by Cara Bristol
“I’m sorry, sir!” she cried.
Ten, maybe twelve times he stung her pussy before the first swat landed on her ass. When it fell, there was no play in the strike—or on his face. Pain seared her vulnerable buttocks, and Abby squeezed her knees tight to prevent herself from covering her bottom and earning additional strikes.
She could not predict where his hand would fall—left cheek, right cheek, the backs of her thighs. The “diapering” position he’d placed her in gave him full access, particularly to her sit spot, which seemed to draw his focus.
“I do not issue arbitrary commandments,” he said. “Each rule is designed for your betterment and improvement. Tell me why you believed being rude served you better than being respectful?”
She had no answer.
He peppered her bottom with one hand, held her legs with the other. The flat of his fingers caught her pussy. She jerked and wailed.
“That was not a rhetorical question, Abigail.”
“No, sir, I’m sorry, sir. I did not mean to be rude, sir.”
“And how is ‘sh’ not intentional? How is telling someone to shut up not rude?”
He did not falter, but continued to heat her ass, his verbal reprimands making her feel two feet tall. She had been rude. He always listened to her. How could she have treated him so poorly? Tears of pain and remorse trickled down her face to wet the bed. “I have no excuse. I won’t do it again.”
He laid three searing spanks to the same spot center cheek right side, then to the left.
Her ass and pussy burned and throbbed by the time he ceased spanking. Abby swallowed. Eroticism had waned under punishment. There’d been no fun in what had occurred—only pain and shame. She would remember her rudeness and his response when she sat on her poor hurting bottom. She might have to sleep on her tummy tonight.
Abby started to unclasp her arms and lower her legs.
“We’re not done yet.” Harris unbuckled his belt, and pulled it off with a snap and a jangle. He looped the strip of leather around his fist.
“No, Harris, please.” It was a shush! Abby riveted her gaze on the makeshift strop. Her ass hurt so much already, how could she bear it? Tears streamed from her eyes, her nose ran.
“Look at me,” he commanded. She raised her eyes to meet his tender gaze. “Only six, Abigail.” His tone gentled. “Then it will be over.”
Abby sniffed. “Okay, sir.”
“Good girl!” His approval warmed her from the inside out. “Hold your legs tight.”
She hung onto the backs of her knees for dear life and squeezed her eyes shut.
She heard a whoosh and then a streak of fire blazed across her ass. It hurt so bad the breath caught in her throat, and she couldn’t even cry out.
“Count, Abigail.”
She worked her mouth. “One.” Her voice trembled.
Another hiss and the leather strip scored the other cheek. “Two.” Fresh tears broke through her eyelids.
He lashed her sit spot. Matelassé! She clamped her lips together to corral the safeword. She could do this. Accepting punishment had become a point of honor. She braced for the next strike and realized he waited for her signal. Counting allowed her to pace out the strokes.
“Three,” she said through gritted teeth. He rewarded her by whipping the other side. “F-f-four.”
The final two strikes came harder than the others, and he laid them across the center of her ass cheeks—right over the previous strokes. She sobbed, but didn’t dare move until he instructed her.
“You did well.” He dropped the belt on the floor.
* * * *
Harris gathered Abby in his arms. He propped against the headboard and cradled her shuddering body on his lap. He kissed her hair, her face, catching her tears on the tip of his tongue and drinking in her remorse and pain as his own.
He caressed her with light strokes, gentling his touch to massage her torched bottom and thighs. Pins and needles attacked his reddened palm, and he could imagine her discomfort, but she curled in his arms and soaked up his reassurance. He gave it to her unconditionally. Tenderness welled to bursting within and he tightened his arm around her shoulders, while soothing the bottom he had punished.
“Let it out, sweetheart. That’s my girl,” he whispered. Gradually her sobs diminished to hiccups and sniffles. He snagged a couple of tissues from the box on the bedside table and held them to her nose. “Blow,” he ordered.
She did, he tossed the tissue aside, and hugged her again. She exhaled a shuddering sigh.
“Sweet Abby.” He kissed the corner of her eye.
She buried her wet face against his neck and murmured something.
“What was that?” he asked.
