A Matter of Discipline

by DawnMarie Richards

  Blake swiveled his body square with Marion. He scooted to the edge of his seat and straddled her chair between his outstretched legs. Leaning forward, he curved his hands around the edge of her barstool, his thumbs pressing into the padded leather cushioning on either side of her hips, and turned her to face him.

  “I disagree.” He leveled his most seductive gaze at her. “So, the question remains, will you sit for me, Ms. Hertz?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, the tip of her tongue making a brief, but provocative, appearance before reversing direction to drag her bottom lip into the nip of her teeth.

  “Good.” He nodded, relief easing the rise of his shoulders. “Now, give me your cell.”

  Chapter 6

  Marion blinked at Blake, her enticed and intoxicated brain needing a moment to process the non sequitur. Maintaining eye contact, she reached behind for her bag and, after some fumbling, produced her phone.

  “Is it locked?”

  “No.”

  “Of course not,” he muttered, swiping his middle finger across the glowing screen.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” His presumptive familiarity irritated her.

  He glanced up before returning his attention to her phone. “It means I’ve figured out your secret.”

  For a moment, she could only stare at his lowered head, dumbfounded. Then, she realized he couldn’t possibly know about the painful humiliation she barely had the words to think about, never mind discuss with another human being.

  She curled her trembling fingers around the stem of her glass. “Please,” she invited, feigning nonchalance. “Do tell.”

  “With pleasure,” he agreed, his thumbs moving over the electronic keypad. “Consider the evidence. You don’t lock your cell. You read while walking, despite the warnings of your good friend Ilene. And you see nothing wrong with throwing back a couple with a perfect stranger of, shall we say, dubious occupation. Reckless, more reckless, and most reckless of all.”

  His tone dropped two octaves, sending a chill up Marion’s spine even while damp heat began to build between her thighs.

  “You, Ms. Hertz,”—he lifted his gaze, pinning her with an intent stare—“have a serious reckless streak.”

  Grinning with satisfaction, he held out her phone. Marion snatched it from his grasp.

  “Oh, really?” she challenged.

  “Yes. Really,” he drawled. “And I’m going to enjoy curbing it while you’re in my studio.”

  Her shocked laugh sounded hollow to her ears. She turned away, bringing the wine glass to her mouth. Though she could taste courage in the crisp alcohol, Marion held herself to a thirst quenching sip. She needed to keep her wits about her. Blake Vince was proving to be far more charismatic than she could have imagined.

  The air bristled with suspense, compelling Marion to lift her gaze. Chin dipped, Blake considered her through the thicket of his dark lashes. She had the unnerving sensation she’d been forced to face him by sheer will.

  He leaned close. “Let me ask you something, Marion. And I’d appreciate an honest answer. Take some time to think about it, all right?”

  His earnest sincerity had her placing her glass on the bar and folding her hands in her lap. Sitting straight, she put on her best listening face, nodding for emphasis as she said, “All right.”

  “Does the thought of being disciplined by me excite you? Are your nipples pulled tight? Is your pussy wet?”

  Electricity sparked along her nerve endings, stealing her breath. Embarrassment made her want to tear her gaze from his, but excitement wouldn’t allow her to escape, the truth of his words growing truer by the second.

  “Filthy,” she whispered by way of a reply.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  He slanted away, reaching for his drink. His heated power minimized enough for her to inhale unsteadily. It didn’t last long. After a quick sip, he resumed his prior position, trapping her in the corral of his arms and legs.

  “I want your panties, Marion.”

  She gasped, her gaze darting around the darkened lounge. Most of the tables were occupied, and there wasn’t an open seat at the bar. Her throat worked at swallowing, her mind at grasping the implications of what he asked of her.

  Is he serious? Someone will see. We’ll get caught. Caught what? What would happen? People get arrested for indecent exposure, right? I can get them off without exposing myself. Am I honestly thinking of…Sweet justice, he was right. I am reckless, not to mention insane. One Instagram shot away from losing my job. Being with him is a disaster waiting to hap…

  The unexpected bite of fingers along her jawline had her sucking in her breath, every thought chased from her mind. He tugged her to face him.

