My Naughty Little Secret

by Finnegan, Tara

  “Hi, you were looking for me,” I started nervously as he picked up.

  “Hi yourself, I just missed you and was hoping to get to talk to you.”

  I could feel the tension slip away from my body. I was glad the fight was over. I really liked nice Michael; it was just sometimes bossy Michael intimidated me. I liked bossy Michael too, but I didn’t want to be afraid of him. And above all else I hated not knowing what was going on in his head. We had a lot to sort out, but we were both hiding from something. I just wished I knew what it was.

  Chapter Eleven

  The rest of the weekend passed all too quickly and Sunday evening arrived with a bang. I arrived at Heathrow, panty-less as instructed. Michael was waiting for me at Heathrow.

  “I’m sorry about Friday night,” I offered tentatively.

  I knew I was in for a spanking as soon as I got to his apartment. I was nervous because he had been really angry with me. And if he knew what I had been at on Saturday night, he would be doubly angry. In fact, he might not have it in him to forgive me. And maybe I didn’t deserve to be forgiven. I figured the best thing to do was keep my mouth shut. I had to keep reminding myself it was only a couple of kisses and it wasn’t something I was planning on repeating.

  “We’ll deal with that later. God, I missed you, Shiv. First I want to take you home and make love. I want to fill my senses with the essence of you, your smell, your taste…” he whispered.

  I shivered in anticipation; I could feel the wetness flow. I blushed at the sensation, shamed for feeling like that in an airport, surrounded by people. I felt as if they all knew what was on my mind. Hand in hand we went to his car. Excitement and nervousness made my tummy all aflutter.

  We barely made it in the door, dropping my weekend bag and teddy just inside the door, when Michael started urgently stripping my clothes off, followed by his. He smiled his satisfaction when he saw I was wearing no underwear, not even a bra, but he didn’t remark on it, his mouth was too busy tasting me to speak. It was a sensual feast and my five senses were alive. I could smell his slightly sweet but spicy masculinity. I filled my lungs with his scent. Visually, he was a picture, his tanned dark skin a sight for sore eyes, and I could hardly bear to avert my eyes from his glorious erection. His eyes were hot flames of desire. His skin was warm and smooth to the touch until the goose-pimples of anticipation took over, adding depth. His scratchy chin was rough but erotic on my tummy as he moved his mouth towards my sex. Our breathing was a cacophony of raspish desire filling the room with sounds of desperation. And finally the taste, aah, the salty musky taste of his arousal delighted the last of my five senses, driving me wild. I wanted him there and then, inside his doorway, on the floor. To hell with comfort; the need was immediate. I couldn’t wait to make it to his bedroom. I went down on my knees, sucking him until his own knees buckled in weakness. Then on all fours, I presented myself to him to be taken, which he did, without further ado.

  It was as if we hadn’t seen each other for months, not days. He pushed in hard and fast, and with one hand stretched forward, he worked my wet swollen clit to a frenzy. Within seconds I had exploded with my first orgasm with his name on my lips. He released my clit and took my hair in his hand and, tugging gently, guided me over to a wall for support. I propped myself with my hands on the wall as he drove hard, holding my hips to steady himself. His fingers dug into me and I was aware of a slight pain as he thrust, but it only added to the pleasure. Then his hands roamed my body firmly and urgently as he paused his thrusting, trying to hold out on his orgasm. He wasn’t playing fair, he was making me weak, but he was holding back. I went back down on all fours, where I had more control. I plunged against him, hard and fast, and increased the tempo, rotating my hips to feel all of him. I knew when I was like that, he got carried away by the vista of my rear end and pussy, open and inviting, coaxing him in. All of a sudden I felt a sharp smack to my buttocks.

  “Slow down, you wench, I know what you’re up to,” he whispered threateningly. I had to giggle, which earned me a few more sharp smacks. They were delicious.

  “More,” I begged and he willingly obliged. My body was a quivering mass of desire as my bottom tingled and the blood rushed to my sex. I groaned with desire and that exquisite pleasure pain as he spanked me again and again. Five more times, bringing me closer and closer to another mind-blowing orgasm.

