One In A Million
By
Coleen Singer
©2015 by Blushing Books® and Coleen Singer
All rights reserved.
No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Singer, Coleen
One in a Million
eBook ISBN: 978-1-68259-108-6
Cover Design by ABCD Graphics & Design
This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the Author's advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.
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Table of Contents:
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Ebook Offer
Blushing Books Newsletter
About Blushing Books
Chapter One
Phoebe Simons stared at the computer screen, her finger resting on the mouse. This was it; this was the turning point, the moment she actually committed herself to going through with something that she’d fantasised about all her life, but until very recently, never had the courage to face. The day she actually dared type the word ‘spanking’ into the Internet search box, the results were gobsmacking. There were literally thousands of sites. The subject was practically mainstream. She wasn’t alone in this seemingly perverse fantasy. And when she discovered there were a number of dating agencies to match like-minded people, excitement reached fever pitch. It had taken weeks to pluck up further courage to actually contact one of them, but once the thought had been planted in her mind, it had become a nagging obsession. What did she have to lose? She was single. Why should she continue to feel guilty about this, when obviously millions of others didn’t?
A phrase she’d imagined being barked at her a million times, ran through her head: Get yourself over here, young lady. Right now. You’re going to get the spanking of your life for being so damned stupid and defiant! She shuddered, and that familiar tingle ran up her spine and around the cheeks of her behind. Would she ever hear those words for real? Would the threat ever be carried out? God, she hoped so, but would she actually be able to deal with it when it did?
She exhaled a deep, tremulous sigh and gazed at the email she’d just spent the last hour tweaking to get it just right. It was a summary of her needs for the Internet dating agency for spankophiles. She hated that word. It sounded seedy and degenerate, and bore too close a resemblance to paedophile. She most certainly was not that, nor did she want anything to do with a man who was. No, her proclivities—albeit, so far, unfulfilled—were most definitely for consenting adults only. Despite a nagging little voice in the back of her mind, she clicked on send and the dreaded deed was done.
* * *
Phoebe checked her email every morning and evening for a week after that, but apart from the usual messages from her editor and agent, there was nothing exciting. She resigned herself to the fact that there probably weren’t any likely partners in the sleepy backwater of West Dorset. Apart from anything else, her age had probably put any possibles right off—and she’d lied about that! Only slightly, though. She’d shaved two years off her thirty-nine, but thirty-seven sounded a lot further away from the dreaded four zero. Anyway, she was tall, slender, very fit, and her years as a fashion model had taught her how to carry her height and stature with great presence. She’d not had the time or inclination to produce children, therefore was mercifully free of the stretch marks and other tell tale signs of motherhood. And her face barely bore a line or wrinkle. She’d earned that blessing though; she’d suffered the indignity of pimple-blighted skin throughout her puberty, adolescence, and way beyond. But an oily complexion paid dividends later in life. At thirty-nine, she turned more heads than the average twenty-five year old, but how could she say that in her resume?
By the following Saturday morning, she’d given up all hope and felt just a little humiliated at being silently rejected by unknown men!
Her last relationship had dragged on for over six years and finally succumbed to a gagging death just three months earlier. She’d never had the nerve to admit her fantasies to Peter, for fear he’d think her some kind of deviant. And no matter how much testing and pushing she employed to try and rouse him to anger—goad him into dealing with her of his own volition—he simply backed off and let her win. In fact, she’d grown quite certain that he could care less if her often-reckless antics caused her to break her stupid neck, especially where the horses were concerned, and there was plenty of ro
om for serious accident there! Quite simply, he obviously didn’t love her, and he was most definitely never going to stand up to her. After so many years of having to be the strong, capable, stoical woman that her height, stature and imposing demeanour had thrust upon her, she doubted there ever would be a man who could handle her. Fact was, she intimidated most men the moment she looked them directly in the eye. They couldn’t deal with the challenge she set them. Phoebe despaired of ever meeting a man who had the balls to square up to her. The demise of her relationship with Peter was inevitable; it was just a shame she’d allowed it to drag on for so long. So many wasted years—wasted youth!
