Under His Roof

by Quinn, Sadey

  I perk up. “Really?” So, I’m not the only one!

  “Really. You just need a reminder that you’re a human.” He pauses thoughtfully and I manage to look back up at him. “Anyway. After the session, I will give you some—”

  “Wait! What about during the session?”

  He shakes his head. “I told you, I’m not into playing out what will happen step by step. It’s not how I do business.”

  “I am business. Isn’t the customer always right?”

  “You’re a client. I’ve got many. I don’t need your business, so don’t you ever take that attitude with me. Got it?” His voice is strong and I shrink down in the booth.

  “I am going to continue,” he says. “Is that all right with you?”

  I nod, feeling sheepish.

  “After the session you will either be very emotional or confused or just fine. We can’t know that until we get there. Your butt will be sore.”

  My constant blush spreads through me, down my chest. Another sip of the martini cools the fire in my mind.

  “I typically give clients a few hours to relax. Some of them take a nap. Then, you’ll go home.”

  “And payment?”

  “You’ll pay me after the session. Electronic transfer.”

  “You trust me to do that? What if I just forget about it and don’t pay?”

  “You’ll pay.”

  “Yes, I will,” I say. This guy has no sense of business at all. “Don’t you get ripped off? By your other clients?”

  “No.”

  “Why? Seems like the obvious thing to do.”

  “Sometimes it takes them awhile to pay,” he says. He looks a little cocky. “But they always do.”

  “And what makes you so confident?”

  He shrugs. “If they want to come back for more, they have to settle up.”

  “Oh.” So they really do come back for more.

  David pulls out an agenda and flips through it. “It’s either tomorrow afternoon or next Sunday.”

  Geez. Two options. I mentally run through my schedule. Tomorrow is Saturday, so that could work, but is also incredibly soon. Then again, next Sunday is so far away. Can I really wait that long without backing out? I doubt it.

  I barely find my voice to say, “Tomorrow.”

  “Four o’clock?” he asks, pulling a pen out of his pocket and scribbling in his agenda. Will he really forget that he was scheduled to spank me? Is writing it down completely necessary?

  “Got another appointment in the morning?” I ask, my tone sarcastic.

  He sets his pen down. “No. I rarely schedule more than one a day.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because my arm gets tired.”

  My eyes widen and he bursts out laughing.

  “No, no, it’s not that. It’s because sometimes, very rarely…” he trails off, his smile thinning into a little frown, and he seems unsure how to continue. After a long pause he says, “Sometimes a client needs more time than anticipated to recuperate. I would never want to push someone out of my door if they weren’t ready. I’ve had clients spend the night in my spare bedroom.”

  “It hurts that bad?!” I’m alarmed now.

  “Emotionally, at times. You’ll be fine.” He gets up, pulls out his wallet, and places a ten dollar bill on the counter. “Settle up with her, would you? I need to go. I’ll see you tomorrow at four.”

  “Your address? Directions? Your phone number?” I’m near frantic now. This is it. He’s leaving. The plan is set. In stone.

  “Check your e-mail.” He holds out his hand and I shake it and then he leaves, just like that.

  ~2~

  David

  As I pull out of the parking lot of Maddy’s Place, my mind is whirling. Rachel Walker. That picture she sent me only vaguely reflects her beauty. In person, she is absolutely gorgeous.

  She certainly does need some discipline and I’m looking forward to doling it out.

  I’m always eager to meet new clients after they send me their forms. Rachel’s case is fairly typical. I’d say half of my clients, more or less, are dominant figures in their work or their home environment. Or, in the worst cases, both.

  Patricia, for example, came to see me this morning. She’s a high school principal and a single mom of three teenagers. Her life, at times, is a complete nightmare. When she comes to see me, she gets what she needs—a few hours to let someone else be in charge.

  I think that's what Rachel needs. She’d been so snippy with her responses to me. It’s clear it’s been awhile since she was put in her place. I wonder what made her realize that a spanking could be good for her. Was it a recommendation from a friend? Or just instinct? Curiosity?

