by Maren Smith
“Oh, really? Then why are you here?”
The question made me hesitate. Why had I come? “You told me to be here at seven,” I reminded him.
“Yes, I did, but you didn’t have to come. So why did you?”
I busied myself with downing my glass of wine so that I wouldn’t have to answer. Once every drop had been drained, I set it down on the coffee table and glared at him. “I don’t know, okay?”
“Well, I think I do. I told you I was going to spank you for your behavior earlier today. I think you knew you deserved it, and I think you’ve been dying to have someone put you in your place for a long time now.”
“Please,” I muttered, but I wasn’t convincing anyone. Not even myself.
“You haven’t even been here half an hour and I can see that my instincts were right about you—you are definitely in need of a good, hard spanking. But I am not going to take your abuse, no matter how beautiful you are, so I think I’ll leave that to someone else.”
For once, I was at a loss for words. He hadn’t raised his voice, but each word rang through me like a shot and I was forced to accept the truth behind them. And I knew that he was right—I did deserve to be punished, but now that I was here I didn’t know if I had the courage to let him. I wanted to ask him if he really thought I was beautiful, but what I said instead was, “May I have another glass of wine?”
He looked at me for a moment before his lips curved into a gentle smile. “Do you realize that’s the first time you’ve talked to me without cursing or venom in your voice?”
I nodded mutely. It was hard to argue with the truth. Without another word, he walked toward me and plucked my cup off the coffee table.
“On one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“No more throwing pillows.” His voice was stern and playful all at once. How did he manage that?
Once I nodded my agreement, he took my glass and walked out of the room. What was I doing? Had I lost my mind? What on Earth had possessed me to admit that he was right about me—that I needed a spanking? Of course, I hadn’t exactly admitted it, but I certainly hadn’t denied it, either, which was just about the same thing. It had to be the wine talking. In which case, I probably shouldn’t have asked for seconds.
Still, when he came back bearing wine, I didn’t refuse. He plucked his wine glass from where he’d laid it, on the other side of the coffee table and raised it. “Should we make a toast?”
“To courage,” I replied, my voice unusually meek.
“To enjoying an evening with a beautiful woman.” With that, he clinked his glass against mine and we both took a sip.
That was the second time he’d called me beautiful and I couldn’t deny that it gave me a little thrill every time. How long had it been since a man had called me beautiful? I couldn’t remember, which meant it had been too long. But then again, it wasn’t like I ever gave them a chance to say much. I ran the show, both in my personal and professional life. That was how I liked it, or so I tried to convince myself. The truth was, I’d never met someone as confidant and take-charge as Brandon and while it stepped on my feminist toes, there was no denying that part of me responded to it. Maybe more than just a part.
Brandon gave me a smile and offered me a hand. When I took it, I felt warmth surge through me, practically making me swoon on the spot. I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to have those hands roam my body. As he led me toward the couch, I felt my mouth begin to go dry. This could only mean one thing.
But as had been his pattern, he surprised me. He sat down and pulled me along with him. We were so close, our knees were almost touching. I tucked my legs underneath me and pulled them back—I didn’t know if I could handle touching him again. I didn’t know what I might do if he did.
“Tell me about yourself,” he said, looking like he actually cared about my answer. His blue eyes were intense and I felt myself flush from my cheeks all the way down to places that were hidden from his penetrating gaze.
“There isn’t much to tell,” I said, taking another sip.
“I highly doubt that!” he exclaimed, laughing. “CEO of a successful company at thirty-seven? There’s got to be a story there.”
“Thirty-six, actually.”
His lips quirked into a smile and I got the feeling he’d known that all along. “Quite an accomplishment.”
I heard the words all the time, so why did it suddenly feel brand-new? Why did a compliment that had long gone stale actually make me feel special? “Thank you. I guess it is.”
“So?”
“What do you want to know?” I asked, tracing my finger along the crystal rim of my glass.
“Start with how you created the company, I guess.”
“Um, well…” I talked about myself all the time. I wasn’t quite sure why I was feeling so shy now—except for that I found myself actually caring what he thought, despite my best efforts not to. “It started because of my grandma, actually. About seven years ago, she called and told me that she had been diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s.”
He reached for my hand, brushing it lightly with his fingertips and making a delicious tingle work its way down my spine. “I’m sorry.”
One look at him and I could tell he really meant it. “Thanks. Yeah, it was really tough on my mom. Neither of us knew much about the disease, just that she’d probably start to lose her memory. So I started doing some research about the stages of the disease and all that.” I paused, sipping more wine. I hadn’t told this story in a long time and I was finding it more emotional than I'd expected. “Well, anyway, I discovered a lot about memory loss and looked into some things, like different functions of the brain.”
“Sounds interesting.”
I smiled shyly when I noticed how impressed he seemed. “Well, anyway, I did a lot of study on the human brain back in college, so I already knew some things. For example, memory can be triggered and the best triggers are photographic images and music. That’s why so many studies are coming out encouraging kids to listen to music while they study. Anyway, I drew up some sketches and got a friend of mine from college to build a prototype.”
