“Are you defying me, Phoebe?” Tom asked coldly.
Phoebe resisted the urge to tell him to go fuck himself. “No, sir. I’m not,” she replied, but her tone was less than contrite.
“It sounds to me like you aren’t as scared as you pretend. Or nearly sorry enough!” He sighed deeply—a worried sigh. His voice softened a little. “Phoebe, why were you so afraid to tell me the truth when it happened? Yes, I’d have been angry that you insisted on riding home, rather than letting Clive take you, but I know how much you love those horses, and it’s typical of you to worry more about their welfare than your own. It’s misplaced, but that’s just the way you are, and partly why I love you so much. But to lie to me like that! After I’d already demonstrated just how strongly I feel about lies and deceit! Why did you do it?”
Phoebe’s anger dissipated rapidly. His reasoning was impeccable. His concern was genuine. Her heart plummeted like a stone, weighed down with guilt and shame—again! She forgot herself for a moment and began to turn around. He spun her back to face the wall and administered a blistering slap with his hand.
“You’re not forgiven yet, Phoebe! So don’t think you’re getting away with this. I want an explanation before I punish you. It’s a necessary part of the process that you understand why you’re being punished and accept that it’s warranted.” His voice was firm and—almost—fatherly.
Tears of remorse trickled down her cheeks and she had to exercise complete control in order to resist the urge to rub her stinging behind.
“I thought you’d forbid me to ride him again ... or something very like it. I thought you’d overreact. It wasn’t Murphy’s fault, or Clive’s ... it wasn’t anyone’s fault. It happens. Horse riding is a potentially dangerous hobby, no matter how experienced or proficient you are.
“And I refused Clive’s offer because I was afraid to hand Murphy over to someone who couldn’t handle him in a frightened condition, but…” Her voice took on a guilty tone and faltered away.
“But, what? Phoebe. All of it, please!” Tom growled.
She sniffed and wiped away a tear. “But ... there was someone who could have taken him for me. A friend of mine. But he is a friend of Peter’s too, and I didn’t want Peter to find out about it and maybe turn up when you were here. I couldn’t have handled that!” She started to cry again, expecting another stinging rebuttal.
“Oh, Phoebe.” He sighed sadly. “You’re telling me that you risked further danger by riding that horse home for fear of hurting Peter’s or my feelings? From what you’ve told me, Peter wouldn’t have given a damn about the accident! Let alone turn up to see how you were! It’s time you learned to think of yourself first in situations like that!” His voice turned soft again. “Do you admit your decision was foolish and irresponsible?”
Phoebe nodded. He was right—as ever. Peter had ignored similar incidents in the past, telling her that the danger in which she placed herself was her choice—no point in sympathising when she was injured!
“Yes, I was an utter fool,” she murmured, knowing that now the punishment would commence.
“Turn around,” he ordered firmly.
Phoebe turned. He was sitting on the chair. The paddle on the table. Deliberately placed in the empty space. She gulped hard, but didn’t hesitate to lie across his knee. He pinned her, not quite so firmly as before, probably because she was submitting.
He dealt thirty hard smacks. By the time half of them had landed, she’d begun to squirm and struggle. A natural response. No one took pain like that without trying to avoid it. The last five he landed on the sweet spot.
“Ow, ow, ow, no, please not there again! Oh!”
“I told you that you were going to remember this for a long time, Phoebe. Now lie still, or I’ll trap your legs!”
Phoebe swallowed hard and held her breath for the last three. Then he yanked her to her feet and flashed her a warning glance as her hand began to shift backwards. She stopped herself and sniffed back tears.
“Bend over the table,” he ordered, picking up the paddle and pointing at the gap.
Phoebe cast him a baleful glance, but he glowered back at her and slapped the paddle in his hand.
She bent over. The table was too low for her to actually lie flat, so she rested her palms on the top and closed her eyes, gritting her teeth, waiting for the first smack.
