He didn't double it over, but rather held the buckle in his right hand and wound the rest of it around, leaving about twelve inches or so of what looked like relatively stiff leather left. And he didn't dawdle once he was ready, either, but took a position to my left and drew his arm back, bringing it forward very quickly and with great purpose, landing a stroke right in the middle of my butt, where it was at its fullest crest.
Dear God. I couldn't even begin to process the pain of that first crack across my behind before he brought that implement down the next time, and again, and then again, and when my mind finally caught up with my traumatized flesh, I positively howled out every single bit of air my lungs contained. I dragged it back in loudly, sounding like a freight train, my mouth left wide open the entire time, which made it that much easier for him to put a sock roll in it, which he kept in place with a knee-high stocking he found rummaging in the top drawer of my dresser, right next to him, tying it at the back of my head.
He had gagged me! Now, no matter how fiercely I wailed, almost nothing made it past the sock!
He saw the outraged look on my face and smiled, not prettily. "If we were someplace more isolated, I wouldn't bother with that—in fact, I prefer to hear you scream while I punish you. But I'd also prefer not to have to explain what I was doing to the cops."
I had no idea how many times the belt splatted across me. I didn't count, and I was damned glad he didn't expect me to or I would have been royally screwed. This man could reduce me—with frightening skill—to mindless jelly in two ways—blissfully and painfully. My original assessment of him was absolutely correct—he was effing dangerous!
Although my eyes were open—tear filled but open—and I could see him in the mirrors the entire time, but I couldn't actually see him. My mind was subverted completely by the agony of my body.
He was lecturing, too, and I should have been listening to him, I know, but the pain roared through my ears the same way it tore through the rest of me, and I only caught bits of what he was saying.
"—always answer me—"
"—expect more of this—"
"—strict—"
"—swift correction—"
"—plugged—"
If any of them were going to catch my attention it was the last one, but even then, I really only heard that word.
When he stopped—the belt still wrapped around his hand, breathing heavily—he squatted behind me, and even though I thought I was half dead from what he'd done to me, I still managed to feel embarrassed as he tried to cup me from behind. But my legs were clamped too tightly together, so he smacked the backs of each of them, adding insult to injury. "Open."
Too aware of the proximity of the belt, I immediately did as I was told, but apparently, not quickly enough for him. Two more slaps in exactly the same spot. This time, I parted my legs so far that I could barely keep my balance.
"Better."
His fingers began to root around between my legs and he laughed triumphantly at what he found. "You protest pretty loudly for a girl who's dripping wet."
With a crisp smack to each of my already ruined cheeks, he put the belt—still mostly rolled up—on the nightstand. Way too close at hand for my comfort, on what I had already begun to think of as his side of the bed, and held me, just held me, soothing and caressing me, for the longest time, stroking me all over, my hair, my arms, my sides, and down my thighs, as if he was—at the same time—trying to imprint his ownership on me.
And it was working, entirely too well.
"WHAT'S HIS NAME, ANYWAY?" Carla asked.
When I hesitated, she laughed.
"You did get his name after all of that, didn't you?"
I mock glared at her, spritzed her with water from my glass. "Yes, I did, but I seem to have a mental block about it—it's unusual, give me a minute." I thought about it—recalling what I had cried out when he had brought me off. "Quinton Palmer."
She looked as if she was trying to think of something for a moment. "Geez, that sounds familiar, although I have no idea why."
"Maybe you dated him?"
That just got me a derisive snort. "No, men the size of mountains are your deal, not mine."
We dug into our salads in a companionable silence until she asked, "Did he bring you off again, or did he leave you hanging?"
Why I colored at that question, I will never know. I'd never had any problems talking to Carla about my sex life before. Of course, she'd known the men I'd slept with at least as well as I did—lots of them had been friends of hers.
Unlike Quint.
"He did. I screamed again. I think I'm still screaming." I wasn't lying—thinking about what he'd done to me had me contracting in my pants.
"He's that good?" She seemed skeptical, but then I got the idea that she and her husband only had sex when they wanted a kid. She always seemed so amazed at my sex life, and I considered mine tame—until now—in comparison to lots of women.
I didn't much like the answer to that question, but I didn't shirk from replying honestly. "I swear, it's as if he was made for me, by me. It's absolutely frightening just how compatible we are sexually."
She took a sip of her drink. "But what about otherwise? There's more to a good relationship than just sex."
Said the woman who wasn't having any, I thought, but didn't say. "We went on two dates this week and he was more gentlemanly than any other man I've ever been with. Does that help your opinion of him? It certainly did mine."
Carla's eyes went wide. "Really?"
"Yeah, I know—I was surprised and impressed, too. More so than I wanted to be, frankly."