“I said, you called me Abigail when you spanked me, but now I’m Abby again.”
He nodded. “Yes. I prefer to maintain a level of formality during punishment. When I discipline you or require your obedience, I will call you Abigail, and you will call me…” He waited for her to fill in the blank.
“Sir,” she replied.
He squeezed her and brushed his lips against hers. Her whimpers and tears had lashed at his emotions. Her vulnerability, her trusting submission had aroused his passion and tenderness. Unsettling. The sight of her bare, naked pussy threatened to undermine his willpower. When they’d met, she’d had neatly trimmed curls, but at his request, she’d had herself waxed.
The day after his request, she’d presented herself. Upon inspection, he’d discovered her pussy swollen, red and beautifully bare. Just for him. His pussy, the way he liked it. The way he liked her. Seeing her this evening bottom up, buttocks, cunt—and even asshole if he claimed it—his for the taking had aroused an unexpected depth of emotion. He wanted to spank her, yes, but for fun, and then fuck her until they were raw, but he could not permit her disrespect—no matter how small of an act—to go unchallenged. He’d witnessed how disrespect had eroded his parents’ marriage. Their multiple marriages.
But he had to ensure Abby did not view him as an ogre.
“My mother held my father in contempt,” he explained. “I could hear the scorn, the sarcasm when she spoke to him. I remember the names he used to call her.” He winced. “They both shouted at each other to shut up, to fuck off. They divorced when I was nine and my sister four, but both of them recreated the dynamic with other people. My father has been married four times, my mother three. I’ve already mentioned how my sister has followed in their footsteps.”
Abby lifted her head and sought his gaze. “Is that why you’re so against marriage? You’re worried you’ll end up the same way?”
“That won’t happen,” he vowed. “I won’t allow it. But that’s why I insist on discipline in my relationships from the onset,” he said, aware he’d answered the latter question, not the former. Nothing could be gained from dissecting and analyzing his past any more than he had over the years. Action counted now. And why dwell on the negative when the positive was so much more attractive? Softer. Warm. Abby felt so fucking good in his arms. He’d never forget the way she’d trusted him. Tenderness threatened to choke him, caused him to wonder ‘what if.’ What if he could have Abby waiting for him every day when he came home? What if he tried to settle into a normal permanent relationship? Well, normal for a spanko.
“Do you think I’m like your mother? Is that why you punished me?” Her bottom lip quivered.
“God no!” He gripped her chin. “Don’t ever think that. You’re nothing like her.” He released her. “But, respect is important.” He sighed. “I was probably a little harder on you than I should have been, but you must understand my expectations and what it means to be involved with me.”
She snuggled against him. “I think I know. And I like having you in charge.”
Harris cupped her breast and thrummed her nipple, her aureole like velvet against his thumb until the tip pebbled. He tweaked it, worrying the tiny bud to reddened stiffness. She lifted her face, and he brushed her mouth with his, s
ought entry and then kissed her. Her throaty moan brought his cock to full attention.
He insinuated his hand between her thighs, and rubbed her clit, remembering how slick and wet she’d been at the start of punishment. On impulse, he’d spanked her pussy a little too, slapping only hard enough to sting, but the action had left her sex puffy and flushed. A mimic of desire. Beautiful.
He stroked the nub at the apex, watching her face contort with concentration.
When she grew wetter and slicker, he increased pressure and speed to compensate for the decrease in friction. “Sweet girl,” he murmured. Her lashes fluttered and she looked at him, her gaze unfocused. He rubbed faster, harder. He ached to delve into her channel, fuck her with his fingers and then his cock, but didn’t want to disturb her impending ecstasy.
“Come for me, Abigail,” he commanded.
She shuddered and cried out, clutching at his shirt as her head fell back.
* * * *
Twelve kinds of intense. Never had her orgasms been as strong or frequent as they were with Harris. Her eyelids lowered to slits, Abby peeked at Harris. He grinned like the Cheshire cat, his satisfaction evident as if he took personal responsibility for her climax. God. What kind of faces had she made while coming? Her cheeks heated. That he still laid claim to her sex didn’t relieve her attack of bashfulness.
