Seeking Mr. Wrong

by Natalie Charles

  I stepped into the elevator with an attractive man and a woman who smelled like the perfume section of a department store. They were toting Louis Vuitton weekend bags and smiling at each other, and I wondered what in the world they were doing staying in Stamford, just shy of New York City. They exited on the fourteenth floor. I continued to the twentieth.

  My palms were cold and my knees were shaking. I reminded myself to breathe. I can leave at any time. I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to. It helped a little bit. What helped more, though, was thinking of Sadie, Faye, and Dad laughing at the thought of me writing erotica. If only they knew how badass I am. I lifted my chin as I came to room 2014 and knocked on the door. It opened almost immediately and a voice said, “Come inside.”

  The room was dark. Once my eyes had finally adjusted, I saw nothing unexpected. A king bed. A leather bench. A small sitting area to one side with a matching leather love seat and armchair. The windows were drawn with heavy, gray, raw silk drapes. I sucked in a breath as the door closed behind me and a woman’s voice said, “Welcome. See, it’s not that scary.”

  She was smiling and pretty, with brown hair pulled back into a severe bun. She was wearing a black strapless leather dress that hit midthigh and black leather boots. And red lipstick. I noticed that right away. “First things first. I’m doing this as a favor to Mindy,” she said. “So I won’t charge tonight.”

  The muscles in my shoulders unwound a little as she spoke. She sounded so . . . normal. “Do you do this a lot?”

  “I’m very busy.” A suggestive smile lit her face.

  “Who are your clients?”

  “I never give names. Ever,” she said, setting her hands on her narrow waist. “But mostly they’re powerful men who run companies during the day and enjoy when someone else takes charge at night. A few women, too.” She pointed to the leather bench. “Sit.”

  When I didn’t move right away, she whacked my bottom with her hand. “Ow!”

  “I’m in charge. I said, ‘Sit.’ ”

  “Fine. Whatever.” I rubbed my sore bottom and walked over to the bench.

  She stood in front of me, her face suddenly stern, her hands on her hips. Her nails were painted a deep purple, or possibly black. They looked sharp. “I’m going to hurt you. I may leave marks.”

  I winced. “Could we not do that? I teach kindergarten, and I can’t look like I’m in a fight club.”

  Her dark eyes narrowed. “No promises. If it gets too intense, what safe word do you want to use?”

  I thought for a moment. “Stop?”

  “No. You may say that anyway, but I won’t listen. It needs to be something you wouldn’t normally say.”

  “Water buffalo?” Odin and I had recently watched a documentary.

  “Fine. That’s your safe word.” She lifted her chin. “Now pull down your pants.”

  That was about the moment I thought that maybe, just maybe, I was in over my head. I remained fixed in place. “Is that really necessary—”

  Miss Hunter grabbed me by the collar of my yellow sweater and growled, “Pull down your pants. You don’t speak unless spoken to.”

  “Fine. Okay. Jeez.” Out of nowhere, she slapped my cheek. My eyes watered as I covered one side of my face with my hand. “Fork and spoon! That hurt!”

  “Shut up and take off your pants.”

  I feared her slapping me again, so I stood. She took a seat on the leather bench and watched. The breath stilled in my lungs as I unbuttoned my pants. I was wearing boxy blue underwear with full coverage and little red stars. So vanilla. “Now what?” My pants were hanging out at my thighs and I was still wearing my brown loafers.

  She patted her lap. “Come here.” I started to sit on her lap, but she lifted one hand and said, “No. I’m going to spank you.”

  “But I thought—”

  “Lie down!”

  It took me a moment before I realized what she wanted, and then I lay down across her legs, my bottom in the air. “Sorry. I’m not a very good submissive—”

  Whack! I let out a sharp gasp. “Son of a bullfrog! No warning?”

  Whack! Whack! She was slapping away at each of my cheeks, bouncing from one to the other. Whack! “God love it, that hurts! OW!”

  She came down really hard. “I didn’t tell you to speak!”