  “When we’re together, no one matters except me. Do you understand?”

  She tried to nod, but he wouldn’t let her.

  “And when I ask you a question, you will answer it out loud. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, Mr. Vince.” He raised an eyebrow. “I liked the sound of that.”

  “Yes, Mr. Vince,” she repeated.

  He nodded, a slow smile curving his lips as if he’d tasted her words and savored every syllable. “I like that very much.”

  His approval acted like a drug. Viscid warmth flooded her veins, weighed her limbs, and eased her anxiety in a way the wine had been unable to do, making her want more…crave it.

  “Now.” He let her go. “Stand up.”

  Before the unwavering focus of his hypnotic gaze, she did as he commanded, their proximity bringing them nose to nose. Almost without conscious will, she lifted her hands to rest on her hips, her fingers searching for the bump of the waistband of her panties. Working through the clingy material of her dress, she managed to inch it down her legs until the thong came free from between her cheeks. She wriggled and smoothed until elastic hugged her knees. Relief at having managed to get them so low without having to lift her skirt was tempered by the knowledge anyone who chanced a glance in her direction would see a ring of carnation pink below the hem of her black dress.

  She bent forward, anxious to get the intimate garment off her body and into his hands, where at least they would be out of view. Reaching out to steady herself, her hand landed on his upper thigh. His sharp intake of breath brought her gaze to his. His jaw ticked with tension, his muscles coiling beneath her fingers.

  You asked for it. With a dismissive shrug, she returned to her task. Lifting one leg and then the other, she stepped out of the stretchy bit of fabric and then balled it in her fist.

  The triumphant smile plying her lips as she straightened froze, incomplete, when she saw the unsettling disapproval in his stare. Her skin prickled with guilty apprehension.

  “For future reference, you do not touch me without permission, and,” he denied her defense with a slow shake of his head, “it may not be in your best interest to be smug with me. It begs for a, shall we say, lesson in humility.”

  Her jaw dropped, dispelling the remnants of her grin. The handful of photos she’d seen featuring red marks on tender skin flashed in her memory like a cautionary slide show. It lent his advice a titillating menace.

  “Show them to me,” he demanded, leaving her no time for further consideration or objection.

  She lifted her arm, the underside of her wrist exposed, the slices of color visible between her bunched fingers vivid against her skin. Opening her hand, she watched him as the lace slid over her palm. He kept his attention rooted on her face even as she hooked an edge of the sexy confection with the tip of her forefinger and let it dangle daringly between them.

  The pressure of his fingers on her hips gave her an unexpected reward. Shocks of pleasure sang over her skin as he shifted, peering around one side of her and then the other. When he brought his gaze to hers, it held a wicked glint.

  “Can you feel the eyes on you?”

  “Only yours, Mr. Vince.”

  Something flickered across his express
ion, but he said nothing more, simply lifted his open hand beneath the ribbon of lace and silk she still held, letting it pool in his palm before closing his fingers around it and taking it from her.

  He brought his fist to his nose. When he inhaled, something let go high inside Marion, a hot spring overflowing its banks. His heavy-lidded gaze locked on hers, he arranged the panties in his breast pocket like a handkerchief, a shock of pink lace left peeking out the top.

  “Inspiration.” He patted his hand over his prize before gesturing toward her still vacant seat. “Please, sit down and finish your drink.”

  She moved to obey, but halted with uncertainty. The stunt had left her sodden, her thighs skating over one another.

  “Who does it belong to?”

  “What?”

  He cocked an eyebrow.

  “I don’t understand your question, Mr. Vince,” she amended.

  “Who does your dress belong to?”

  “My friend, Ilene, Mr. Vince.”

  “The one who’d cautioned you about reading and walking? Smart and slutty. I like that.”