I supposed I needn't have been. He might be dominant, but in each case when we'd come together, he'd taken wonderful care of me, and the dates had only been more of that. He wasn't nearly as autocratic as I would have thought he'd be, asking for my input about where I wanted to go and he seemed just as happy when we settled on the de rigueur dinner and a movie. We were both sci-fi fans, so we ended up at the latest blockbuster release and he seemed to enjoy himself as thoroughly as I did.
But I could sense that his dommish self was never very far from the surface—with me, anyway—and when we couldn't seem to agree on a place for dinner—more because neither of us apparently had a taste for anything in particular—he took matters in hand and chose for us, taking me to a steakhouse.
"You're not a vegetarian, are you?" he asked belatedly as he walked swiftly around the front of his twenty-year-old-if-it-was-a-day pickup and swung me down, out of it, looking hesitant for the first time since I'd known him, I thought, and about something so small that it struck me as endearing.
"No." I chuckled. "I'm not. I suppose I should be, since I adore animals, but I also love a good steak entirely too much to give it up."
I continued to fill Carla in by telling her it was a weeknight and we were seated almost immediately. He kept up a steady stream of questions about me, as well as very thoughtful responses that proved he was actually listening to me, which, unfortunately, was a skill that I had noticed of late was distinctly lacking in most men, who seemed to want to make everything all about them.
He asked me the usual stuff about my family, where I'd grown up and gone to school, how I'd ended up in Vermont, then asked a few questions about where I worked and whether or not I liked it.
And I kept up my own side of things, asking him about the same things, as well as his work—which he was kind of vague about, saying it had to do with computers, which intrigued me because he didn't seem like any of the nerds I worked with on a daily basis. But when I questioned him further, he distracted me by putting his hand on my upper thigh under the table, and pretty much all coherency left me from that point on.
"I thought you weren't supposed to be having sex?" Carla pounced.
I gave her a disbelieving look. "Fondling me is not having sex."
"Did you come in the restaurant?"
Feigning outrage, I huffed, "I most certainly did not!"
> Her eyebrow rose and she guessed again. "The truck, afterwards?"
"No!"
"Did you bring him off?"
"No, I said no sex—that's of any type."
As the waitress put our entrees in front of us, she asked in a dubious tone, "And just how long do you think this is going to last?"
But I was ready with my response, having anticipated her question long since because I'd been pondering it myself since he'd left my place that day. "As long as he lets it. I'm not going to be the one to suggest ending it—I want to get to know the guy on a level other than sexual. Besides, it's not like we're not having sex at all. I'm going to his place tomorrow—I'm supposed to be there by eight."
She looked crestfallen. "I thought you were coming back to the house for drinks?"
"Drinks" was a euphemism for getting soused occasionally in the comfort of one's own home or one's best friend's home, anyway—drinking the Patron she kept stocked just for me, usually watching chick flicks and eating ice cream with all the accoutrement, which was the drug of choice at our binge parties, which were always at her place or mine so we could really let our hair down in a way you really couldn't as a female at a bar.
Or rather, shouldn't, as I had found out.
The jury was still out as to whether Quint and I were really a good thing, although I had to admit that it was looking good.
"I can still come. I just either have to go home at a reasonable hour and get some sleep or set the alarm on my phone for six or so, so I can go home and take a shower and arrive at his place not wearing what I wore the night before, preferably."
We finished our dinners, went to her place and laughed ourselves silly through Bridget Jones' Diary, cried our way through The Notebook and then—very drunkenly—giggled our way through Hot Tub Time Machine, before I looked up and realized with alarm that it was two in the morning and that I had to get up in four hours.
I did have the presence of mind—barely—to set my alarm, but it went off so early in the morning that I hit "dismiss" rather than "snooze" when it went off and rolled back over and right back to sleep.
I didn't wake up until almost ten, when Carla tapped on my door.
I stat up in bed instantly, knowing I was completely fucked, and I was absolutely right.
I texted him immediately that I was going to be late—deciding to risk making things worse by going to my place, showering and dressing in something other than slobby jeans and a t-shirt. I chose a relatively casual jersey knit dress with a scoop neck and a floaty skirt.
It wasn't exactly a date, but looking reasonably good couldn't hurt, I thought.
He didn't text me back, so, on the way there, I tried to call him. It went to voicemail. Either he was extremely busy, or he was giving me a taste of my own medicine.
When I got to his place, which was a pretty bungalow in a middle-class neighborhood, I knocked on the door, waiting quite some time—to the point that I began to wonder if he was even home—before he opened it.
His look was anything but welcoming.
"Do you want me to come in, or should I just go home?" I asked, feeling very uncertain about whether or not I should have come at all.
And his answer did nothing to calm the bats in my tummy.
"Do you really think you have that choice, little girl?" he asked, holding the door open and his hand out to me at the same time.
CHAPTER 4
Something about that hand gave me pause for a moment and I looked up at him. His face was almost suspiciously blank. Unlike when we originally met, and even different from when he'd arrived on my doorstep, I felt as if this was the first time I was really committing myself to submit to him, and it was a big step.
