What's happened? Are you okay?
It was now or never, but what could she say? That Peyton had hit her? In another hour, her co-workers and the preschoolers would see the marks, and they would know. She'd make her excuses, but they'd know anyway. She'd been through all this before. Foundation and cover-up would lighten the bruise, but they would do nothing to mask the swelling or broken skin. And to make it worse, she was alone. Ana should have felt better about that, but the truth was, she didn't. She felt lost instead. She wanted to ask for advice or reassurance, but the thought of telling someone how stupid she was to let herself be so abused made her feel hopeless.
Smothering her rising frustration, she ended up revealing the one part of the story that she'd hoped never to have to share with anyone. Peyton and I had a fight, and she hit me.
Miranda's response snapped up into the chat box with lightning speed. How badly are you hurt?
The computer screen began to blur. Maybe she had been wrong to tell, but Ana's heart lightened. She wanted to cry to Miranda, but she was afraid to seem too clingy. I'm fine but look awful. Black and blue are the new colors for fall, anyway.
Now came a pause on Miranda's end. Maybe it was Ana's imagination, but it felt like a heavy pause. And an angry one.
Don't worry, she typed, a flush of embarrassment burning up through her cheeks. She shouldn't have said anything. Last time it got infected, but I put antiseptic cream on it last night and it looks good right now. It stings when I touch it and I can't use cover-up until the skin heals.
Last time? You mean, she's done this before?
It was hard to hear 'tone' in online conversations, but for some reason, that felt angry, too. Too confused and guilty to continue, Ana tried switching topics. The kids were cute yesterday. There's a little girl who wants to be Iron Man, so she puts everything over her face like the mask. She climbed onto the table and jumped off. Thank goodness she landed on a pile of cushions.
Are you in danger right now?
Then there's a little girl, Sophia, who says she's going to be the next Sophia Grace. She's learned all the lyrics to the Nicki Minaj song, and we keep telling her not to sing it at school. Especially since we're at church and the song mentions panties flying off. Some of the parents think it's cute, but others have complained.
Is Peyton still there, Ana?
My co-teacher, well the main teacher really, since I'm the assistant, says we can't allow any non-Christian music at school or else we'll get in trouble. But you can sing, 'If I Were a Butterfly' only so many times, you know? I can see why the kids want something different. I like Sara Bareilles. Have you ever listened to her?
Enough. My lovely, I will talk about your work and pop music any other time you want, but right now you're scaring me. If you want to drop the subject, fine. But you've got three seconds to tell me you're safe, or I am coming to get you.
Ana stared at her computer screen. She'd have given anything to have Miranda, this woman she had never even met, walk into her house right now. You don't know where I live.
I admit, giving me your address would make the search easier.
The heavy weight crushing in her chest lightened. Ana almost smiled, except the pain in her cheek cut that short. You don't have to come. I told her to leave last night, and she did.
Do you think she'll come back tonight?
No. Yes, but she knew better than to say so. I gave her money for a hotel and told her I would call the police.
I am so sorry, but I am proud of you for standing up to her.
For the first time today, Ana began to cry. She hadn't expected Miranda to respond this way. Why am I so sad?
Because it hurts to lose someone we thought we loved.
Ana swiped at both eyes with the back of her wrist. She sniffled hard, because getting a tissue would mean either going to the bathroom down the hall or blowing her nose on a rough paper towel. I did love her. The 'did' startled her. She hadn't wanted to admit it to herself. She loved Peyton, but in the past tense. Not now. She hadn't for months.
I know. I wish you were here right now, or I were there. I could hold you while you cried it all out. The cursor paused for a moment, and a second response popped up to join the first. I'd even offer a hankie for your boogies.
Boogies? Ana laughed out loud at the unexpectedness of her humor. It felt good. Strange, but good. If that's the same as boogers, then gross, Miranda! I get enough of that at school. Boogers, snot, half-eaten candy, gum, you name it. One kid got lipstick all over my favorite jeans because he thought it was a crayon.