  I bit my lip as she continued to spank me, wondering what the heck I was supposed to be getting out of this. Fortunately my bottom went numb and stopped stinging after a few solid smacks. Was this what it felt like to be open to possibilities? If so, I was determined to be closed-minded from that point on.

  “Get up,” she barked.

  That time, I didn’t talk back. My chinos fell to my knees. My underwear was still on. My dignity had fled down the fire escape. Miss Hunter pointed to the leather couch. “Lie there. Facedown.”

  I shuffled over to the couch, holding up my pants with one hand. I winced as I set first one knee, then the other onto the leather and lowered myself to my stomach. “You’ve been very naughty,” she said behind me. “Talking back and not listening.”

  I bit my lip, determined not to rise to the bait. That would only get me another lash on my already sore rear. Some small voice in my head told me that this was the answer, to just be good. Behave, and she’ll lose interest, it said. Don’t give her a reason to spank, and maybe she’ll open some wine and you can kick back and laugh about it—

  Bam! “Cheese and rice!” I screamed into the leather. “I didn’t say any—”

  Bam! Bam! Bam! She was lashing my backside with what felt like a weighted leather strap, and the pain shot straight up my body and out the top of my head. I have the safe word. Say “water buffalo” and it stops. I clenched my jaw and fisted my hands, determined to be tougher.

  “Focus on the pain,” she said, her voice suddenly softer. “Take all of that hurt you feel inside, and put it on the physical pain.”

  Bam! I winced, tears stinging my eyes. The lashes took my breath away. But ever the people pleaser, I wanted to do what Miss Hunter told me. So I thought of James telling me he couldn’t marry me. Bam! And I thought of Brunhilda’s disapproving glances when we passed in the hallway while I was wearing sandals. Bam! And Sadie, who thought she had more business writing erotica than I did. Bam bam bam!

  It stopped, and I exhaled. I was crying into the leather of the couch, but it felt good. I needed to cry.

  Thwack! She’d come back at me with another strap, this one thin and stinging. The pain was sharp but faded quickly. Thwack!

  I focused on being the ugly sister, the one for whom nothing ever worked out. Man, did I hate carrying that around with me. Thwack! Thwack! And then, I can’t believe it, but I thought about Eric Clayman and how hot he was. Thwack! He’d never look at me that way. I needed to get over it.

  Thwack thwack thwack!

  My mind went blank. Miss Hunter changed instruments and gave me another good round of wallops, ending with some kind of lashing that felt like my back had been set on fire and the flames then extinguished. Then she actually crouched down beside me as I was sobbing and put her hand on my back gently. “Are you all right?” she whispered. “We’re done.”

  It felt like I’d been on that couch for hours, but when I looked at the clock, only about ten minutes had passed. I rolled over and wondered how I was going to ever sit again. My rear felt like it was swollen to five times its normal size. I rubbed the tears off my cheeks. “That fucking hurt.”

  She was a different person now, kind and gentle. She sat back on the leather seat, her arms braced beside her, and crossed her legs. “What did you think?”

  “I think I need an ice pack.”

  “And?”

  “And I’m certain you left bruises, even though I asked you not to.”

  “Is that all?”

  I buttoned my pants and smoothe
d my sweater. I survived. It was brutal, and painful, but I survived it. I clenched and unclenched my aching fists. “I feel powerful. And a little high. Is that unusual?”

  “Nope. It’s the reason people come to me.” She had a straight row of bright white teeth. “You’re brave. It takes guts to let a stranger hit you like that.”

  “Brave or stupid.” I laughed weakly, because every part of me hurt.

  “It takes trust. You had to trust me not to hurt you too much, and to stop if you used the safe word.”

  Well, well. I supposed she was right. “I should tell my therapist about the breakthrough I had with the dominatrix. He’d like that.”

  I stumbled to my feet, feeling bruised but euphoric. I could do anything at that moment, and all I wanted to do was to go home and write. I thanked Miss Hunter for her time. “You know my number if you ever need another session!” she said.

  I smiled politely. That would not be happening anytime soon.