  “Fuck, you’re one horny, dirty woman, and you’re mine,” he said, the delight evident in his voice.

  His words of desire and possession drove me crazy. I couldn’t hold back any longer; as he pumped, my body crumpled, unable to contain itself against the violence of my cum. He supported me as he thrust again and again, not letting my orgasm subside until his own desire was sated. I arched my hips as I felt him spill his hot sperm deep into my vagina and I gloried in the triumph of his hunger. For that moment in time, he was me and I was him, we were as one, united in each other, spent and satisfied on his hall floor, still connected physically as well as emotionally.

  Finally the cold hardness of the floor roused us out of our reverie. I kissed him as I rose, stiff from the exertion. As I was retrieving our clothes, he stopped me in my tracks.

  “Don’t dress yet, Shiv,” he warned. “There’s still Friday to be dealt with.”

  I felt the butterflies make an unwelcome return. Normally a spanking thrilled me and scared me in about equal measure. This was different. For starters I was already sexually spent, so the pain wasn’t going to be cushioned with desire. Secondly, this was different to usual as he was genuinely angry with me over not answering my phone, and although he didn’t know it, I had genuine remorse in my heart, because of the kiss. I felt I deserved it, and for that reason, instead of being a thrill, it was a frightening prospect. But I was going to accept it without a fight. I owed him that much.

  “Yes, Michael,” I submissively agreed. I didn’t even start with my usual arguments against it. I gathered our clothes, went to his bedroom, and assumed the position: my torso lying on his bed, my hips raised by pillows, and my feet planted firmly on the floor. I put my hands above my head and vowed to myself that whatever he did, I would accept uncomplainingly and gratefully. I waited for him to join me and I’d swear he was letting me sweat on purpose as I could hear him go to the bathroom, then to the kitchen for a drink. The waiting increased my nerves. I heard him come into the room. He walked by me, pausing briefly to rub my raised bottom, which already had a glow from the sexual spanking. I heard him rummaging in his wardrobe and expected him to come back with the cane again. I was beginning to feel a little sick. I didn’t relish the thought of it.

  He came back over to the bed, wearing sweatpants and no shirt. His face was severe and sexy as hell. He took my hands in his and tied them, using the belt from his bathrobe, so I couldn’t use them to protect myself. That’s when I saw it—his leather belt. Now I was really nervous. He told me he was going to give me twenty lashes with it, to make sure I never forgot to let him know I was safe again. Fuck. Twenty lashes with a belt, this was really upping the ante. I wanted to protest, but the niggling voice at the back of my head reminded me I deserved each one, more than he would ever know, so I stayed silent. He warned me to count the lashes.

  I heard it before I felt it. I heard him raising the belt, and then the sound of the swish and the gush of the air for a split second before I heard the crack on my skin. My ears were ringing from the sounds. And even after I heard the crack, it took a nanosecond for my body to register the sting. But register it did. A fiery burning sensation. And almost before I could react and grunt “one,” there was the swish and the crack again. I yelped. Nothing had prepared me for this. Even the cane, while severe, didn’t have this burning sensation. And it kept coming one after another. And the sounds warning of the impending lash. And I had to keep count lest he should decide to start over, so I had to focus on the connection. I couldn’t try to escape the pain in my mind. By the time I counted to ten, I was crying, real tears, partly f
rom the pain, but much more from remorse, as each blow, in my mind, was as much a recrimination for my unfaithfulness as it was for not replying to his calls. I wanted to scream “Stop,” but I couldn’t because I only had myself to blame, and in spite of the pain and the trauma, or maybe because of it, there was a healing in that pain. And all the while, Michael was lecturing me about his concern about my safety, how he always needed to be able to keep in touch, not to keep tabs on me, but because he always needed to know I was ok. God, the shame, if he only knew it, he also needed to keep tabs on me because one weekend out of his sight and look what I had let myself get up to. Hot tears stung my face, but I hadn’t the courage to tell him why I was crying; he thought it was the spanking, but really, it was total self-disgust. By the time he got to the last smack, I was sobbing my sorrow, but still not the truth. I continued crying as he soothed my scorched buttocks with witch hazel and pulled back the covers so I could lie down.