  I can’t stop thinking about her bright eyes. Big and brown. Sparking and full of life. I resist the urge to imagine what she’ll look like, bare-bottomed and over my lap. Though at times it’s difficult, I always try to retain a professional attitude toward my clients.

  Marilyn's apartment is just a block out of my way. I wouldn't mind chatting with her. I pull over to give her a quick call and make sure it’s all right to drop by.

  “Yeah, sure. Just got home,” she says, her voice cheery.

  When I arrive, she buzzes me in, and I find her sitting at her kitchen counter. She's eating chocolate ice cream from the container. She’s still wearing her suit from work and I smile. She looks so professional, but all I see is my kid-sister, in pigtails and wearing pajamas, sneaking ice cream before bedtime.

  I grab a spoon and dig in. “How was your day?” I ask. The ice cream tastes fantastic, and I check the box for the brand.

  “Eh. So so. You?”

  “Good. Met a new client.”

  “Oh yeah? Still expanding that business of yours?” She raises her eyebrows at me.

  I shrug. “Not like I’ve got anything better to do.”

  She sets down her spoon and gives me a stern look, which makes me laugh. I abruptly stop and try my best to look apologetic.

  “I’m going to set you up on a date,” she says firmly.

  “No, you’re not.” The last time Marilyn set me up was a disaster. Kelsey Rowan. I’ve never met a woman who needed a spanking more than her. Unfortunately, Kelsey didn’t agree with my assessment.

  “David, you have to start dating. You can’t live alone in that big house for your whole life.”

  I frown, and know she has a point. “It’s difficult.”

  She nods. “I know.” She gives my shoulder a little squeeze.

  “What about you? Still seeing… what was his name?” I ask, changing the subject and feeling a little guilty that I can’t remember the name of the guy she’s seeing. I must have blocked it out.

  Marilyn rolls her eyes. “Randall. No, I’m not.”

  “Good. You deserve better.”

  She snorts and fake punches my shoulder. “I don’t think I’ve ever dated a guy you thought was good enough for me.”

  “No,” I say seriously. “You have not.”

  “TV?”

  “Yeah.”

  We sit on her couch and I forget about dating and disciplining for a half hour sitcom. Then I give my sister a hug and make my way home.

  Sparky, my golden retriever, is waiting impatiently for me. I let him outside and feed him before I sit down to e-mail Rachel. I’m glad I moved things along quickly with her. The temptation to back out of the first session is huge. I’ve found that encouraging sessions to happen sooner rather than later ensures that the client will go through with it.

  I send her directions and my updated list of references, wondering who she’ll call. Then, I do a thorough cleaning of my discipline room to make sure everything is in order for the following day. I need Rachel's session to go well, though I don’t quite understand exactly why. I take all of my clients seriously, but there’s something about Rachel that makes me want everything to go perfectly.

  Perhaps it’s because I can perceive her own need for a strong hand in her life.
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br />   I frown and think about Marilyn setting me up on a date. She’s right. I need a woman in my life. My house should be filled with a wife and children. It’s way too big to be a bachelor pad.

  But it’s too hard. Sometimes I think about approaching a client and suggesting a romantic relationship, but I know that would be horribly unprofessional. And borderline cruel. My clients trust me as their disciplinarian, and to even broach the subject of taking things to a new level would break their trust.

  Broaching the subject of a domestic discipline relationship with a potential girlfriend, though, is even more dangerous. I’ve tried it with my last three girlfriends, all of whom I’d been seeing for over a month. They were all clearly submissive, but they just couldn’t wrap their minds around the idea of submitting to a spanking from me. One of them enjoyed erotic spankings, but that was where she drew the line.

  Marilyn suggested looking online, and maybe she’s right. Still, something old-fashioned in me says that looking online for a girlfriend is wrong.