  I hobbled to the elevator, then tried not to limp through the lobby, and when I reached my car and remembered I’d need to sit down to drive, I cursed like a sailor. When I finally made it home, I gave Odin a big hug and a biscuit. Then I fixed a pot of coffee, put a giant ice pack on my chair, and sat down to write some smut.

  “Come in here.”

  He was sitting behind a mahogany desk with his back to an expanse of windows and the Manhattan skyline. She knew exactly what he wanted, but she didn’t dare disobey him when he summoned her like that. He didn’t tolerate disobedience on any level. She teetered in on black high heels that were too tall to be practical. He liked them. He’d told her to wear them.

  “Close the door.”

  She did as asked and locked the heavy wooden door behind her. Her legs shook as if it were their first time. She stood in place and waited for his order.

  He had a steely blue gaze that people talked about. It was the kind of stare that made pulses race. Intimidating and powerful. He could dress someone down with a flick of his irises. She often wondered why she bothered wearing clothes to work at all, since she felt naked around him. Clothes or not, he looked at her as if he could see straight through to her most secret parts.

  “Undress for me.”

  She hesitated for less than an instant. It was enough. “Are you going to disobey me?” he whispered.

  “No, sir.”

  She reached up to unfasten the barrette holding her chignon in place. Her dark blond hair tumbled to her shoulders in a cloud scented like her ginger shampoo. She teased him, working slowly. First one earring, then the other. Her necklace with the single diamond on the thin-as-silk gold chain. She dropped them onto the corner of the desk. Then she pulled off her jacket and threw it carelessly onto a chair before untucking the silk blouse from her skirt waistband. All the while, she pretended to be alone, knowing full well that he was watching her every movement, his legs spread wide, that steel gaze waiting for her to reveal everything he’d seen beneath her clothes.

  Finally she stood before him, exposed. He looked her up and down and flicked a finger at her feet. “The shoes.”

  She stepped out of her heels gratefully and kicked them aside. The balls of her feet ached. He loved to torture her.

  “Come here.”

  He indicated a spot on the floor, directly in front of him. She walked to where he pointed, keeping her eyes down. He made her so nervous sometimes that she couldn’t meet his gaze. But she knew that no matter what he did to her, she would be safe. Often she was grateful on those days when he ordered her to tie a silk scarf across her eyes. Then she wouldn’t have to face him.

  As if he could read her mind, he said, “Look at me.” His voice was deep and gravelly.

  She swallowed, trying to still the trembling in her limbs. He hadn’t ordered her to speak, so she couldn’t explain that he was too intense. He’d see straight to her soul. It was punishment in itself.

  “Look at me,” he ordered again. Then, when she didn’t, he rose and turned her chin up himself. “How dare you disobey me.”

  They locked gazes: his like burning ice, hers wide and frightened. He cut to her center as surely as if he had a sword, and she couldn’t hide the terror there. He was going to lay her bare and claim every inch of her. In that moment, she decided to allow him.

  “Bend over.” He directed her to the desk.

  She laid her bare chest across the surface and closed her eyes, waiting for the sweet punishment that was about to come.

  I yawned and closed my laptop. It was naughty. It was kind of sexy. It was a start.

  I eased myself off the chair and hobbled to the bedroom, where I stopped in front of the full-length mirror and pulled down my pants. My bottom looked angry and red. There would definitely be bruising. I’d have to ice my butt for the rest of the weekend. Good thing I had a writing deadline and no social life.

  I WROTE through the weekend, pausing here and there to eat or find out what Odin was breaking. Mom called on Sunday to ask if I’d received my gift from Italy.

  “I sure did,” I said, and eyed the little book. It was still on the kitchen table with the rest of the mail because I wasn’t sure where to put it. “It’s great.”

  “I thought you’d get a kick out of it! I was going to get you an apron with the bottom half of David on it—”

  “Oh my.”

  “—but I thought, would you really use that?”

  No, I would definitely not have used such an apron. I do have my boundaries. I reached across the table and turned the souvenir book over in my hands. “This is perfect, Mom. Thank you. Funny.”

