by Cara Bristol
Stephanie transferred her pens to the mug and stashed the glass in the lower drawer on the left side of her desk. She sighed and glanced at Bethany, whose normally serious expression was more somber than usual. Here we go. Happy Monday.
Bethany leaned a hip on the round table and stared at the wall over Stephanie’s shoulder. “I came to apologize.” The words were right, but the tone sounded wooden.
She continued: “I didn’t feel the communication class was the way to go, so I found reasons for not developing it. I should have discussed my reservations with you.”
“Thank you for that.” Stephanie kept her voice neutral. Bethany might not feel sorry, but she at least intellectually recognized she had been wrong, and Stephanie wanted to acknowledge that her second-in-command had taken the first step to mend a broken fence.
“I’ll, uh, contact the board of the directors for you if you’d like, let them know about the delay.”
“That would be great.” One less thing she had to do. “I’m sorry if I came on a little strong.” She could meet Bethany halfway.
“I’ve got some ideas I think the board will be receptive to,” Bethany said.
“Sounds good.”
Bethany paused in the doorway. “You and the deputy police chief… You have a thing, don’t you?”
Did everyone at WAN think her personal life was a sidewalk sale? Annoyance flashed, but Bethany had extended an olive branch, and they needed to be united. “Yes,” she answered.
“I could tell.” Bethany sauntered down the hall.
A thing. An apt description for what she and Mark had, because the traditional gender roles they’d assumed were nothing like anything she’d experienced before. He led, and she let him, reveled in it, if she chose to be honest. She wasn’t sure she did. In a short time he’d rattled her belief system, and she hadn’t come to grips with it. The achiness in her muscles testified to how quickly, avidly, she’d surrendered to Mark’s…charms.
She could tolerate that he ordered her dinner in the restaurant, opened doors. But spanking? She’d agreed to it once, hoping it would flush her attraction to Mark out of her system. It had the opposite effect of drawing her closer to him. Made her trust him more. But she couldn’t see allowing it again. It was a spanking, for goodness’ sake. Grown women—feminists—did not submit to men and did not get spanked, least of all as discipline. But her punishment for rudeness reminded her of something else she needed to do.
Insincere though it was, Bethany had apologized; now it was Stephanie’s turn. She dialed Elizabeth’s law office.
“Woodhue, Orson, Bernstein, and Jessup. Ms. Alexander’s office. This is Regina. How may I help you?”
“Hi, Gina. It’s Steph. Is Elizabeth available?”
“Hi, Stephanie. I’ll check.” Muzak filled the phone.
About thirty seconds later, Elizabeth came on the line. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” Stephanie replied. Strange morning. She’d received an unexpected reaction from Evelyn and then an almost as surprising apology from Bethany. “I called to say I’m truly sorry for my behavior the other evening. It was uncalled for.”
“It’s all right,” Elizabeth said. “I understand your feelings. We’re good.”
A weight lifted from her conscience. Stephanie exhaled. “Thank you.” She inhaled. “And, I wanted to let you know”—she lowered her voice—“that you were right. I do, uh, kind of like him. Despite…uh…everything.”
“Wonderful. I’m so glad.” Elizabeth’s voice seemed to smile through the phone. “I had a hunch you two would get along.”
She hadn’t known it herself right off. What had Elizabeth seen that she hadn’t? “Why?” she asked.
“You need someone in your corner. Someone to be there for you. Mark is dominant, yes, but the flip side is that he’s very protective. He needs a woman who can stand up to him. He can be a little arrogant, and I think you’ll take him down a peg.”
“I’m still confused by…everything.” She’d liked being over Mark’s lap, found it, well, erotic to have him calling the shots, yet she didn’t like the actual paddling part. And she was touched that he’d given her the chance to spank him. That he’d humbled himself for her softened her heart.
“You mean spanking and domestic discipline.”
“I’m a feminist. You’re a feminist.” Stephanie paused. “We are, aren’t we?” After what had happened the other evening—what she had allowed to happen—she’d begun to doubt herself.