His hand never wavered—not one bit. He let me stand there and think without comment—and then, after an almost uncomfortably long while, I put my much smaller hand into his, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was the same one with which he was going spank me—or paddle me—or God forbid, use his belt on me again—or however else he might decide to correct me.
And it was also the same one that would make me scream in entirely other ways, too. If he allowed it. It was that thought that had me spasming in my panties as I entered his house, looking around surreptitiously, wishing I remembered more than I did about it. Its interior was rather drab, as if someone had furnished it in the seventies and never had the money or the interest in redecorating it.
But it was cleaner than my place; I had to give him that. Kudos to him for being a good housekeeper—who'd've thought it? Most of the nerds I knew were slobs.
Once he got me inside, he pulled me to him, and I was reminded—after several days without him—just how small and delicate he could make me feel without even trying.
Wanting to get it over with first thing, I said, "I'm sorry I'm late—"
But he shook his head. "Don't say it."
"Don't say what?" I asked back, wondering how I could dare to give him attitude when my ass was already in a sling—and could be literally in one, shortly.
One eyebrow rose and I straightened up. "Were you sick or hurt?"
"No."
"Did someone important to you die?"
"No."
"Did you have to work?"
"No."
"Those are the only reasons I would ever excuse you for not being wherever I told you to be, when I told you to be there. And even then—unless it's an emergency—I expect you to let me know as soon as you know you're not going to be here."
"So you can reschedule my spanking around the funeral?"
Did I have a death wish, or what?
That arm contracted just a bit around my waist and I soon found myself being held literally above him. "So that I could be with you and help you through it in the first two cases, but in the latter, yes. I'm not a monster. I understand about work obligations and family emergencies, and if you're sick, I'm gonna want to take care of you."
I couldn't help my surprised look, which he ignored.
"Let me guess. You were out with your friends—"
"Friend."
"And you got drunk."
"Yes."
He gave me a considering glance. "You seem to do a lot of that."
I really didn't, and I was, for some reason, horrified that he thought that. "Not really. You can ask my friend."
"I don't care about your friend. I care about you. You overslept, right?"
"Yes."
He set me down, finally, tipping my chin up. "And where, exactly, did you sleep?"
I wondered if he was asking whether I'd been with a man last night. We really hadn't discussed fidelity at all, and I didn't know if he considered that it was a given. Considering how he looked, I bet he had to shake them out of his bed. "At my friend's house."
"Girlfriend?"
Bingo. I liked being right. "Yes. I don't have a boyfriend or even really a boy who's a friend."
His eyebrow rose. "You don't?"
I blushed. "I-I haven't come to think of us in that vein yet, and I'm not sure whether I should, even. Sorry."
He tugged me through the house to the master bedroom, which was much more nicely appointed than the rest of the place, with a king-sized bed and relatively new furniture, saying ominously, "Well, you can stop saying that now—because you're really not, but I can promise you, you will be shortly."
I surprised him by jerking my hand out of his suddenly. "But I am so sorry."
He turned and put his hands on his hips. I don't know why that made my privates contract in a distractingly pleasant manner, but it did. "You're sorry that there are going to be consequences to your actions. And perhaps you're even coming to regret our little pact, but if you truly respected me as your dom, you wouldn't have anything to feel sorry for, because your ass would have been here—even still half in the bag—this morning, at eight. I would probably have given you a big glass of water to help your hangover and then tucked you into my bed. You would've gotten a spanking for showing up
hungover, but it would have been a light one."
I pursed my lips together, knowing that he was at least partially right, then bit my lip at his description of him caring for me. Maybe I had deliberately hit the "dismiss" button rather than "snooze" because I wanted to find out what the big man would do.
And now that I was actually here, I realized that I really, truly did not want to know the answer to that. Although I was about to find out, whether I wanted to or not.
"Get on the bed."
When I hesitated for a nanosecond, I found myself picked up and dropped there abruptly.
"Take off all of your clothes, get on all fours on the edge of the bed, put your right cheek on the bedspread, and stretch your arms out above your head. And don't move—anything, anywhere."
I could hear him moving around behind me, not wanting to think about what he might be doing. I followed his directions as closely and carefully as I could, but not carefully enough, apparently.
The crack to my left butt cheek when he came near me had me yelping in surprise.
"Higher."
I raised my bottom to a truly obscene height.
My right side wasn't left out in this, either as it received a tremendous swat. "Legs apart. From now on, I don't want to see your legs completely closed—no crossing them, ever. You are always to make yourself completely available to me. If I want you—no matter where you are—you are to submit immediately, without thought."
I wasn't at all sure I could do that, but I was certain I hadn't said it out loud.
"You'll get there. It'll be a long—sore, embarrassing—road, but you will, I promise you. And the way that you'll feel once you do will make you feel as if you're orgasming constantly—even when you're at work and haven't seen me for days."
Hidden Desires Page 4