by Andrea Dale
She felt him watching her as she sashayed off.
Dammit. The bathroom window was too small to climb out of. She pursed her lips, considering her options.
There was a parlor at the back of the house, with French doors opening onto a back patio. It was the only other option she could try that wouldn’t mean she’d have to cross the ballroom again, where Jake would see her.
A few more minutes, and then she’d be free.
The parlor was dark. She eased open the French door. Sultry night air caressed her face.
“Just where do you think you’re going?”
She managed to stifle a shriek. “Oh, I—I was just getting some air.”
Leather creaked as he reached up and clicked on a reading lamp. He was sitting in an armchair, one leg crossed over the other. Even though his eyes were in shadow, his piercing gaze made her shiver.
“I don’t think so, Catriona.” His fingers drummed against the arm of the chair. “Tell me the truth.”
Okay, time for Plan B. She didn’t really have a Plan B, so she improvised. She’d throw herself at his mercy…
It wasn’t a great plan, but it was a plan.
“Timothy’s cheating on me, so I’m leaving him,” she said. “Tonight. Will you help me?”
He watched her, fingers still drumming, for interminable minutes. Finally, he said, “On one condition.”
She assumed he meant money. “Name it.”
He crooked his finger. “Come here.”
Uh oh. Mouth dry again, she stepped forward, stopping just before the chair.
He watched her, silent and menacing and undeniably sexy.
She knew what he wanted. She wanted to pretend he didn’t, just as she wanted to pretend her thighs weren’t weak and her heart wasn’t pounding and she’d never thought about this before when she thought about Jake and his strength and power.
She wanted to deny how much she craved this. Her cheeks flushed as red as she guessed her ass would become, and the shiver of humiliation only made her grow slicker.
Her breath hitched as she arranged herself across his lap, feeling his muscled thighs tighten as she settled on them.
She hung her head, glad her hair hid her blushes when he drew up her skirt. She swore she could feel the heat of his gaze on her bare flesh. As much as she tried not to, she clenched against it.
“How long have you been planning on leaving Timothy?” Jake asked.
What? Confused, she said, “Th—three weeks.”
“Twenty-one days. That’s twenty-one smacks.”
Oh God. No. She wanted to tell him she’d estimated, that it had been less time than that, but she was sure that would get her into far more trouble. Plus she could barely think, barely count, and there was no time, because she felt his body shift and his hand came down on her defenseless bottom.
Her head reared up, but she caught her scream and muffled it into a breathy squeal just as the second slap landed. Can’t make noise or the other guests will hear. But how could they not hear the gunshot cracks?
Pain flared with every spank, with barely enough time to fade, mutate into heat, before the next stinging blow. She told herself she wouldn’t cry, but he was relentless, hitting the same spots so the sharp hurt intensified.
Her ass felt swollen, fiery hot, and so did her cleft. Her thong cut into her crotch, digging against her clit, which throbbed and trembled the more he added to the pain.
She tried to wriggle, but it added to her desperate arousal, and she knew that if she asked him to stop, he wouldn’t help her sneak out.
Or, worse, he’d punish her even more.
It was that thought that did her in.
Catriona had no idea how close they’d gotten to twenty-one. If it was soon, then she might not…
Oh God, oh God.
The orgasm built and rolled through her and smashed into her just as Jake’s hand smashed down again, and she screamed into her fist, unable to stop the contractions or the sweet damned pain.
She thought she heard him say “Oh, good girl,” and she bowed her head and swore she’d never look at him again, even as a final betraying tremor pulsed through her.
Jake flipped her skirt back down, and even the flimsy chiffon felt heavy and rough against her puffy, tenderized cheeks. He helped her to her feet, steadying her when her weak legs threatened to give way. Confused, she turned to him, wondering if he wanted a blow job, but he shook his head and said, “We’d better get going.”
Catriona turned for the French doors, but he took her arm.
“Can’t go that way,” he said. “There’s a locked, alarmed gate on either side of the house, and an eight-foot fence in the back. We’ve got to go through the front.”
If the humiliation of being soundly spanked by Jake and of coming to a sobbing orgasm from the spanking hadn’t been humiliation enough. Now she had to parade through the party, sure that everyone knew her ass was the same glowing scarlet as her dress.