  Marion sputtered, undecided about whether to defend the outfit or the friend who had lent it to her.

  She took a deep breath before answering, “I don’t believe that’s fair, Mr. Vince. Ilene is not slutty. She was nice enough to loan me a dress and shoes for the evening.”

  “It wasn’t meant as an insult. And I understand. You don’t want to get your juices on your friend’s dress.”

  Marion’s mouth gaped, but she could find no words.

  Blake smiled. “Was I being filthy again?”

  “Yes, Mr. Vince.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “Point taken. It’s not every day I learn something new about myself. Thank you, Marion. Now. Sit. Down.”

  The authority in his tone settled the matter. She backed up to her chair, toeing the crossbar and rising up on unsteady legs. She settled as gently as she could into the cushioned seat as if the way she sat could keep moisture from seeping into the material beneath her. Her hand shook as she retrieved her glass and brought the rim to her lips. The wine refreshed her parched throat, but the warm burn it started in her belly turned into a cold churning. With a grimace, she put the glass on its napkin and pushed it away from her.

  “Had enough?”

  “I think I have, Mr. Vince.”

  “All right.”

  He pulled his wallet from the inside of his suit coat. Opening it, he drew out one too many twenties by her estimation and then folded the bills, placing the tidy packet beneath his glass. He stood beside her, hand extended, palm up expectantly. Left with no other option, she put her hand in his and slid out of her seat, noting how he towered over her.

  “I’ll expect you Friday, for your first sitting. Come to the address in your phone. Eight p.m. sharp. Is that acceptable to you, Marion?”

  Acceptable? The man had just divested her of her underwear after a brief conversation and a couple of drinks. What could he accomplish in an evening alone with her in his studio? Would she have any say in how she was posed? Did she have to be naked? He’d said she couldn’t touch him without permission. Would he give her the same consideration? What about kissing? And what about sex? What, exactly, was she agreeing to?

  But instead of asking any one of the thousand questions whirring through her mind, she heard herself say, in a surprisingly calm voice, “Yes, Mr. Vince. Perfectly acceptable.”

  Chapter 7

  At seven forty-five Friday night, Marion pulled into the driveway-cum-parking lot at the address Blake had programmed into her cell. She parked in the center of five marked spaces beneath the illumination of a single well-placed pole light and looked in wonder at the property she’d often admired as she’d driven by on her way into town.

  A tasteful, up-lit sign identified the Cape Cod on her left as Blake Vince Photography—the studio. No wonder his name had seemed familiar. The Colonial on the other side must be his home. A glass-fronted, covered walkway joined the two. White clapboard siding, black shutters, and green tin roofing united the three distinct structures. A canopy of twisted oaks and aged elms completed the classic New England look. No hint of what took place within the trim and tidy trappings. Then again, what had she expected, brash red lighting and porch balusters fashioned into crops and floggers?

  Marion shut off the headlights, allowing her to see into the pass-through in front of her. A half dozen black and white prints propped on brass easels lined the other side of the glass. The jungle of potted plants surrounding the prominent display provided an easy excuse for why she hadn’t noticed it. Each piece, indirectly lit by recessed overheads, featured a different woman. On first glance, the silky material draping their bodies seemed an artful affectation. But Marion soon realized the swathing also served to bind them. Stripped of color and eyes closed, it became the subjects’ individual expressions of ecstasy which set the photographs apart. Taken as a group, they provided a bold study of pleasure adeptly balanced on the fine line between sensual and erotic.

  A line Marion still hadn’t decided she wanted to cross.

  Blake had tapped into a savage hunger she hadn’t known she possessed. A desperate desire to have her compliant nature recognized and rewarded and, even, tested. But the discovery had come with a catch. Fully realized, how likely would it be she would ever again find satisfaction between the covers of an erotic novel? Blake’s magnetism electrifying the very atmosphere around them could never be matched in print. No words existed for the breathless give and take of power which had flickered between them. The potent narcotic in his nod of approval defied description. A high so intense Marion worried there might be no boundary she’d be unwilling to navigate to feel it again. Going into the studio meant no going back. And Marion hadn’t figured out how to reconcile who she would become with who she’d always thought herself to be.