Elizabeth laughed, then sobered. “It’s about choice. You founded WAN so women would have a full range of choices, not just the ones culture or society thinks they should have.”
“I just never thought spanking would be one of those choices.” This was the closest to confiding secrets that she and Elizabeth had come. Funny that spanking had drawn her closer to Elizabeth also. Curiosity about her friend’s marriage bubbled up, and Stephanie was dying to ask her some personal questions, but she hadn’t appreciated it when her staff pried into her personal life; no doubt Elizabeth would feel the same. “I’d better let you get to work,” Stephanie said.
“I’m glad you called,” Elizabeth said. “I do need to run, but I wanted to mention that Rod and Cane and the Wives Auxiliary are having a fundraising auction in a few weeks. Mark put WAN in as a recipient of a donation.”
“Oh! I didn’t know that.” So many grants WAN received were earmarked for special projects, so the flexibility of community donations was especially welcome. But her heart sank. “I’d love to accept, but I have to decline.” Stephanie peeked into the hall, then whispered, “Women Act Now can’t accept money from an organization that supports domestic discipline.” A simple butt glass had caused consternation. “I can’t imagine the fallout if WAN was linked to Rod and Cane.” Stephanie shuddered.
“Gladys Raines would have heart failure,” Elizabeth agreed, referring to the president of the board of directors. “But it could be finessed. Over the years I’ve learned how to walk the line between my vanilla and my domestic discipline identities. Rod and Cane is aware of the situation also. All donations go out under RCS Enterprises. It could be a widget company, for all anybody knows. Give it some consideration.”
Chapter Eight
Stephanie emerged from the shower, donned a shirt of Mark’s, and padded to the kitchen. He had something in a large bowl and had assembled other ingredients: a red bell pepper, parsley, a lime, panko, a jar of light mayonnaise. A glass of cold Riesling awaited her on the sleek island, and she settled comfortably onto a tall barstool. After dating for two weeks, she spent more time at his place than at hers.
“Thank you.” She raised her glass and took a sip of the slightly sweet wine. “Perfect.”
She credited him for not smirking. Truth be told, she hated bourbon. She preferred sweeter drinks and had developed a preference for Bottom Burners, adding a couple more butt glasses to her collection. Two were at home, but the original was still in her desk because she kept forgetting it. She’d been to Bottom’s Up twice, once more with Mark and one time with Elizabeth and Cassidy Myles.
Emma, she mentally amended. She had to remember that the Sentinel columnist who’d exposed Rod and Cane was really Emma Dupree, a member of its Wives Auxiliary who was engaged to Dan Tanner, one of the Society’s board members. There had to be a story about how a woman who belonged to the organization had come to write such a scathing piece. And how Rod and Cane permitted her to do it. Surely there’d been repercussions.
During their drink at the bar, she’d been too focused on finding out more about domestic discipline to ask Emma about it. Both women had been surprisingly open. Liz had been a spanked wife since she started dating Otis in college. She’d never known another kind of marriage but a DD one. Emma was new to the lifestyle but looked forward to having Dan lead their household, as she termed it.
Wasn’t that tantamount to rolling back the calendar several decades? It was too soon to think about a long-term commitme
nt, but if she and Mark were ever to marry, she knew without asking he would expect to “lead their household.” Already he decided many small matters. She’d deferred to him at first because the little stuff wasn’t worth fighting about, and then because she found she liked it. When he assumed responsibility, it relieved her pressure, made her life more pleasant.
Domestic discipline did benefit her in some respects. But the physical aspect? She wasn’t so sure.
Mark stood at the counter, his feet and torso bare, wearing only a pair of pants. She watched as he sliced, then diced the pepper with controlled, expert movements. The chef’s knife appeared small in his strong, sure hands.
Her stomach fluttered. Simple fact: she needed him to spank her again. Once wasn’t enough for her to judge. Should she ask to be paddled or wait until he felt her behavior had earned it?
“You seem pensive,” Mark said. “Everything at work okay?”