His hand settled in the small of her back. “Down on your forearms, Phoebe. I want your backside high.”
She obeyed, feeling the skin around her thighs and bottom stretch as she bent lower. The target was beautifully exposed.
The first whack landed on the fleshiest part of her cheeks and sent a streak of blinding white pain arcing through her body. She let out a gasping shriek. The second, third and fourth came so rapidly that she could only wail a single, long cry. By the time the entire measure had been delivered, the heat in her bottom could have warmed the entire house. Tom had to hold her down for the last few as she’d begun to writhe and squirm in a futile attempt to avoid the raining blows. Then, rather than the expected yank to her feet followed by banishment to the corner, he kept her down and began to rub away a little of the pain. She sobbed like a baby, punctuated with groans and little gasps as his hand smoothed across her glowing cheeks.
“You bruise too easily, baby,” he said softly. “You don’t have enough padding for this.”
Redemption! A wave of relief flooded through her. He was going to stop! But the thought was crushed almost immediately as it entered her mind.
“Oh, don’t think you’re punishment is over. It isn’t. I’m simply going to finish it with something that won’t do quite so much damage to your beautiful bottom.”
He pulled her to her feet and fixed her with a hard look. “In the corner!” he barked. “Contemplate this for a while. And no rubbing!”
She almost ran to the corner, glad for the brief reprieve so the burning would diminish before the next bout. And, remarkably, it did. She found herself thinking more about how resilient her rear end must be, rather than the reason it was being chastised so. Oh yes, it burned horribly, but the searing pain left her. As the minutes ticked by, her thoughts turned to the alternative item he was going to use to finish this punishment. It wouldn’t be so bad. If he were concerned about bruising her badly, certainly it would be less severe.
“Phoebe. Over my knee.” His voice hadn’t softened any.
She turned and the shock registered on her tear-stained face as she saw the implement on the table. A broad leather strap—about six inches wide—tapered at one end into a sturdy handle. Another weapon from his armoury—no doubt secreted in that horrid little bag of tricks.
The hand spanking that followed was a positive walk in the park compared to the paddling, despite his unerring ability to hit the tender spot that sent her screaming and struggling like a wild animal. He rekindled the fire expertly, then pushed her back into the prostrate position across the table.
The strap was no less painful than the paddle. Only she could tell that it wasn’t having anything like the indelible effect the paddle had. She could safely endure a lot more of this. And he knew it!
The beastly implement fell with resounding smacks, only eclipsed by her screams. By the time he’d finished, she was angry. She’d suffered enough for her crimes. This wasn’t fair! When he allowed her to stand, she whipped around, her hand swinging toward his face. He caught it as deftly as a Swift catches a butterfly. Phoebe wished, instantly, that she’d not been so rash. But his face only registered amusement.
“Why, Phoebe! It seems you still have strength to fight. Is this not harsh enough for you? Do you want it to continue? I’m happy to oblige, if you think you need it.” His smile was grim.
“No! Please, Tom. I’ve truly had enough!” she sobbed, “You’re just continuing for your own pleasure! This isn’t fair!” She struggled to release his iron grip, but it was pointless.
His expression turned livid. “No, Phoebe, I’m not doing this for
pleasure. Far from it! Have you considered what might have happened if that knock to your head had developed into a cerebral haemorrhage? You might be a bloody drooling vegetable by now! Or dead! You stupid, stupid girl!”
Phoebe froze in horror. The possibility hadn’t even entered her mind. And she’d known it to happen. A good friend of hers had taken a bad fall at the Badminton Horse Trials and that exact thing had happened. He spent six weeks on a machine before they finally switched it off.
She shook her head and lowered her eyes, her struggling ceased.
“No. I never thought—”
“No! You didn’t, did you? Well, you can spend some time thinking about it right now! Back in the corner!” He propelled her there with another slap.