  I guess I’ve given up on the idea that I’ll ever get what I need.

  I sigh heavily and Sparky hears me and barks. At least I have him. He comes and sits by me and nuzzles his head under my arm, pushing me to pet him. I chuckle and give in.

  “Good boy, Sparky,” I whisper. I give him a final pat on the head and then go to bed, pushing thoughts of women out of my mind.

  ~3~

  Rachel

  David, true to his word, sent me a list of references, directions to his home, and his cell phone number. I print everything out immediately. He does live a ways out of town and, taking a quick look at a map, I see my office is directly in between my apartment and his home. I wonder if I should give Samantha a call and let her know where I’ll be, just in case I turn up missing and someone has to come find my body.

  But I know I can’t call her. As much as she dislikes me at the moment, there’s no way she’d let me go to some stranger’s house to be punished.

  I laugh to myself, because in spite of the fact that tomorrow will be difficult, it is fairly ridiculous I’m doing it at all. I open up the references and call one of the numbers. Gretta.

  She answers on the first ring.

  “Hi, um, Gretta?”

  “Yes, speaking.”

  “Hi. Yeah. My name is Rachel. I’m calling because… because…” I can’t get the words out and decide on something easier, hoping she’ll get the drift and take over. “I’m calling because we have a mutual acquaintance whom I’d like to know more about. David Jacobs.”

  “Oh! Yes, of course. Are you going to have a session with him?” she asks, with a cheerful southern accent.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Well, he’s safe as can be, sweetie. You don’t have to worry about that. Worry about the session itself, but don’t worry about being in danger.”

  I swallow hard. “And, the session…”

  She laughs. “You get what you ask for.”

  I don’t respond.

  “Listen, sweetie,” she says, her voice soft like she’s trying to be comforting, “by this time tomorrow you’ll feel incredible. Trust me. David’s got a way of making things right. I see him once a month.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. I’m a regular.”

  A regular. Wow. “Well, Gretta, thanks. You’ve put me at ease about my safety.”

  “You’re quite welcome. Enjoy. And feel free to call again if you’re confused or anything afterward. I’m happy to chat.”

  After hanging up with the friendly Gretta I decide to try to sleep, and this decision proves disastrous. I’m tossing and turning and cannot get my upcoming ‘session’ out of my head. I make some tea and try to read until I feel my eyelids get heavy.

  When I wake up my reading light is on, my book is on my chest and my upper body is slouched on the pillows. It’s light outside. I’ve slept through the night, but my body is all kinked up from falling asleep sitting up.

  This, I decide, is the perfect excuse for a massage.

  Pedro, my normal masseur, is available at two, so I spend the morning anticipating that appointment rather than the one at four o’clock. I check my e-mail to see if David has written anything else but he hasn’t. A long, hot bath soothes me, and I shave my legs for the sake of both my masseur and David.

  When Pedro arrives, he sets up his table and I sit to the side in my bathrobe, watching him. Pedro is an incredibly sexy Argentinian who became my favorite masseur for both his intense touch and his good looks. This, I realize, is wrong in some ways but I don’t think Pedro minds at all. I once asked the receptionist at the massage parlor about his popularity among their clients and she said, “You’ve no idea. He could work twenty four hours a day if he wanted to. I bet he makes more than you.”

  That wouldn’t surprise me, considering what I dole out for an hour long massage. But I happily relax on the table when he tells me to, and I get lost in his touch and forget about the world and my upcoming punishment.

  The hour goes way too fast. Pedro turns around while I put my robe on and then I scribble him a check. It’s three fifteen. I will have to leave almost immediately.

  I’ve already chosen my outfit. Because I’m not sure how sore I’ll be afterward, I’m wearing yoga pants over simple cotton panties. For a top, a modest t-shirt and comfortable sports bra. I look like I’m headed to the gym.

  The directions David provided are excellent, and soon I’m driving along the country, hilly road toward his house. It occurs to me that he could live so far out of town because of his strange vocation. What would a neighbor say if they heard him spanking me?

