Burning Desire

by Ami Snow

  He grabbed her by the arm and shoved her towards the wooden spanking bench. He pulled out her ball-gag from his pocket and thrusted it at her face, barking, “Put that on, you little bitch. You wanted this, remember?”

  Sandra shuddered, strapping the ball into her mouth, bending forward. Tate unhooked a flogger whip from the wall, wiping away the trickling beads of sweat on his forehead, and bound her arms and legs together, fastening a chain attached to a bell around her legs. The thick rope pierced into her flesh. A warped smile twisted on his lips, raising the whip above him.

  Sandra shrieked, her shrill scream muffled, as the leather fringes smacked against her raised, jiggling cheeks. Tate shivered as a raw, reddish tinge slowly blossomed on her cheek. He reached for a ribbed, 12-inch purple vibrator, biting his lip as it hummed to life in his hands. Sandra looked behind her desperately, the whites of her eyes rolling to the back of her head as he shoved the vibrator into her dripping folds. Her eyes squeezed shut, a conflicting rush of pain and pleasure rushing through her as he continuously scourged her bouncing cheeks with his whip. Tate's eyes fluttered, gasping, bending over hurriedly to catch the juices flooding down her thighs as she convulsed in her seat.

  Sandra's chest heaving, craning her neck, immobilized, as Tate hurriedly unstrapped her gag and loosened the ropes around her wrists and ankles. Confused and mortified, she dressed herself quickly as Tate fiddled with something in his fingers, his back turned. She approached him slowly, her brows converging in bewilderment as he handed her a thick wad of cash.

  “I don't want – I don't understand –”

  “Take it, and show yourself out. Coraline gets off ballet practice at three tomorrow.”

  Tate turned on his heel and left.

  Chapter Five –

  “Gimme that, you little brat!”

  Sandra burst into the living room, startled, studying the scene. Coraline's shoulders were hunched forward, a crestfallen look on her face. Renee stood opposite her, her pearly white teeth bared, slightly smudged with sherry lipstick, clutching a doll in her hands with its blonde hair streaked with blue sharpies. Sandra hurried over to Coraline, placing her hands on her stooping shoulders defensively.

  “What's going on?” demanded Sandra, pulling Coraline close to her.

  “She's mad 'cause she thinks I ruined the doll she gave me for Christmas,” explained Coraline, twiddling with the ends of her hair.

  “It's a thousand dollar doll!” spat Renee, flourishing the doll under Sandra's nose.

  Sandra cocked an eyebrow, “So it's a gift? Why would you berate her for doing something to her own doll?”

  “You're fucking nosy for a nanny, keep your –”

  “Watch your language,” snarled Sandra, her eyes challenging, “You're pushing forty and you're getting worked up over a doll?”

  “You've got some nerve talking to me like that, fatass.”

  Coraline grabbed onto Sandra's hand, squeezing tight, hollering as loud as her tiny frame would let her, “Don't call her names!”

  Sandra quickly brushed off the brief stinging, stroking Coraline's hair gently, a slow, triumphant smile spreading across her lips, “Don't worry, Coraline. That word doesn't offend me, it's a body type, and I embrace it – nothing to be ashamed of.”

  Renee smirked, attempting to arch her eyebrows, tittering, “Well, good for you, Norma Rae.”

  “Norma Rae?” repeated Sandra, tickled, “That lady who rallied for unionism? She's hardly a chub, you might want to at least get your references straight.”

  Renee's eye twitched, the vein on her temple throbbing as she shrieked, hurling the doll at their feet. She pushed past the stoic pair, slamming against Sandra's shoulders as she stormed out of the living room in a huff, stomping into the kitchen. Sandra and Coraline cringed, making faces, as Renee's high-pitched demands and insults tore across the corridor.

  “Poor Jacques,” said Coraline, frowning worriedly, “He hates when she's around, he has to make the same dish over and over for her. I don't like Renee. She gets mad at everything.”

  Sandra picked up the doll from the floor and handed it to Coraline. The pair plopped down on the couch. Coraline patted the doll's disheveled hair, rubbing the bald spot that resulted from Renee's misplaced rage. Coraline flicked away the teardrop crawling down her face.

  “I'm so sorry, Coraline,” said Sandra softly, rubbing the little girl's trembling shoulders.

  “That's okay,” sniffed Coraline, “I'm sorry I don't like the same things other little girls like, I've tried –”

  “No,” said Sandra, squeezing her wrist gently, “There's nothing wrong with liking what you like. We've got a lot in common. We like what we like, right? You're still the same little girl, and plus, there's tons of other little girls like you who like the same things you do.”

  “Really?” said Coraline, wrinkling her nose doubtfully, “How come I've never met one?”