  Michael sat beside me on the bed as I lay weeping. I could see concern on his face. He was afraid he had gone too far, that he had really hurt me. I tried to reassure him the best way I knew how. I pulled him down beside me and kissed him, full on the mouth.

  “It’s ok,” I whispered, tugging at his sweatpants.

  By now the pain was subsiding and that familiar tingling sensation was returning. I was becoming aware of a pulsating in my clitoris, and I had an urgent need to be fucked: To be at one with him again. I wanted to feel the evidence of his love once more, to know I was forgiven, that everything was put behind us. But how could it be, when he didn’t even know what he was forgiving? It was going to be another of those unspoken wedges between us, but still I couldn’t come clean. I went down on him, silently and submissively, wordlessly offering my apologies. At first his responses were slow, shocked with my sobbing, but very soon he forgot his remorse. He was king of the jungle again and I was his defeated mate. The animalistic instincts were hard to quell. His breathing quickened and his dick pulsated with desire and triumph. I licked, nipped, and sucked with all my feminine guile until he shot explosively into my mouth, his hot semen shooting deep into my throat.

  “Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean to do that,” he offered sheepishly.

  I laughed coquettishly. “I meant you to.”

  For now, all was well. We lay side by side, talking about our weekends. I told him about the surfing and about catching up with family and friends. I described our village pub, and the way the small-town life meant that any attempt of mine to chat with my family was thwarted by all those I hadn’t seen for a long time. I explained how the time had flown past, and why I had forgotten to check my phone. It was a different world to his and he was enthralled, but he still didn’t get it. And he wouldn’t or couldn’t unless he saw it for himself. I had brought him back a painting of Easkey, partly so he could try to visualise it, but mostly because his bachelor pad walls needed art.

  “Is it for real?” he asked. “There are so few cars on the street.”

  I knew the artist and I laughed. “She probably blanked them out to make it quainter, to appeal to the tourists,” I said honestly.

  “Can I come with you next time? I’d love to see it,” he asked. Well, he had me there; I thought we were on the downward spiral and he was planning for the future. Mind you, I didn’t believe it; in my limited experience, men were good at talk of the future, not so good on the follow-through.

  “Sure, whatever, I probably won’t go home again ‘til Christmas,” I said, fobbing him off. I didn’t expect that we would see Christmas together, so that gave me time. Anyway, I couldn’t see him in Easkey; it would be way too provincial for him. Hell, it was one street, a few hundred people, a river and a beach, and a few sheep thrown in for good measure. Hardly Paris or London! No Covent Garden or Mont Maitre. How would I keep him entertained, the pub after eleven at night? And he could forget sharing a room with me and passing time that way; he didn’t know my parents. There was a higher probability of snow in summer. Anyway, who cared? It wasn’t happening.

  As if reading my thoughts, he reminded me, “You’re still coming to dinner with Dad and Catherine on Wednesday, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, if you’re sure… now, I need to go home; I have to get ready for work tomorrow. I have nothing with me to wear.”

  “You’re going to have to start leaving a few things here, Shiv,” he sighed, reluctant to climb out of the bed.

  “Stay where you are, I’ll get a cab.”

  “You know what I think of you getting cabs,” he scolded sternly.

  “Look, I’ll use the work firm, we know the drivers.”

  “No,” he snapped. “And that’s my final word.” There was no arguing with him; he took safety to a new level. Me, I was inclined to be a bit too casual about it; when you grew up in a place where the doors were always unlocked and everyone still left their car keys in the ignition, you weren’t always thinking safety first. Crap, he’d probably be more annoyed that I walked home alone on Friday night than the fact that I’d kissed Pauric.

  It was pretty late, so he just dropped me off. Just before I got out of the car, he reminded me about bringing some extra stuff to his place.