  I find his house easily and pull into his driveway, parking next to what's presumably David's black Toyota pick-up truck. I take a moment to assess the location. The house is gorgeous. It’s two stories with amazing lattice work on the windows and a small gazebo to the side. His lawn is well manicured, with nice landscaping and a vegetable garden. A large apple tree stands right in the middle of the yard, and a golden retriever is lounging in its shade, barely lifting his head to peer at my car.

  It all seems very ordinary. I take a deep breath, then another. Then another. Somehow I cannot get myself to open my car door. I see his front door swing open and there he is, in jeans and a white t-shirt, and he waves at me.

  “C’mon in, Rachel,” he calls.

  I sigh and tell myself to stop being a wuss. My legs are shaking but I manage to walk up the path to his front door, where he’s still standing, smiling at me.

  “Take off your shoes, please,” he says as he steps aside to let me inside.

  I look down and see he’s wearing white socks, no shoes. I kick off my sneakers and follow him meekly into his home.

  “Want a glass of juice?” he asks.

  “Sure,” I say, thinking, with a few shots of vodka. I haven’t had juice, except in the form of a mixer, for years.

  He hands me a cool glass of orange juice and I sip it and it feels… wholesome. “Let’s have a seat in the dining room. We can discuss things there before we move on.”

  Following him, I take a seat at the modest wooden table. Everything about David’s home is so regular and I find it oddly comforting. He's just a normal guy.

  Who happens to make a living spanking women.

  Deep breaths, Rachel.

  He sits adjacent to me and he has a manila file folder that has my name on it.

  “So you’re here today for discipline,” he says.

  I look down and my face is burning. There is a lump in my throat and I cannot speak.

  “You didn’t give me a lot of information regarding severity. I’d venture to guess that you haven’t been spanked before?”

  I shake my head.

  “I’m planning to take this session slow. Like I said last night, the first time is often a bit experimental. We’ll find out what works. One thing you should know, however, is that my clients usually, at some point during their session, regret asking for discipli
ne.”

  I look at him in disbelief. Shouldn’t he have warned me about this last night?!

  “You won’t regret it afterward,” he continues. “Just during. If you didn’t, this wouldn’t work.”

  “Oh,” I whisper, shifting uncomfortably.

  “Tell me why you’re here, Rachel,” he says softly.

  I fidget. I don't know what to say. “I’m… I’ve become… rude. To people. To my friends.”

  “Who besides your friends are you rude to?”

  I shrug. Just about everyone, is what I’m thinking. “I don’t know… my staff… my family…”

  David is raising his eyebrows. Not in a judgmental way, but in a ‘you’re about to get what’s coming to you’ way. “Do you think it helps your staff when you are rude to them?”

  I shake my head. “It’s just… they often don’t do things correctly.”

  “Do you do everything correctly?”

  “Yes. For the most part.”

  He chuckles. “Of course. Tell me about your friends.”

  I am very uncomfortable and feel like I’m at a therapy session. Which I suppose, in some strange ways, I am. “I’ve been distant. Distracted. Work keeps me busy.”

  “So you would like to reconnect with them?”

  “Yeah, I guess. But…”

  “They might not want to reconnect with you,” he says, finishing my sentence.

  I’m feeling sad now, not anxious, and I look at him mournfully. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, Rachel, I think you deserve exactly what you’re asking for.”

  The anxiety returns in a flash.

  “Now, let’s discuss logistics. I have a room reserved for discipline sessions. The entire session will be conducted in that room. There is an adjoining bathroom if you need it. There is also a bed—reserved entirely for sleeping. Nothing about this will be sexual. Is that clear?”

  “Of course.” I know he’s stating the obvious, but I’m glad he said it out loud.

  “Good. Today you’ll get a hand spanking, which will take up most of the session. Spanking you with my hand will help me really understand how much you can take. We will conclude with a short paddling. Clear?”