rather unnecessarily. "I never smoke in other people's houses."
"No smoking— anywhere. That…" he said, indicating the drowned cigarette, "was your last cigarette."
"Two questions!" I snapped back. "Who the hell died and made you king? Isn't it a scientific fact that smoking just a few cigarettes a week is harmless? And what if I choose not to obey this particular royal edict? Do you plan to go on spanking the bejeezus out of me until you run out of wooden spoons?"
"That's four questions," he pointed out.
Actually, I thought my second question, at least, had been logical and reasonable, especially since he was a medical professional, well-grounded in science. The problem was that Will wasn't being a scientific medical professional, and he wasn't being reasonable and thoughtful. He was being a man. A man with access to an extensive collection of wooden spoons.
He used two of the collection that morning. A gigantic hand-painted monster stamped "Souvenir of Tijuana," and a slender, deceptively fragile-looking that he actually broke across my tender fanny in his zeal to make me an ex-smoker. I spent the first few seconds sprawled over his knee, squalling about gross injustice, and the rest of the time swearing on my life never to take another puff of tobacco. Apparently not certain of my sincerity, Will got a better grip around my waist and went over the scalded area again, adding a couple of stinging swats to the insides of my thighs for good measure.
The thing about orthopedists is they have very strong hands— from cruelly twisting the limbs of their helpless patients, no doubt. And the thing about wooden spoons is that while they look folksy and innocent, they're pure evil. Used improperly (or properly, depending on your point of view) they leave these bright-red, egg-shaped welts, a lasting burn, and an intense desire to rest your flaming buttocks on a thick slab of foam rubber or a twenty-five pound block of ice.
* * * *
I had pretty well gone through most of my worst habits—and paid the price—so our remaining six days at the beach were not only spankless, but at long last, wonderfully romantic. By the time we boarded the plane for home, Will and I had arrived at an understanding, more or less. In the future, I would submit to an occasional (note the word "occasional") spanking, the timing of which would be at Will's discretion. These infrequent, fair, but very genuine spankings would always be, of course, administered only for my own good, and cease when certain of my more eccentric behaviors had noticeably improved.
While my part in this new arrangement was fairly complex, Will's part was considerably less complicated. All he had to do— as quickly as possible upon our return—was to get his handsome butt to the nearest fine jeweler and purchase a suitably gorgeous (and suitably large) diamond engagement ring. (Okay, let's face it, I would have married him with no ring at all, but I figured I may as well get back at least a small portion of my insurance deductible.)
THE END
Available November 2013 from Blushing Books
Falconer's Prey by April Hill
Chapter the First
In The King’s Forest of Sherwood, in Nottinghamshire. The First Day of March, In The Year of Our Lord 1193, and May God Preserve King Richard!
The bitter cold and the previous night’s rainstorm had left every branch in the forest encrusted with a sheer coat of silvery ice that glistened like ropes of diamonds overhead, but Alice and Arthur were both too cold and too travel–weary to pay notice to the beauty. As they pressed deeper and deeper into the forest, leading their exhausted horses through the tangled undergrowth that slowed their every step, Alice pushed her way through the frozen brush with bare hands, her face smarting as yet another stray branch slashed across her cheek and tore at her wet clothing like shards of broken glass. It was difficult to believe that spring was but weeks away.
“It isn’t far, now,” Arthur promised, holding back the brambles with his arm as Alice struggled to free herself from the snarled, ice–covered vines that entrapped her skirts. “The camp must be but a short distance away, now. We’ll see their fires at any moment, Mistress.”
Alice sighed, reaching to touch the boy’s cold cheek. “Aye, Arthur,” she said fondly, “but pray worry less about me and more for yourself. You’ve not slept since yesterday, and you’re near–frozen to the very bone after last night’s dunking. Besides, dear friend, I’m dressed a good deal more warmly than you. I fear it will be you who turns to a pillar of frost far sooner than I. Still, unless my eyes fail me, I believe I do see someone’s fire, just there! Do you see it?” She pointed ahead, to a spot between two large trees, where a thin wisp of gray smoke furled above a small fire pit cut into the hard ground.
Arthur broke into the first smile she had seen on his face since they fled the Abbey of St. Mary’s, a day and a half ago. “We’ve found them, Mistress! It’s Robin Hood’s camp, I’m certain of it! We will be safe, here. Come, hurry now!” He tightened his grip on the heavy bundle he’d insisted upon carrying since they’d made good her escape and dashed through the trees with a joyous cry.
Without warning, and in almost total silence, an arrow flashed between them and thudded deep into a tree trunk, directly next to Arthur’s ear.
“Halt where ye stand, or die there!” a voice thundered, and Arthur stopped in his tracks, frozen now not only by his wet garments and the piercing cold, but by fear. “Who goes?” the voice roared again. “Your name, and purpose here, and make an answer quickly if ye’ve a mind to take another breath!”
“It’s all right, Lady!” Arthur whispered. “I know this man. He is called Bri’n the Blacksmith – of Robin’s camp!” He waved nervously in the direction of the unseen archer. “It is Arthur Postelwaite, of Wickham Village, here!” he called, his youthful voice sounding a bit strangled. “And with me is Mistress Alice Johnstone, escaped last night from the accursed Abbey at St. Mary’s, and in dire need of shelter! We come in peace, asking nothing more than a warm fire, and to aid noble Robin Hood in the struggle for….”
“Shut yer damned silly mouth, Arthur,” the voice ordered, more softly now. “And come forward. Bring the girl, if ye must, but move yer blasted ass while you’re about it! We’ve all made enough noise here to wake the dead saints!”
“Yes, sir!” Arthur took Alice’s hand in his and moved silently into the clearing, while Alice watched warily as the man who’d accosted them so rudely stepped from behind a tree. He was perhaps the tallest man she had even seen, grizzled with age and heavy–set, but he strode toward them with surprising agility, his gait lithe and quick. As he came nearer, he slipped an arrow back into the leather quiver across his back and paused long enough to bend down and slide a horn–handled long–dirk into the top of his boot. The
man’s gray–white beard was frosted with ice, and he wore a jerkin and hood of tattered leather, with only a flimsy gray blanket around his broad shoulders against the cold.
He cuffed Arthur’s arm in a bruising but obviously friendly manner. “Well, now, boy, so it’s a nun ye’ve stolen for yourself, is it?” He gave Alice a quick glance. “Aye, and comely one she is, at that!” He clapped the boy on the back, nearly knocking him over. “Ye’ surprise me, sprout! I’d a’ never thought ye’ had it in ye’! Here’s a wench to warm a man’s cockles, for sure!”
Arthur blushed so violently his embarrassment could be seen even in the dim light of the forest.
“Mistress Alice is not…,” he stammered. “She’s a fine lady, and…”
Bri’n the Blacksmith towered over them, glaring down at Alice with suspicion. “Fine lady, is it, now? Well, then, let us see if this fine lady is armed.” He threw back Alice’s cloak and thrust one large, sooty hand inside, patting her about the waist and hips through the thick layers of her clothing.
Alice drew back in revulsion and threw off her hood. Her hair was the color of amber, but damp and tangled, and her scratched cheeks were dirty, burned red with the cold. “Yes, sir, despite my present circumstances, I am a gentlewoman born, and do not appreciate being treated as a….”
The burly blacksmith grinned. “And what was that, now, that ye’d like not to be treated as?” He winked, his every move mocking her arrogant tone. When he put both hands on her shoulders and whirled her around to complete a similar search of her rear quarters, Alice’s temper finally erupted.