  “Maybe you should think about moving in altogether…” he suggested just as I hit the pavement. But before I had a chance to reply, he had driven off. Why did he always pick his moments? It was impossible to see inside his head; he seemed to start something and then run out in the middle of it. But I was kinda glad to be spared the reply; it was too soon and we had so many unresolved issues. Hell, I didn’t even know if he was moving back to France in three months’ time. I know I had said we’d discuss it on my return, but there were obviously other things to work out first.

  Claire and Tara were still up, waiting. The trips home always had to be dissected, each one sharing in the experience, to lessen their own homesickness. They laughed at the craic in the pub, reliving it as though they had been there. They might not have from Easkey, but they were from similar villages and knew the score. And they’d met a few of my friends that had come over for weekends.

  “How’s that hunk Pauric?” Tara asked with a gleam in her eye. “Does he still have the hots for you or am I in with a chance yet?”

  “He’s grand,” I blushed. “But way too nice for you. So what’s been happening since I left? Were you out?” I introduced a very swift change of subject.

  “Nothing much, went out last night, usual story, too much to drink, dossed half the day away in bed like every Sunday.”

  “You mean you had company,” I laughed. Tara never lazed in bed unless she had company. “How do ya do it, every time?”

  I almost envied her; not the number of partners, I didn’t want that, but the self-assured way she had with her—she was never shy or insecure. She wouldn’t be worrying about the week ahead if she was in my shoes; she’d say, “Feck it, whatever’s meant to happen will happen.” Sometimes I wished I could be more like her.

  “Did Michael pick you up?” Claire interrupted my thoughts. “I bet he was very glad to see you. You know he called here looking for your parents’ phone number, but I told him I didn’t have it.” Her face was grave; she obviously didn’t approve of his stalking tendencies.

  “Oh, on Friday night I forgot to reply to his texts, he was just worried,” I defended him.

  “I’ll bet he didn’t like that. Possessive men are bad news, Shiv.” she warned. So deep down she still hadn’t forgiven him, and yet it was entirely my fault as I hadn’t answered his calls or texts. I made a face, indicating that I wasn’t having this discussion with her right now. Tara still didn’t know about my little arrangement with Michael and I wanted to keep it that way. I was very careful not to wince or show discomfort as I sat down, even though I was on fire from the strapping I had received. In a funny way that thrilled me even more, hiding the evidence, although it would have been nice to have had someone to share my thoughts with. Although I had become more than comfortable with the situation, I s
till felt it was a bit of a dirty little secret. I found myself looking at couples, wondering if they did any of this. But it wasn’t exactly dinner table conversation.

  After shoving my laundry in the washer, we shared a bottle of wine, exchanged news of the weekend and went to bed at a reasonable time, all ready for work and the horrors of a Monday morning.

  Chapter Twelve

  We finally wrapped up the industrial injury claim on Monday. The employee admitted that it had been a hoax. I had been dreading this day, as I had never testified in court before and I really hoped I wouldn’t have to take the stand. Thankfully, it didn’t come to that. We went back to the office in the mood to celebrate and James said stuff work for the rest of the afternoon and brought Myra and me out to celebrate. My phone rang about four times, but I wasn’t really in a position to answer it with Myra and James listening in. I went to the ladies’ and sent Michael a text, explaining the situation. I knew he wasn’t happy. Not about my taking the afternoon off, but about not telling him where I was as he was waiting for me to go home with him. It was a bit soon for me to be repeating the same crime and he was furious. He told me to be at his place within an hour or he didn’t care who saw what, he was coming to pick me up.

  Now it was my turn to be furious. Who did he think he was? Yes, maybe I was inconsiderate not to have let him know, but the time had passed really quickly and I wasn’t a child. I didn’t need his permission to go for a couple of drinks with my boss and my boss’s boss, for Christ’s sake. It was only seven p.m. and to be given a curfew at my age really riled me. I certainly wouldn’t consider giving him one and he would have to learn to treat me with the same respect. This had the makings of another serious row, like that first weekend. I finished up my drink, hailed a cab, and went home to Ruislip, texting him only when I got back there, ten minutes before he would have expected me at his place. I would have let him stew in his own bile all night only for the fact that James and Myra might still have been in the wine bar and he could have very well gone looking for me, blowing my privacy, and I really didn’t want that.