“What kind of prototype?”
“Basically, it’s a flat screen that has images from a person’s life flashed on it, synchronized to music. This can be personal photos or historical images. There are memory games, too, like matching dates to pictures. Studies show that making your brain work to remember actually keeps your memory stronger.”
“That’s very cool,” he said with a nod. “And did it help your grandmother?”
“In the beginning,” I said, hating the vulnerability I heard in my voice. I’d always been so close to my Grandma. “But after a while… it’s only a temporary fix, you know. It’s a Band-Aid, and eventually….” I trailed off, knowing that if I went any further I would break down. I never cried in front of anyone—it was a personal rule.
“Did you make it to your meeting today?”
I breathed a sigh of relief at the change of subject, giving him a small smile. “Yes, thank you.”
“So, how’d it go?”
I gave a short laugh, tossing my dark hair over my shoulder. “I forgot my speech. You could say I was distracted.” I lowered my eyes and then peeked at him through my lashes. He was watching me intently.
“What did you do? I know you said it was pretty important.”
“Oh, it was. My company, Dusty Records, was trying to negotiate the purchase of SunFilm, which is the company that makes the flat screens I told you about.” I paused, sipping my wine, marveling at the warmth that traveled throughout my body as I drank. “Once film became practically obsolete, they had to do something to keep their business from falling apart. That’s when they made the screens that we use. But if we’re able to buy them out, it would mean that we no longer have to buy that product from them. So, essentially we’d save millions of dollars.”
He gave a long, low whistle. “Wow. You weren’t
kidding.”
I ducked my head, feeling embarrassed when I remembered how sharply I’d spoken to him. “I never kid. Especially when money’s involved.”
“Money isn’t everything, you know.”
I gave him a wan smile. “Tell that to my investors. If I didn’t keep making more money, or keep us from losing it, they’d replace me,” I snapped my fingers, “like that.”
“Would that be so bad?”
I put my lips to the glass and tipped it, drinking. All too soon, it was empty, and I set it down with a feeling of disappointment. Once the wine was gone, things always got much too serious.
“I have a second bottle,” Brandon said, almost as though he’d read my mind. “Would you like me to get it?”
The way he was looking at me made me feel a little nervous. He looked so sincere and sweet and I was painfully aware of what a bitch I’d been to him. The warmth in his clear blue eyes made my stomach flip. “Not right now, thank you.”
“Do you want me to take you home?”
I could hear it in the gentleness of his voice, see it in the strong lines of his handsome face. He was giving me an out. All I had to do was take it. Instead, I found myself settling back on the couch. “Tell me something about yourself. Fair’s fair.”
“All right, if that’s what you want.”
I giggled at his unspoken question. This was so surreal. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“Well, you probably wouldn’t guess, but I’m a high school teacher.”
“Really?” I asked with genuine interest. “But I thought…”
“My dad opened the garage in 87 and called it ‘Fuller Fixes’. When he got older, my brother and I took over and renamed it. I worked there for a few years, and I still help out, but it’s basically my brother’s place.”
“That’s nice of you to help him out.”
“Yeah. He particularly likes me to take over the difficult customers.” His voice had dropped to a murmur and he trailed a finger along my arm, giving me goose bumps.
Almost without noticing it, I turned my body toward him, hoping for more. “Is that what I was?” I asked softly, matching my tone to his. “Difficult?”
“Without a shadow of a doubt,” he replied, and a finger became his whole hand, caressing up and down my arm.
I shivered in delight at the warmth of his touch, stifling a moan. “You said I owed you an apology.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“I am really sorry, Brandon. I hope you believe that.”
He pulled back, much to my frustration, and sat back, his eyes searching my face. Did he read the desire that was sure to be etched in every line? Did he see how much I wanted for him to touch me? “I believe you,” he said at last, his voice gravelly. “But I also said you owed me something else.”
Chapter 4
So he hadn’t forgotten about that. My breath caught in my throat as I watched him watching me. I swallowed hard, feeling a slow burn start in my belly. I didn’t know why I felt so turned-on all of a sudden.
“Now?” It came out sounding more like a squeal than a question.
Brandon drained the rest of his wine and set his glass down on the table in front of him. “I think it might be good to get it over with, don’t you?”
“But…I don’t want to be spanked.”
“Have you ever been spanked before, Karen?”
I avoided his eyes. “No. My Grandma used to smack my hand sometimes, but…”
“Well, I can tell you it’s not going to be very enjoyable.”
My breath caught in my throat—I’d assumed that much already. I opened my mouth to speak but found that I couldn’t.
"Are you okay? Do you need a minute?"
"No, I think I'd rather just get it over with," I admitted softly.
Brandon surprised me by putting a finger under my chin and tilting my head up. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"I'm scared." That was just part of the truth. The rest of it was that I'd never felt so vulnerable in my whole life.
"It's okay to be scared."