And she did think about it. Long and hard. No one actually believed something like that could happen to them, but she had taken a nasty crack on the head. Bad enough to make her feel sick and dizzy, and give her a headache like she’d never known. God! Yes, it could have developed into something far, far worse! And that would have been typical, now that she’d found real happiness. God had a warped sense of humour that way—as far as she was concerned.
Tom delivered her final hand spanking with a zest and intensity she never believed possible. She wondered if his hand must be very nearly as raw as her backside by the end of it. His arm had to ache too, no matter how strong. She was going to remember this punishment for a long time—every time she sat down, and she wasn’t even going to try for a while yet.
Tom carried her to bed and soothed cool cream into her searing flesh, massaging gently. As he spoke, his tone was strangely emotional, and she sensed that he truly felt as much pain and anguish as she. Her actions—and inactions—of a few weeks ago, might have parted them forever and she would have left him bereft and alone. If the roles were reversed, what would she have done? How would she have felt?
Exactly the same.
Chapter Five
It took a good week for Phoebe’s bruises to disappear and the severity of the punishment had somehow raised her and Tom’s relationship to another level. Her lifelong fantasies had been surpassed. The reality of having a man who spanked was not always the rose-tinted vision she’d so meticulously manufactured in her dreams. The helplessness she’d always craved—prostrate across a strong man’s knee, getting her bottom soundly punished whilst being told just exactly why it was being done—had undergone an unexpected metamorphosis. It had never occurred to her that the total loss of control could be so frustrating and—when he was utterly furious—quite frightening, not to mention excruciatingly painful. But, despite that knowledge, she still could not fully control the whispering self-destruct demon inside.
* * *
As a very wet April ended and a warm, sunny May brightened the skies, Phoebe was beavering away at her PC, tweaking her short story entries for the forthcoming national competition. The results were to be announced at the International Authors Forum, held at the Mayfair Plaza in London. She’d been asked to speak on fantasy fiction writing at the conference—a huge honour—and had spent the best part of three weeks preparing her speech. Public speaking was a new foray for her, and although she’d done a little acting in her youth, standing up before over three hundred of her peers and aspiring admirers was a daunting prospect. As the dreaded day drew nearer, her nerves were beginning to wear her ragged. She snapped, carped, and sulked at the slightest provocation. Tom was very understanding and tolerant given the situation, despite the fact he’d had to constantly nag her about eating. Phoebe was steadily losing weight—at a rate of three pounds a week since early April and by the first week of May she’d lost nearly fourteen. And Tom was losing patience and his temper—fast.
Phoebe paced her study cursing her temperamental printer vociferously whilst Tom cooked his specialty—spaghetti Bolognaise. Normally, he’d chuckle away quietly to himself when Phoebe swore at machines, but in recent weeks her short temper was beginning to grate on his nerves. He served up and placed the plates on the table.
“Phoebe, come and eat,” he called out levelly, trying hard not to let his temper show.
“In a minute,” Phoebe muttered absently, then, “Shit! You bastard! Why the fuck won’t you just print the pages I tell you to?”
Tom exhaled a furious breath. “Phoebe! Will you just leave that bloody machine and come and eat, please!” he barked tersely.
“I said, in a minute!” she snapped back, shortly followed by another growling profanity directed at the printer.
Tom ground his teeth and pounded his fist on the table. “Phoebe! If you’re not sitting at this table in ten seconds, you won’t be sitting for the rest of the fucking week! Do you hear me?”
The study fell silent, except for the coughing whirr of a grumpy printer.
Then Phoebe marched into the kitchen wearing a scowl as black as thunderclouds, jerked out a chair and thumped down on it. She glared at Tom, her eyes afire with sulky indignation.
“This is bloody important, you know!” she snapped. “I’ve got to post those scripts tomorrow morning at the very latest! And at this rate, I’m going to have to write the bloody things by hand!” She jerked her chin at the steaming plate before her. “This could go in the microwave later! What’s the big deal?”
Tom glared back at her, his jaw flexing with pent-up fury. “Because, my darling, it won’t go in the microwave later, it’ll go in the bin, just like every meal has done for the last month!”