  “I found it on a table of junk in Pisa. Such a waste of time. Pisa, I mean. Eddie wanted me to take that photo where I pretend to hold up the tower, and I told him absolutely not. I’m not standing there with one arm in the air, looking like a fool.”

  “Uh-huh. So how are things with Eddie?”

  Eddie was Mom’s sort-of boyfriend. From what I understood, they had dinner together every other night because Mom didn’t want to get serious. Then they went to Italy together for ten days, so go figure. She sighed into the phone. “Eddie and I are taking a breather. Being on a vacation with him was stifling, to be honest. He started talking about marriage, and—why would I get remarried? At my age?”

  I frowned at the table and wondered whether this was a rhetorical question or a pop quiz. “I don’t know.”

  “Exactly. I wouldn’t. And then when I die, you and Faye would end up fighting with his kids over my things.”

  I imagined Faye and me arguing with Eddie’s children—who I didn’t know—over Mom’s rattan chairs and floral throw pillows. “I don’t think you need to worry about me and Faye—”

  “That’s what everyone says, and then it happens. You know my friend Rhonda? Her sister’s kids are in some kind of lawsuit over her estate. Something with farmland.”

  “Well, farmland. But you don’t own farmland.”

  There was a pause, and I’d realized I’d gone too far. In trying to reassure my mother, I’d dismissed her concerns. “Eddie and I are taking a break. That’s all.”

  “Okay. Sorry to hear it.”

  “It’s fine.” She shifted her tone and sounded much more upbeat. “But enough about me. Tell me about those adorable books of yours!”

  BACK WHEN I WAS a teenager, my best friends and I made a list of the qualities we would require in a man before we surrendered our virginity. I remember mine clearly:

  Blue eyes with a magical quality

  Good hair

  Big hands

  Decent-size cock, not too big (ouch!), nothing with a weird tilt

  Not too hairy

  Nice teeth

  Nice body

  So to summarize: in my wildest teenage dreams, I was going to have sex with the human equivalent of a mannequin with magical eyes. Sometimes I
wonder if there was a point at which I stopped being a complete idiot or whether I’ve merely become deluded about my maturity.

  My list has changed post-James, post-erotica research. I didn’t write a new one because I felt like that might be disrespectful to men (sign of maturity!), but that didn’t stop me from thinking about it (sign of idiocy!).

  Number one, I’d want a man who took charge. The alpha-male fantasy but without the emotional baggage. I didn’t have the energy to work someone patiently through his overt misogyny, even if that misogyny was only being used to conceal his feelings of inadequacy after his alcoholic mother abandoned him. Life is too short.

  Number two, I’d want a man who was kind. Someone who liked dogs and children and didn’t roll his eyes if I mentioned bringing Portia and Blaise to the park—again. Someone who made me laugh and made me feel wanted and loved. Someone who told me I was beautiful and understood that my orgasms weren’t his victory but something wonderful that my body could do or not, as it pleased. Someone who, every now and then, agreed that I deserved to eat real macaroni and cheese and offered to bake it while I took a bath. Also, he would need to enjoy giving back rubs.

  Whenever I reflect on that list, I hear Dr. Bubbles’s voice in my head warning me that I am responsible for my own happiness. No one can make me feel wanted and loved, and no one can make me feel ashamed for eating macaroni and cheese. These are choices. And, you know, Dr. Bubbles can stuff it sideways. The reality—the politically incorrect reality—is that a strong, loving man can turn a bad day around. I’m not going to apologize for that.

  I didn’t see it as a tall order. My wish list didn’t come down to magical eyes—whatever those are—and six-packs, or hairless chests and backs. Just kindness and a backbone, really. Should be a million candidates out there.

  CHAPTER 8

  FACULTY MEETINGS meant long days. The meeting started at three thirty, after the school day ended, and continued until Brunhilda ran out of steam. We were only two and a half weeks into school when Brunhilda scheduled our first faculty meeting, and I’d snuck home during lunch to let Odin outside. The only thing worse than coming home late was coming home late to a puddle on the rug.