As quickly as the humor had come upon her, it abandoned her, leaving her feeling tired. Pushing out of her chair, Ana grabbed a paper towel from the counter and blew her nose. She gave her eyes an exhausted rub as she returned to her computer. She should stop talking about it now, but the moment her rested her fingers on the keyboard, the words just came tumbling out. Can I ask you another question?
Always.
Why do you think she… Ana struggled to finish that sentence, but her pause was so long that Miranda must have guessed.
Why she hit you?
Yeah.
I don't know Peyton so I can't say, but what she did is not your fault. No one has the right to hit you. Do you understand me?
She did, but she didn't. She said getting spanked, hit, same thing.
No! Ana could all but feel the crackling wrath with which that response snapped up onto the computer screen. When I spank someone, I am offering my love and guidance to someone I find intelligent, attractive, and deserving of that love. Cowards hit as a way of casting their blame onto others.
"When I spank someone…" A stirring rush of wanting wound its way through her. Miranda had threatened (offered?) to spank her just yesterday. Did she still? Do you like me?
Yes, my lovely. I do.
The next question was even harder to ask than the first. Would you spank me, Miranda?
Do you want me to?
Yes. Ana bit her lip. Yes, please.
Silence. For almost a full minute, the cursor didn't move. I would dearly love to give you want you want, sweetheart. But if I did, I would be guilty of taking advantage of you in a moment of extreme vulnerability. What if you regretted it later? You could hate me for doing this.
Please. I want… 'to be wanted', she would have confessed, but that part stuck inside Ana and refused to be typed out. Miranda was going to think she was crazy, or worse, desperate and needy. Yesterday she had thrown Peyton out; today, all she wanted to do was crawl through however many miles of cable stretched between them until she could curl up in Miranda's lap.
She wanted Miranda. It wasn't reasonable. It wasn't rational. Maybe it wasn't anything other than a rebound romance, but Ana didn't think so. Why had it taken a sore cheek and Peyton's absence to make her realize she felt something—something that did not qualify as innocent and was significantly less than platonic—for Miranda? She'd been feeling it far longer than she wanted to admit. Perhaps Peyton had had good reason to be so insecure. Perhaps it was a good thing her mouth and cheek hurt this much. She deserved the pain.
A spanking would hurt even more, a little voice inside her whispered, and maybe then she'd be able to banish this awful sense of worthlessness, creeping up—ugly as an oil slick—inside her. A spanking from Miranda wouldn't leave her feeling worthless, that same little voice said again. Nothing that Miranda did to her could possibly leave her feeling anything but elated and cherished.
I need you to do this for me, Ana begged. This was irrational, and she knew it. Here she was, an adult, building something as silly as a spanking up in her mind as if it were tantamount to personal redemption. It probably wouldn't even feel that way while it was happening. How was this supposed to happen anyway? She and Miranda, the real Miranda, had never met. She could live anywhere in the world. She could be a scientist, studying penguins in Antarctica for all she knew, but suddenly every precious conversation she'd had with Miranda now felt more real to An
a than anything she had shared with Peyton in the last fifteen months. There was something special here. Ana felt special here, and she couldn't for the life of her imagine Miranda ever hurting her.
Despite her tear-filled eyes, she laughed. Please, she typed, in that moment so lost in her own fragility that she revealed so much of her battered soul that it scared her. She actually trembled as she stared at her own words, bold as black ink on the computer screen. I just want, just for a little while, not to be wrong.
Miranda's response took so long in coming, that Ana thought for sure she'd just lost the one person she'd come to believe was her closest friend.
She couldn't bear it. Her hands attacked the keyboard, her fingers beating out a rapid burst of plastic clicks that culminated in a slap at her Enter key. Her backtracking apology—I'm sorry! I'm tired! I don't know what I'm saying—winked up into the chat window right beneath the reply Miranda must have sent while her head had been battling. Ana's chest tightened and her heart pounded, beating against the restriction of her ribs until it hurt so much that she clutched her breastbone, pushing in with both hands in an effort to stop the pain. She didn't realize she was holding her breath until the pulse at her temples began to rage from lack of oxygen.