How tuned in he was to her emotions. Almost like he could read her mind sometimes. Spank me. Spank me. “Work is fine. The usual chaos.” The communication class had been rescheduled, and she was confident the curriculum was progressing. Of course, she’d been certain before. But Bethany wouldn’t let her down twice.
Mark had presented the perfect lead-in to tell him what she wanted, but, chicken that she was, she couldn’t do it. How did a warrior ask for a spanking?
“What are you cooking?” She watched him peel and chop an onion.
He glanced at her and smiled. “Crab cakes.”
“You remembered what I told you.” She’d mentioned in passing several days ago that she loved crab cakes but hadn’t had them in a while.
“Of course I remembered.” He added the onion to the bowl, cut the lime in half and squeezed it into the mixture, then added a large dollop of mayo. He stirred with a wooden spoon but then set it aside. “Sometimes fingers work best.” He stuck his hand in the bowl.
Stephanie slid off the stool, sidled up to him, and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Thank you. You’re so good to me.” Good for me too.
She hugged him, enjoying the rock hardness of his muscled back against her breasts, the ripples of his abdomen beneath her fingers, his toned ass against her stomach. Before she’d been introduced to spanking, she’d never given much thought to buttocks, her own or men’s. But since then she’d come to appreciate the roundness, the firmness of Mark’s. She shamelessly ogled his backside when he got out of the shower or walked naked around the bedroom.
But she had to admit, the frontal view was her favorite. His cock was a work of art. She loved him in tight jeans; the color faded over his bulge. He always seemed to have one. But then khakis, like he was wearing now, were good too.
Because she could do this. She slipped her hands into his pockets and reached for his penis. “You’re hard!”
“I’m always hard around you. And often when I’m not.”
She stroked his cock through the fabric of his pockets while rubbing her breasts against his broad back. He stilled his hand in the crab-cake mixture.
“Keep working.” She squeezed him. Solid. A hydraulic marvel.
She pulled out of his pockets and tugged at his belt buckle.
“What are you doing?” His voice rumbled with suspicion.
She inched down the zipper.
“I can’t touch you.” He held up his right hand, coated with the shellfish mixture.
She grinned. “I know. You’re at my mercy.”
He growled. “Let me wash up.”
Ignoring him, she hooked her thumbs in the waistband of his pants and briefs. He pressed his hips against the counter to prevent her from pulling them down. She grabbed a fresh wooden spoon from the holder and stung his ass twice. “Behave.”
A delicious, threatening aura descended on the room. “Oh kitten, you so don’t want to do that,” he said quietly.
Her heart hid at the base of her throat, but her pussy moistened even more. “Really?” she said. “I think I do.” She smacked him two more times.
When he shifted for the faucet, she yanked on his pants and undershorts. He half turned toward her, and she fixated on his cock. Men generally thought entirely too much of their penises, but his deserved not only study but also worship. The crown, reddened and slick with fluid, capped an arrow-straight shaft as impressively thick as it was long. A crinkle of dark hair nested at the base, curling atop his balls.
She stared, enjoying the awesomeness.
He stood, one hand raised and covered with food, his pants in a heap around his ankles, and he’d never looked sexier. She dropped to her knees and grasped his hips, shifting him to face her.
“Stephanie…”
She brushed her lips over his ball sac, the wisps of hair tickling her nose. Watching his face, she licked his balls, moving her head from side to side. Then she opened wide, drew one testicle into her mouth, and sucked.
The cabinet door banged as Mark slumped against it. He waved his messy hand and curled the other into her hair, then pulled gently. “Let me clean up.”
She shook her head and peered up at him. He tugged harder. She scraped her teeth over the puckering skin.
In his gaze, frustration gave way to resignation but promised retribution. For now, she held the cards. Beginning at the base of his erection, she licked his rod. Mark’s body jerked. Air hissed through his teeth when she swirled her tongue around the ridge defining the crown, then teased the underside.
He tangled his fingers in her hair. “Suck me, already.”