  The daughter of brilliant and dedicated scientists, she’d learned early on to hide her romantic and sensual nature. Drs. Harold and Janine Hertz made it clear from the beginning they had no patience for what they saw as frivolity, even in their only child.

  Marion’s bookshelves had been filled with picture books on science and geography and natural history. She’d dutifully read each one. But it had been the few treasured fairytales Nanny Sisken had somehow managed to smuggle into Marion’s room and hide between the mattresses which had captured her five-year-old imagination, allowing her to escape the unequivocal non-fiction world her parents insisted she inhabit.

  In her early teens, the fairy tales became love stories. High school had passed in a blur of textbooks and romance novels. The former filled her backpack, to be purposefully scattered over the dining room table while she studied. The latter consumed beneath the covers, late into the night, flashlight in hand.

  Ironically, it had been the course work for her library science degree, a major her parents could not say aloud without rolling their eyes, which had introduced her to erotica. The words of Flauburt, Nin, and von Sacher-Masoch had raised her heart rate and piqued her interest. She’d been hooked, developing an addiction to fantasized sex no real life encounter had come anywhere near to replicating…until her fateful run-in with Mr. Vince.

  In their three relatively brief meetings she’d experienced more sexual tension, more heart-pounding excitement, and more nerve-tingling anticipation than in her prior relationships combined. Blake Vince was a carnal tour de force, and Marion knew she’d be the worst kind of fool not to go as far as he wanted to take her. The kind of fool who’d been waiting her whole life to color outside the lines and, when handed the sixty-four pack with the built-in sharpener and invited to have at it, dropped the box and ran, leaving behind a rainbow trail of shame.

  The digital clock in the dashboard read 7:55. Taking a deep breath, Marion made her decision, leaving the familiar comfort of her car and striding with determination toward Blake’s door.

  Chapter 8

  Blake stalked the rooms of the main floor. Th
e internal skirmish he’d been fighting for the last few days had become a full blown battle, making it impossible for him to sit. Marion could arrive any minute, and he couldn’t say if he wanted her to or not.

  He thought it not only possible, but probable, in the harsh light of day she’d been able to convince herself their little escapade in the bar had been a terrible mistake. After all, Blake had been wondering the same thing, regardless of the success of the impromptu experiment and the heady bonus of her obedient trust.

  Marion Hertz was a natural submissive. He had no doubt. But despite her choice in reading material, she remained largely ignorant of the fact, somehow never recognizing herself in the pages of her books. He didn’t believe she’d have such a luxury after spending an evening with him, and the thought troubled him. He’d never worked with a novice, never brought anyone into the life. He had to admit he didn’t know what he was doing, but it wasn’t enough for him to call it off. He very much wanted her bound in the studio, the thrill of capturing her initiation outweighing his concerns.

  A quiet knock brought an end to his incessant prowling. Shaking off the remnants of his ambivalence, he strode through the foyer and opened the door.

  She stood, silent, on the threshold as he drank in every detail. She wore simple leather flats and a just-above-the-knee camel A-line skirt. Her black silk blouse set off the copper in her hair as it fell over her shoulders in gentle waves. Her discreet smile the only enhancement he detected on her freshly washed face. Everything about her projected an unassuming innocence, making Blake hesitate. But then he remembered. The choice to come had been hers.

  “Hello, Marion.”

  “Hello…”

  “Blake,” he provided, holding out his upturned hand. “For now.”

  He tugged her inside as soon as she placed her fingers over his, shutting the door behind them. She’d had to tip her head to look up at him. Keeping his eyes on hers, he slid the purse from her shoulder and then turned away, crossing to the antique sideboard which served as a hall table and setting her bag on top of it.