All right. I'll do it.
CHAPTER FOUR
Go select a wooden spoon from the kitchen and return to tell me when you've done it. Go now. I will not tell you twice. As Miranda finishing typing that, she caught herself. She had one split second of, 'What are you doing' panic, when she could have stopped, but her hands were moving as if with a life all their own. The next thing she knew, she had hit Enter, sending the command shooting out across the Internet, straight to Ana's computer.
How could she? As a professional Domme, she knew better than this. No one as heart sore and wounded as Ana was could give consent. She might as well be trying to negotiate a scene with a woman lost in subspace! Don would have flayed her alive if he'd known she… what was she doing?
Being a friend, Miranda hoped. She was a dominant woman, trying her best to take care of a submissive—maybe submissive, or possibly only kink-curious, and at this point did it really matter?—woman she cared about long distance. Try hard as she might to convince herself that she had no reason to be ashamed of herself, or that this had nothing to do with Ana's sudden availability on the potential 'girlfriend' market, she knew she wasn't going to stop.
My stirring spoons are all plastic and curved. I'm not sure how well that will work, so I got a rubber spatula instead. Is that ok?
She'd obeyed.
An old familiar zap of sensual expectation (the same heightening of awareness Miranda always felt when descending into a highly anticipated scene with a very alluring bottom) shot up her spine into the back of her head. Ana had gone to the kitchen, fetched an implement and returned with it. No ambiguity there. She had demanded; Miranda had risen to her challenge, and now there was nothing left to do but allow effect to follow cause.
Somewhere in the world, Ana stood in front of her laptop with a spatula in her hands—her nervous little hands, perhaps.
Miranda should say something. The longer it took her to reply, the more Ana would begin to fear she might back out… or worse, that she was a Dominant incapable of leading. It's more than adequate. Where are you now?
My kitchen.
What are you wearing?
A t-shirt and my boxers. If you want me to take them off, should I put on some boom-chick-a stripper music?
For the first time since the conversation had turned ugly, Miranda cracked a smile. "Little girl, you did not just get mouthy with me!"
Miranda had lived and worked at the Castle for too long to allow a bratty submissive to deflect with sass—no matter how serious the situation, or how amusing the sass… or how desperately she found herself wanting said submissive. Sheer instinct took control, moving over her like a familiar blanket. Bend over, young lady. Do as you're told. I will end this conversation before I accept any more sass out of you.
Yes, Ma'am!
Those two words fired her longing like no others in the English language. However, Ana had probably typed them with more cheek and less repentance than befitted someone on the verge of a good spanking.
* * * * *
Bend over, young lady. Such a small and simple order, and yet it sent a rush of excitement humming through her every nerve. Bend over.
At last she was going to discover what a real spanking felt like, and yet it didn't seem real, somehow. Her stomach twisted, filled with the strangest fluttering, while lower down, an even stranger fluttering was moving through her sex. Like a soft, fingerless caress. She shook with nerves, wringing that silly spatula between her hands. Knowing she had to say something, she bent to type back. How? Do you want me to hold my ankles?
And how was she going to keep up her end of this online conversation in that kind of pose? She was going to have to put her laptop on the floor.
I want you to go to your bedroom. Place your laptop in the middle of the bed and lay your pillow lengthwise along the edge of your mattress. Bend over the pillow. Now.
Ana's whole body buzzed. She hadn't felt this alive in months. Not since the day she and Peyton had first locked eyes across that crowded coffee shop… No. She didn't want to think about that right now. Not while her cheek was still throbbing.
Moving her laptop to her bedroom, Ana arranged the bed as she'd been instructed. In order to reach her keyboard, she had to brace one arm against the mattress, stretch across the blankets and peck-type a one-handed message: Okay, I did what you said.
Clutching the spatula in her other hand, she lay down and tried to get comfortable in what instantly became a rather embarrassing position. There wasn't anyone here to see her in it, but having her bottom sticking right up on the pillow like this left her feeling very exposed. Vulnerable.