Phoebe sat heavily in the swivel chair and booted up her PC, feeling desperately miserable and lonely. She logged on to pick up her messages, knowing there’d be at least one from Mary, her editor, nagging her to finish the alterations on her latest novel. Yet again, another Saturday spent working, closeted in her study, gazing out the window at—granted—splendid scenery, but with nothing to look forward to at the end of the day. Ah, well, she’d take one of the horses out this afternoon; a good long hack always cheered her up.
What popped up on the list of new mail sent her heart leaping to her throat and made her palms flood with perspiration. A response from the dating agency. Her hand trembled ever so slightly as she opened it. There was a list of five potential suitors. Heart pounding, she opened the first resume and read. Then the second, then the third… and the fourth. Oh, no! None of these men were suitable. They were either inches shorter than her stately five ten, or demanded total obedience without question, ranging from unequivocal subservience, to outright slavery. One appeared more interested in what she could only describe as … well, extremely deviant sex, and some other suggestions she didn’t even want to think about. Phoebe’s heart sank and she was on the verge of deleting all five resumes without even glancing at the last one. But as her finger poised above the word delete, a diminutive voice fair screamed in her head, “Read it first!”
Phoebe sighed heavily again and opened it.
“My name is Tom, and I am seeking a loving, long-term relationship with the woman of my dreams. I’m not a new-age man, I have very old-fashioned values and old-fashioned methods of dealing with irresponsible, foolish or bratty behaviour, and I will carry out earned spankings unmercifully. Having said that, I have huge respect for intelligent, loving, caring women and the right lady can expect love, protection, devotion, fidelity, support, respect and guidance from me. If you think you might be that lady, get in touch.”
He described himself as a youthful forty-six, six feet three, a regular scrum half rugger player, with black hair, blue eyes, and said he’d often been described as, “ruggedly handsome” followed by three exclamation marks. Phoebe figured that he was being modest. She had described herself as “not displeasing to behold!!” She recognised the bashful reserve in the overuse of punctuation. He was divorced with two grown children and had his own business—financially sound.
She exhaled the breath that had slowly snagged in her chest as she devoured Tom’s resume. He sounded too good to be true! Most probably was. Most likely he’d be a power mad pervert like the rest of them! She was shaking uncontrollably, certain in the knowledge that she would indeed get in touch. She was compelled to, no matter how disappointing she suspected it would probably turn out. She clicked reply and—fingers trembling—began to type.
“Hi, Tom. Just read your resume. We sound compatible. I guess you have my details, as I have yours. Read them and let me know if you’re interested, Phoebe.”
God! That was so feeble and cold, but she had clicked send before her courage could sneak away and leave her. Almost immediately, the mail icon flashed in the corner of her screen. “Shit,” she spat, “I bet that’s Mary with yet another nagging session!” She clicked the mailbox and for the second time that morning her heart crashed to a stabbing halt. It was Tom’s email address! Surely he couldn’t have responded so quickly? She opened it, and with her heart chugging away madly, began to read.
“Hi Phoebe, I’ve just read your resume and, God, we’re perfect for each other! We must meet, soon. Please get in touch. Tom.”
Phoebe’s breath came in small, staccato gasps and she felt her face flush with a blistering heat. He must have read her details and sent his response almost exactly at the same time she was sending her message. He was also an AOL member. Maybe he was still online! She quickly added his screen name to her buddy list and before she had a chance to click on instant message, a box popped up on her screen.
“Hi, Phoebe, it’s me, Tom. Do you want to talk?”
Phoebe’s heart was pounding hard as she typed her reply. “Hi, Tom. We must have overlapped. Coincidence or fate, I wonder?”
“Fate. Definitely. Look, one to one over the Internet is all very well, for business dealings, but I really want to be looking into your big brown eyes when we speak. When can we meet? ASAP. Today, tonight ... God! Yesterday isn’t soon enough!”
“Well ... I suppose we could meet for a drink later. Somewhere on neutral territory.” She couldn’t believe this was happening so quickly. She typed on. “Are you familiar with the Archway pub in Theakston?”