I nodded and rose to my feet. It wasn't until that moment that I felt the effects of the alcohol I'd consumed. I took a step toward him and practically fell on top of him. With a low chuckle, Brandon took my hips in his hands and positioned me until my bottom was right over his knee, which he raised to push it higher in the air. The burning in my tummy now felt like a furnace. I started to take a deep breath to prepare myself, but before I could even fully exhale, Brandon landed a swat on my rear that made me wince. Before I'd even begun to feel the full effects of the wallop he'd applied, he let fly with another one.
"Brandon! Stop!" I protested.
"Sorry, sweetheart. You had your chance to get out of this. Once I start a punishment, there's no stopping it." Every other word was accompanied by another spank stinging its way onto my rear.
"But—it hurts!" I squealed.
"Put on your big-girl panties," he deadpanned, and it made me so angry that I began kicking my legs in an attempt to get him to stop. He had no trouble holding me down and keeping me right where he wanted me, and the next thing I knew, I felt his hands on my zipper.
"Stop!" I yelled. "You can't do this! I barely know you!"
"You should have thought about that before you screamed and cursed at me earlier today. You knew me even less then, so what's the difference?"
I tried to think of a retort, but he had me there and worse, he knew it. "Please," I said, trying another tact. "It won't ever happen again."
"Not to me it won't," he replied briskly. "I'm going to make sure of that." I could hear the sound of my zipper being pulled down and when he finished, he hesitated for an instant. I began to think there was hope that he'd changed his mind until I felt the fabric part. He did it slowly, unveiling my bottom like it was a gift made just for him. I didn't know whether to be angrier that he was looking at my butt like that or turned on.
I didn't have long to think on it because all too soon he was inflicting more punishment on my bottom–the spanks sounded fuller now that there was only one layer of clothing between my bottom and his hand. They stung more, too. Bit by bit, I was feeling my anger ebb, simply because I was feeling too sorry for myself to feel anything else. Each swat made me wish I'd worn thicker underwear instead of the thin, lacy scrap of fabric that did nothing to shield my rear from this onslaught. What had I been thinking? But I knew the answer to that: I'd hoped that things might go a little differently, but no way was that going to happen now. I wouldn't let him touch me now even if he begged, which I would tell him when—
"Ow!" I yelped loudly after a particularly hard swat to my thigh.
"What are you thinking?"
"What?" I moaned, caught off guard by the question.
"What are you thinking?"
"Why?"
"Because I want to make sure you're paying attention to this punishment."
Paying attention? What, did he think I had a butt of steel or something? I was reading him loud and clear! "I was thinking about what a jerk you are!" I threw back, looking at him over my shoulder.
"Then you definitely were not thinking about what I just said," he returned, adding another scorching swat to my other thigh.
"Brandon!" I moaned. "Please. I already said I was sorry!"
"I know you did. I just want to make sure you mean it."
Before I could add anything else, the spanking began again in earnest. My entire butt was heating up, from the top of my cheeks all the way down to the tops of my thighs; Brandon wasn't playing around. He was going to make sure that I remembered this for days, if his mean right swing had anything to say about it. I winced at a particularly harrowing blow and found, to my horror, that tears filled my eyes.
This couldn't happen. Not here. Not now.
"Please," I choked out. "Please, stop."
"Not yet," he replied without even pausing.
"Yes, now," I cried out. When he still kept spanking without heeding me, I began to strug
gle with all my might to get off his lap. I kicked my feet up, barely hitting his hand, but I at least made contact. When that didn't work, I leaned over and sunk my teeth into the denim covering his legs.
"What do you think you're doing, young lady?" he bellowed in such a voice that I began to doubt myself.
"I told you to stop," I said in a pathetic whimper. I found myself pulled up, and before I knew it, I was being pushed back on to the couch. The instant my backside made contact with the leather couch I winced. Quickly, I wiped my tears away with the back of my hand and faced his eyes that were shooting daggers at me.
"I told you, once I start a spanking, I see it through. I am going to go get the hairbrush so that I can paddle your bottom, but before I do, would you mind telling me what your problem is?"
His severe tone almost made me dissolve into tears right then and there. Why could just a stern look from him make me feel remorse? I'd never cared what anyone thought before. "I just..."
"You need to talk a little louder and speed it up, Karen. I am really losing my patience."
"I don't want to cry," I blurted out. Once the words had escaped I couldn't look him in the eye.
"What?" he asked. "Are you serious? You don't want to cry, so you throw a temper tantrum that earns you an even harder spanking?"
I sniffled. "I didn't mean to hurt you."
"You didn't hurt me, Karen, but you certainly aren't going to like where your actions are going to lead."
"I don't like crying in front of people," I admitted. Of course, it was more than that. I didn't cry in front of anyone, never had since my Grandma, and that had been almost twenty years ago.
I don't know if it was my wide, scared eyes or my soft tone that convinced him, but the next thing I knew, he was sitting on the couch next to me, his leg pressed against mine. "Look, I understand. But spankings are supposed to hurt, they're even supposed to make you cry."
“Can't we just skip that part?” I pleaded, my voice breathy as I looked into his mesmerizing eyes.
“No.” He traced his finger over my parted lips. “We can't. But if you're a very good girl—then maybe we can do something more fun when we're done.”