Phoebe avoided his ice-cold eyes and stared at the rapidly cooling food. “Oh, don’t exaggerate,” she growled.
“I’m not exaggerating, Phoebe! Shit! You’re beginning to look like a bloody Belsen survivor! Your ribs are like a washboard; your hipbones are like razorblades! You are going to make yourself ill! And for what? A fucking speech!” He pounded the table again. “Look at me, Phoebe!”
She raised her eyes only, giving him a hooded, sulky glare. She was about to growl a retort, but he shot her a warning look.
“You are going to eat every last scrap of this dinner, even if I have to spoon feed it to you, do you understand? And if you give me any cheek whatsoever I’ll spank the living daylights out of you and you’ll eat it standing up!”
The involuntary pout had crept onto Phoebe’s lips, but she remained silent. Tom held her with his eyes, his glare accentuating the threat. Phoebe picked up her fork, sighed heavily and prodded unenthusiastically at the pasta. She knew very well he’d carry out his threat, but the mere fact he was treating her like a child doused what little appetite she had left. He was watching her every move, too. She could feel his eyes—and his temper upon her. She took a mouthful and chewed. It tasted good, but scraped down her throat like a bucket-load of broken glass. She sighed heavily again and dropped her fork on the plate.
“I can’t eat with you watching me like a bloody mother hen!” She looked up at him. His face was set hard with determination. “Dammit, Tom, you know what I’m like! Stubborn as a mule! I promise I’ll eat it later, but I feel like a five year old, being made to eat my dinner like this!”
“You’re behaving like a child, so I’ll treat you like one. Why do you always have to do things the hard way, Phoebe? You know you won’t win. You’re so bloody contrary! You hate doing as you’re told, even when you know it’s for your own good!”
His uncanny knack of hitting the nail right on the proverbial head infuriated Phoebe even more. Knowing she was wrong, she could handle, and given enough time would graciously admit it and apologise, but being told she was wrong had the strangest effect on her. It made her blood boil with absolute rage and reason flew right out of the ballpark.
“Don’t you dare patronise me! I hate it when you talk to me like that—like you were my fucking father! And I’m tired of you trying to control my every move!” She jumped to her feet, knocking her chair over. “You are suffocating me, Tom! If I want to work all day and night, that’s my prerogative. If I want to starve myself half to death, that’s my choice too! I
’ve worked in some of the toughest businesses ever to be invented and I’ve thrived, with no help from anyone! I’m a big girl now! I do things my way, whether you like it or not.” She picked up her plate, strode over to the bin and tipped it. “And if I don’t wish to eat at the time you appoint, then I bloody well won’t!”
Tom glared at her, his eyes glinting with cold ire. He stood, slowly, not taking his eyes from her for a millisecond. He lifted his chair and carefully placed it a couple of feet from the table. His intent was quite clear. He began to move toward her silently. His expression said it all.
For an instant, Phoebe felt her bravado slip away and leave her like a rat leaving a sinking ship, but the devil that sparked her initial fury leapt into the breach.
“And if you even think about touching me, Tom, I swear I’ll have you arrested for assault! I mean it! Enough is enough!”
He stopped dead in his tracks and stared at her, his face registering a cauldron of emotions ranging from abject fury to mortal wounding—and finally, betrayal. Phoebe stood her ground, but now two voices screamed in her head. One telling her to apologise, absolutely and completely, both for her behaviour and the threat, and the other—the devil’s sinister whisper—telling her it was about time she put her foot down. The seconds of agonising silence between them ticked away slowly, and Phoebe felt as though she was perched at the pinnacle of a rollercoaster ride. Whatever happened now, she had no control over it.
Tom nodded slowly and for a moment Phoebe thought she saw a look of final resignation in his eyes, but even though her sane voice screamed at her to apologise, to capitulate, her tongue refused to cooperate.
One In A Million Page 8