At least he let her duck into the ladies room first to repair her makeup. But nothing could cover the flush on her cheeks and the brightness in her eyes, and she didn’t have time to clean between her legs, so her wet thighs slipped and slid against each other and she could smell her pungent juices.
Horrifyingly, all of it made her want to come again.
“Catriona? Not leaving us so soon?” Angela Morelli appeared from nowhere.
“Ms. Sullivan isn’t feeling well,” Jake said. He didn’t stop walking, so Angela practically had to walk backwards.
“Please give my best to your husband,” Catriona managed. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh no, I’m sorry. I’ll call you tomorrow,” Angela said as she was left in their wake. Catriona didn’t even have the strength to wave.
*
She let Jake drive again. She didn’t even ask where he was going, as long as it was away from the penthouse.
“I have to ask this.” She cleared her throat. “Why did you go turncoat tonight? That doesn’t seem like you.”
“I didn’t.”
“But Timothy hired you…”
Jake glanced at her, a small smile on his lips. “I said he asked me to work tonight. I turned him down. I knew he was cheating on you, and I wanted no part of it. But then I decided to come with you tonight, and tell you the truth afterwards.”
Her pussy clenched, a delicious tremor rocking her sex. “So…you would have helped me anyway. You didn’t have to blackmail me by…”
“Say it, Catriona.” His voice brooked no argument.
She almost couldn’t form the words. “By making me lie across your lap. Oh God.” Her voice cracked as a fresh wave of humiliation washed through her.
“No, I didn’t have to,” he admitted, not a shred of remorse in his voice. “But the opportunity was too delicious to pass up. You can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy it, Catriona.” His voice dipped low. “You know you did.”
Moisture, heat, pressure welled up between her legs again, sudden and strong. Her tender ass throbbed harder. She betrayed herself by squirming in the leather seat.
“And when we get to a motel, we’ll explore just what else you enjoy.”
Oh God…
*
A NOTE ABOUT STORY TITLES
When I originally wrote this story, I called it “Guarding Her Body,” just like it’s titled now. But then I sold it to the Playing With Fire anthology (edited by the inestimable Alison Tyler), and either she or the publisher decided that all of the story titles should have a fire/heat theme.
Unfortunately, the story had no specific fire imagery I could call into play, but I brainstormed three titles and sent them to Alison for her input. She chose “Fanning the Flames,” which did fit the story well enough—and it fit the anthology very well indeed.
Titles go one of two ways for me: either the story/novel’s title is clear and obvious and perfect, or I slap something on that isn’t the same as any other title I’ve used and hope it doesn’t suck too much. (
I have sold a story that has a title I think is the stupidest one I’ve ever come up with. The editor didn’t say anything, so maybe it’s not as stupid as I think. But I’m still not going to tell you which one it was.)
In the case of “Guarding Her Body” / “Fanning the Flames,” I realized as I started to prep the story for online publication that I really did prefer my original title. “Fanning the Flames” worked fantastically in the collection itself, but it didn’t say anything about the story when the story stood on its own. “Guarding Her Body” may not be the most brilliant and original of titles, but it’s brilliant (I think) for the story itself.
So if any of you purchased this thinking it was a brand-new story of mine that you hadn’t read, I truly hope you enjoyed reading it the second time ’round. It was certainly never my intention to mislead you! (Lead you astray, maybe. Come into my boudoir and we’ll see what transpires….)
*
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Called a “legendary erotica heavy-hitter” (by the über-legendary Violet Blue), ANDREA DALE writes sizzling erotica with a generous dash of romance. Her work—which has been called “poignantly erotic,” “heartbreaking,” and “exceptional”—has appeared in 20 year’s best volumes as well as about 100 other anthologies from Soul’s Road Press, Harlequin Spice, and Cleis Press. She finds passion in rock music, clever words, piercing blue eyes, the wind in her hair, and the scent of the ocean. Visit AndreaDaleAuthor.com for more information.
If you liked this story, you might also enjoy these other Andrea Dale treats:
“College Reunion”
“How the Little Mermaid Got Her Tail Back”
“On the Twelfth Day…”
Table of Contents
Stuffing the Ballot Box
Bonus Story: Guarding Her Body
A Note About Story Titles
About the Author and Links
Copyright Information