She’d never experienced a relationship like this one and didn’t know quite how to evaluate it—other than she liked it. Cuddled on Harris’s lap, her ass sorer than sore, her clit tingling, her pussy clutching his fingers, she’d never felt more at home, would not want to be anyplace else. With anyone else.
Spanking wasn’t something he did to her, it was an act of intimacy they shared. They entered into it trusting each other, and it brought them closer still. He’d felt comfortable enough with her to share the details of his parents’ marriage. The timing of his confidence had not arisen from coincidence.
She understood Harris better now, both his rejection of marriage and his affinity for domestic discipline. She’d learned something about herself too: She liked having him in charge even if it meant he punished her from time to time. She wouldn’t change this moment for anything. Shivers of excitement raced up her spine. He’d been so stern, but possessive. With every smack, he marked his claim.
He’d punished her most sensitive place. So unexpected, she’d recoiled in shock more than pain, although there had been that too. To expose herself and accept that kind of spanking deconstructed her defenses. To become that vulnerable, to submit because she trusted him left her reeling. She had, in effect, handed herself over to him to do with as he willed. In that moment he owned her—or rather had her on loan, since theirs would never be a permanent relationship.
Had she surrendered too much to a man who could never commit to her? Should she have safeworded to protect herself? Her heart? She rode ambivalence like a seesaw, on the verge of crying matelassé before each spank. And when he’d ceased spanking her sex, her punished and masochistic pussy had throbbed with need. No wonder she’d come after a few flicks to her clit. That and because he’d ordered her to, in his stern disciplinarian voice. The same tone that had wracked her with shame over her behavior now caused her to shudder with ecstasy. That man could play her like a musical instrument.
Pluck, pluck. Oh baby.
And he wasn’t done.
Harris curled his fingers inside her and massaged her clit with his thumb. Abby moaned as his expertise drove her closer to completion a second time. She contracted her muscles. Writhed across his lap. Close. Closer...
The hand driving her toward ecstasy pulled away. SMACK! The flat of several fingers slapped her sex.
Abby cried out and jerked. What the hell?
She glared at Harris in shock, accusation.
Smack. Smack. Though mere taps, his slaps halted her progression toward orgasm. Abby snapped her thighs together.
“None of that, Abigail. Open your legs.” Disciplinarian Harris had returned. So had that melty feeling in the pit of her stomach. The urge to surrender, to please. But she still wasn’t sure how she felt about having her pussy spanked. Warily she spread her thighs.
Once, twice, a third time, he stung her sex with the flat of his hand. Punishment for her resistance. She bore the slaps without complaint. Message received. He controlled her orgasms. Pleasure, like pain, was his to administer.
He shifted her off his lap and guided her to kneel on the bed, then shrugged out of his clothes. His cock sprang out, straight and magnificent, pearls of precum glistening on the bulbous head. His gaze molten, Harris cupped the side of her face, stroked her lips with his thumb. Trailed his finger over her jaw, leaving a wake of tingles. Sizzled across her collarbone. Pinched hardened nipples to berry redness, then swept upwards to tangle in her hair.
Insistent pressure urged her to bow her head.
Abby moaned as she engulfed his cock.
“Yes, Abigail.” He praised with hoarse formality, disciplinarian and lover merging. He wrapped her hair around his fist. His warm, musky scent invaded her nostrils, his smooth length filled her mouth and throat. She pressed her tongue to his cock and sucked, drawing hard and deep while stroking the base of his shaft.
He mastered the rest, thrusting his hips, controlling the speed and depth of the plunge. She wasn’t fellating him as much as he was fucking her mouth. Her cheeks hollowed as she worked to please him. After one hard gag-inducing thrust, Harris yanked away. He positioned her on the bed, planted her face against the mattress and raised her bottom. A condom wrapper crinkled. Rubber snapped. Hardness pressed against her entrance and he filled her.
“Ah, Abby,” he groaned.
Her teased, spanked pussy clutched at him. Oh to be taken, to ride on the wave of a man’s lust. Pleasure in itself, whether she came or not, and she’d already had one orgasm. To be needed, to be used, to be commanded. Bliss and need coiled.