His command provided reason enough to thwart him, to trail her tongue down his length to lave his balls. She relished the role reversal, temporary though it was. Normally the sexual aggressor, Mark orchestrated their lovemaking, aroused her until she begged to come, and then teased her more. When he allowed her to orgasm, she would shatter into a million pieces. And each time he rebuilt her—better, stronger, but more bonded to him than ever.
He’d said she made him hard all the time. She was continually wet and swollen. Her pussy either ached with longing or ached from satisfaction of that longing. There wasn’t a night they’d spent together that they hadn’t had sex, and most times more than once. And he was outside-of-the-norm big.
She wrapped her fingers around his shaft. Hot and hard. Just how she liked him.
She’d never had him so much under her control, and she triumphed at every twitch of his body. But his eyes glittered ominously, and with her need growing, she decided she’d tormented him long enough. She grasped his length in both hands and drew him into her mouth until he touched her throat.
He groaned. She sucked with all her might, bobbing her head and moving in a circular fashion. His salty tang tantalized, and she moaned and swirled her tongue around his cockhead.
As she licked and sucked, she squeezed his shaft and caressed his balls. They contracted against his body, his sac puckering, and she knew he was close even without his increased breathing, the involuntary thrust of his hips.
Her jaw ached, and she fought the gag reflex as he drove into her mouth, but she craved it this way—fierce. Power had shifted, and he dominated once more, setting the pace as he neared orgasm.
Until she’d met Mark, she’d never swallowed, but it pleased him, so she did. What she’d done reluctantly she now relished, enjoyed the explosion of taste and texture, the release of his desire. She’d brought him to this.
Today she didn’t have a choice. With a groan, he thrust deep and hard and spewed his cum down her throat.
SHE’D HIT HIM with the spoon! After his breathing normalized and blood flow delivered reason to his brain, Mark stifled a grin. Stephanie rose to her feet, and he embraced her in a one-armed hug and laid a punishing kiss on her lips. He dragged his mouth to her ear. “You’re in so much trouble,” he whispered. But he’d let her stew for a while.
He gave her an awkward, left-handed swat. “Sit down. Let me finish dinner.”
Confidence slipped from her expression, but she put on a goo
d performance of sauntering to the barstool as if everything was proceeding according to her plan.
Mark formed the crab mixture into small cakes, dusted them with the Japanese bread crumbs, and while they baked, put together a spinach-and-pear salad, sliced crusty artisan bread, and set the table. When the oven timer dinged, he served the crab cakes with homemade rémoulade.
“Mm… This is so good. Thank you.” Stephanie bit into a crab cake with almost sexual vocal appreciation. It reminded him of her moans when he licked her clit. His cock twitched, and he snorted. Fortunately they had a domestic discipline arrangement. He needed to maintain the balance, because this woman had a firm grip on his short hairs. Everything she did turned him on, and he scampered around like a lovesick puppy to please her.
She’d assumed his closet was at her disposal, and of course it was. None of his clothing suited him as well as it did her. His shirt skimmed the tops of her thighs when she had stood. Her breasts filled out the starched cotton, her nipples two hard nubs beneath the fabric.
She tore off a piece of bread from her slice and buttered it. He watched her chew as if glued to the final seconds of the Super Bowl. She had the most amazing mouth. Luscious. Soft. Rosy after going down on his cock, which was rigid again. A perpetual state these days.
He cleared his throat. “The Rod and Cane benefit auction is next week. The grant requests have been processed, so I wasn’t able to retract WAN’s name. Are you sure you can’t accept?”
She stuck her left hand out palm up. “A feminist organization.” She flipped up her right. “A men’s society that promotes the physical punishment of women. Gasoline and lit match.” Regret flickered in her eyes. “I’d love to accept the money, but one thing I’ve learned is that reality doesn’t matter as much as perception. Even if donations are given under RCS Enterprises, I can’t risk someone finding out. Dating you is chancy enough.”
“No one knows I’m a member of Rod and Cane.”
“Because?” She raised her eyebrows.
“Because I’d probably lose my job.” He sighed. “I do understand your position.”