“Know it well. Seven o’clock suit you?”
“Fine. How will I recognise you?” Phoebe wiped a bit of perspiration from her brow.
“I’ll be wearing a Farnworth Rugby Club T shirt. And you?”
“Fancy asking a woman what she’s going to wear at a moment’s notice! I have no idea until I’ve turned my wardrobe inside out. I’ll spot you ... and I promise, you’ll spot me too, I’ll be the one turning all the men’s heads!”
Shit! That was outrageous! She was already trying to make him jealous and she hadn’t even met him yet!
“You’d better hope that’s all the turning you’ll be doing, once I decide you’re mine, young lady!”
A delicious mixture of fear and anticipation snaked down Phoebe’s spine at the thinly veiled suggestion that he would turn her over his knee. And the young lady. Why did that tag have such a shuddering impact on her?
“See you later,” she replied and quickly logged off. Her poor belaboured heart could take no more. She had to prepare for tonight!
* * *
By five o’clock that evening, Phoebe had tried on most of her clothes and discarded them in disgust. She hadn’t bought herself anything decent to wear in years. Her clothes were good quality, labels mostly, but old. She and Peter had hardly ever gone anywhere; he wasn’t interested in romantic dinners at good restaurants. His idea of a decent meal was Chinese take away washed down with a bottle of cold beer.
The excitement of that morning had lost its edge by then, though. She’d convinced herself that for all his strong, delicious words, Tom was probably going to be a real let down once she met him face to face. Although, a part of her—the hopelessly optimistic part—kept whispering, “But he wouldn’t have lied about his appearance if he intended to actually meet someone. He wouldn’t have the nerve.”
She eventually settled on old faithful, a knee-length, figure hugging black dress with wide off-the-shoulder straps that accentuated her broad shoulders, and a fairly plunging neckline that showed a tantalising glimpse of cleavage without being too blatant. She opened a brand new packet of lace-topped black stockings, and dusted off her only decent pair of heels. She wasn’t used to wearing heels, she didn’t need to, but it gave her an advantage—they made her more imposing and impressive than normal. She spent an hour on her make-up and hair and by six-thirty she stood back and took a long look at herself in the full-length dressing mirror. The results of her efforts were quite stunning. She was curvaceous and sexy. Flat tummy, no bulges. Long tapering legs and cascades of waist length, lustrous, deep coppery auburn hair emphasised her height. The lightly, but expertly applied cosmetics further enhanced her deep brown eyes, accentuated high cheekbones and classic jaw line. She felt good and looked good. She counted on her good looks to conceal a bad case of
nerves.
“By God, woman, you’ve still got it, even if you are an ageing old bat!” She chuckled and winked at her reflection. If nothing else, she’d enjoy the opportunity to wow a few of the local yokels tonight.
The journey to the Archway took only half an hour along the main road. Phoebe had considered taking a cab so she could have a drink, but decided against it. Tom might offer to drive her home, and if she didn’t want anything further to do with him after tonight, the last thing she needed was for him to know where she lived. After taking a deep, calming breath and making a final check of her lipstick, she closed the front door of her secluded country farmhouse and climbed into the Range Rover. As she drove up the long winding driveway, the recently familiar crunching, whining groan of an ailing wheel bearing grated on her nerves.
“No! Don’t give me any trouble tonight, you bastard! Break down tomorrow if you must, but not tonight, Okay?” Begging and complaining had never worked before, when it came to car repairs, but she kept trying.
The wheel bearing had begun to play up shortly after Peter left. He’d always been as happy as a pig in muck when he was tinkering with cars. As far as Phoebe was concerned, filling the damn thing with gas was a pain in the neck. She’d been happy to let Peter deal with everything else. Now, though, she realised she’d have to sort these things out herself. She should have had the car fixed weeks ago, but, in truth, she just couldn’t seem to make herself get around to it. Throughout the entire drive, the wheel whined and shrieked abominably. As the turning for the pub came up, she realised that she’d forgotten to pick up her mobile phone. It was sitting on the kitchen dresser, on charge.
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