Abby gasped against the sheet as he fucked her fast and hard.
Harris snaked a hand over her hip. His touch, rough and insistent, manipulated her clit. Demanded a response. Pleasure cycled through her. Burned a path from clit to womb.
“Now, Abby, you may come,” he said.
Arrogant bastard. But she obeyed, her body shuddering. Harris followed seconds later, pumping into her with a jerk and a hoarse cry. She panted, still in the throes of climax. When passion cooled, Harris caressed her back and her inflamed ass. “Sweet Abby,” he said.
Shh! She thought and sighed with contentment.
Chapter Eight
Abby blinked when she found Dale waiting. “You made it!”
He pecked her cheek before pulling out her chair. She settled into it, imagining she could smell his familiar aftershave from the brief contact. As casually as she could, she scrubbed her skin. She had rejected meeting him at La Comida at first because she considered the restaurant hers and Harris’s place, but then Dale suggested Amore next and that was their place too. There weren’t many restaurants in Corbin’s Bend yet, and she and Harris had been to nearly all of them.
The problem wasn’t the venue but the company. She didn’t want to see Dale.
“Of course I made it— I invited you,” he chided.
By ‘made it’ she’d meant on time. She’d expected to arrive first, for Dale to be late as always. “Something important, you said?” She arched her eyebrows.
“Let’s order first, okay?” Dale motioned to the waitress.
Abby sighed. So much for listening, then leaving. But she supposed she had to eat. “I’ll have a taco salad,” she told the waitress. “Just water to drink.”
“Chicken enchiladas,” Dale said. “And water will be fine.”
Abby unrolled her silverware from her napkin, and placed the paper over her lap. She spread her hands. “So?”
“You were the first girl I ever kissed. I had a crush on you long before I ever got the nerve to ask you out.”
Old news. Their history had meant something once.
But now? “Why are you bringing that up?”
“I don’t want to lose you. Give me the chance to fix what I did. Love doesn’t wither and die, Abby, does it?” he gazed at her with a pleading light in his eyes.
Why force her to throw his professed love back in his face? He’d crushed her, but she disliked hurting him. Why did he put her in the position of doing so? Dale had failed at many things, but he had succeeded masterfully in making her feel guilty. Playing the victim, assigning her the role of hard ass, unsupportive spouse, nagging bitch. That wasn’t what she wanted to be. Wasn’t who she really was. But she’d become that during their marriage.
A spark of anger ignited and flared under the breadth of her emotions. Her love hadn’t withered and died, it had been battered and then finished off with a good stomping.
Abby tossed her napkin aside and sprang to her feet. “I’m done, Dale. I’ve told you. I’m not going to replay old times.”
“Abby wait!” He grabbed her wrist. “I’m sorry. That’s not what I came here to say. I have something to show you.” He tugged on her arm. “Give me one minute. Then you can leave.”
She glanced at his hand on her wrist. He opened his fingers and released her. Because of that she nodded. “One minute,” she agreed. Time starts now. She sat.
Dale extracted a bank book from his windbreaker pocket and nudged it toward her. “This is yours.”
Bank of Colorado, it said. She frowned.
“Open it,” he urged.
Abby flipped up the cover. Dated a week ago, the beginning balance read $20,000. She jerked her gaze to his face.
“A deposit toward what I owe you for what I did.”
“You’ve saved that kind of money moving furniture and delivering pizza?” She blurted out before waving her hand. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t accept it.” She handed him the passbook. Cash would not bring back granny’s house, and she’d moved beyond her past. She had a new man and a new lifestyle to explore.
Domestic discipline. Shivery remembrances quaked through her. The whoosh and snap, the sting, even the smell of leather. Calling him sir. Obeying his rules. No shushing. No sir. She stifled a smile. Funny, but in her marriage, she’d been the one to try to control, to keep Dale on the straight and narrow, wringing her hands over his job losses, managing money that never stretched far enough because it drained out the other end to pay for his gambling. She’d often felt more like Dale’s beleaguered mommy than his wife. How liberating to relinquish the burden of being in charge, to let somebody else do it—a sexy somebody who did it so well.