Bend over the pillow. Chest on the bed, feet on the floor, and naughty bottom up in the air. You, young lady, are about to get exactly what you've been asking for.
Peyton had been a wonderful kisser and a passionate lover when she wanted to be. But none of her best efforts had soaked Ana's panties in so little time. Ana had to fight the urge to bury her face in the blankets and moan. She drummed her feet on the floor, but then managed to pull herself together enough to reply. Okay.
Heady excitement bubbled through her veins like sparkling champagne. A low pulse of desire rooted between her legs, waiting for Miranda's next command. Why was it taking so long? Maybe Miranda was having second thoughts. Maybe she was leaving Ana to wait deliberately, letting the anticipation build and build until she could no longer tell the difference between it and anxiety.
So, you like men's boxers, hm? Well, you should know that spankings are best delivered on the bare. Take your undergarments down. I want you to bare your naughty bottom for me.
Ana covered her mouth, stifling an involuntary cry. No one was here to see it, and still her face flushed hot. She laid the spatula by her laptop and reached back with both hands. Lifting her hips, she shoved her shorts and panties down to the middle of her thighs. The elastic scraped her skin, making her squirm. If she were careful not to let her own fingers touch her skin, she could almost make-believe that it was Miranda peeling the thin fabric down over the swells of her buttocks. She blushed as cool air wafted into places best kept private… places already growing damp and hot.
Adjusting her position on the pillow, she caught a glimpse of herself in the dresser mirror across the room. Tousled hair, because she hadn't brushed it yet this morning. Pink cheeks. The northern set, at least. The southern were cool and round with the sexiest hint of intimate shadow between her thighs, barely seen from this angle. She looked good like this, Ana thought. No, she looked better than good. She looked… spankable.
Okay. I'm bare. Just having to type those words made Ana's blush deepen. She saw it in the mirror and felt the blaze of warmth blossom in both her belly and her face.
Normally I would
lecture you while putting you in this position, but it wasn't your bad behavior that brought you to this.
Molten wetness flooded through her, dampening her thighs. Cool air caught and kissed the moisture, heightening her sensual awareness and making the throb inside her deepen. It was pulsing through her clit now. She squirmed all over again, desperate not to touch and make this sensation that much worse. If I need to be bad first, I could guzzle a bottle of Hershey's syrup straight out of the fridge. It's hours yet until dinner, but I don't mind ruining my appetite and making myself sick.
I love your sass, young lady, Miranda typed back. But if I were you, I would give serious thought to curbing that naughty tendency right now. You're not in the smartest position right now to be so mouthy. Although, I do like that you're obviously feeling better now.
Yes. She wished Miranda were sitting here on the bed beside her, wielding the rubber-tipped implement Ana currently held. Does this mean you're not going to spank me after all?
Oh no. You've asked for this; you're going to get it. Five swats. Do it now and make them count, or you'll get them over again.
Excitement warred with silliness as Ana twisted around on the pillow to give herself that first biting spank, but she couldn't put a decent swing into the too-light implement in her awkward position. That… that didn't feel anything at all like she'd imagined it would. Disappointment trickled into her, dulling the intensity of desire's heady pulse. She tried to do better on the next swing, and then the next, and the next, but the ineffectiveness carried through to the final swat.
Ana lay in position, staring at the useless spatula in her hand and feeling nothing except disenchantment. Okay. I'm done.
Not until I say, young lady. Do it again, and this time, do it right.
Frowning at the computer screen, Ana hefted the spatula again and twisted about on the pillow. The 'spanking', if she had to be honest, sucked. She couldn't get the right angle, the spatula handle was too short, and she couldn't reach back high enough to spank the right spot. She'd hoped to be sore where she would later have to sit down, but instead the spanks landed mostly on her outer hip instead. Still, she forced herself to strike harder. As her frustration mounted, she got in one startlingly crisp smack as the scraper bounced back off her rounded bottom on the last swat, and she winced in surprise.
Ana Adored: Mistress of the Castle (Masters of the Castle) Page 4