  “Well, that's 'cause – hold that thought,” mumbled Sandra, reaching over to the loud buzzing inside her bag.

  “I'm sorry, I'll have to take this call, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Sandra jogged to the corner of the room, cupping her hand over her receiver, “Hello? Sandra speaking.”

  “Hello, Ms. Vaughn, this is Godfrey Curtis – I checked my account this morning and the payment went through. I have the information you're looking for, and boy, it's quite a doozy.”

  “Really?” gasped Sandra, glancing over quickly at Coraline, who was still playing with the doll on her lap, “Okay, I'm ready, go for it.”

  “You were looking for a James Lipton, Sr.?”

  “Yes,” breathed Sandra, “Did you find him? Do you know which hospital or home he's staying at?”

  “Oh, we found him – only he's not in no hospital. The James Lipton, Sr. we found was retired and living the life down in Key West, Florida, fit and kicking, clean bill of health – the man's seventy-three and is an avid member of the Senior League Extreme Water Sports – yes that's a thing, you get the idea.”

  Sandra's eyes widened, processing the bundle of information, “What –”

  “Still there, Ms. Vaughn?”

  “Yes,” breathed Sandra, “Are you sure you've got the right –”

  “Father to a James Lipton, Sr. and a Renee Marie Lipton?”

  “Right,” said Sandra, pulling at her bottom lip, “And you're sure –”

  “Positive, Ms. Vaughn.”

  “Right,” repeated Sandra, gulping, “Thank you again, Mr. Curtis. I understand.”

  “Not a problem, Ms. Vaughn. Let me know if you need anything else – you know where to reach me. Have a good day.”

  “Thanks, you too.”

  Sandra hung up, a deliberate, meaningful smile spreading across her lips.

  Chapter Six –

  “Thanks again, Ricky,” said Sandra, the car rolling to a stop.

  “My pleasure, Sandra. Have a good day, I hope Donahue's treating you right.”

  Tate's glowering, sweaty face slithered into Sandra's thoughts. She suppressed a knowing grin, “He's treating me exactly the way I should be treated.”

  “Good to hear,” said Ricky, turning to smile at her from the driver's seat, “Go get 'em. I'm glad Coraline's finally coming around – she's a good kid, that one, just a little troubled.”

  “Yup,” beamed Sandra, “Oh, and of course, I got you breakfast.” She handed him a brown paper bag.

  “Sweet! Ricky's favorite passenger!” He opened the bag, smiling toothily, “Double-fudge-glazed donuts and peanut butter cinnamon rolls – a girl after my own heart.”

  “You know it,” winked Sandra, hopping out of the car, “I'll see you at nine!”

  The front door rolled open as Sandra lifted her finger towards the doorbell. Renee stepped out, swathed in a plush, white bathrobe, her golden hair half done in elegant ringlets, her face pristinely made-up. Sandra wavered uneasily as Renee's sheeny, crimson lips extended to a contrived, insincere smile.r />
  “Oh, it's just you. Come on in, come on in, you're here just in time for my amazing announcement. I just have to go finish up quickly.”

  Renee glided up the left end of the staircase, leaving Sandra with her forehead wrinkled, her mouth slightly parted in shock. She stepped through the doorway, shutting the door behind her. She adjusted the sweetheart neck of her black top, glancing at the blurs of blues and whites around her. The staircase was sheathed with layers of periwinkle and cream chiffon, the usual centerpieces replaced with a stunning assortment including blue-raspberry orchids, lilies, freesias and hyacinths. The foyer was completely decked out, as if for an impending dinner party.

  Sandra ambled towards the similarly decorated dining area, the rectangular, acacia wooden table resplendent with a bucket filled with expensive bottles of wine and champagne, tiered trays and platters of various finger foods, and steaming, silver platters of exquisitely cooked courses. She ran her fingers along the edge of the table as she perused the massive, golden-brown turkey and the succulent, honey-glazed ham centering the long table.

  “Hi, Sandra!”

  Sandra turned, smiling as Coraline skipped forwards, dressed in a miniature, frilly a-line dress with rose patterns, her pigtails held up with two pink bows.

  “Well, don't you look pretty.”

  “I don't like the dress. It itches,” grumbled Coraline, scratching her sides, “Renee wanted me to wear this for her and dad's party.”

  “Aw, I'm sorry. Are they having a party? Must've been last minute, I don't think I was told – should we stay out of the way?”

  “I guess so, Renee said she wanted us all here – the maids and drivers, you, everyone – so she could announce something?”

  “Oh, alright. Do you know what it could be –”

  “Okay everyone, listen up!”

  Renee paraded into the dining area, about a dozen of house and maintenance staff filing in behind her. The staff gathered in the corner of the dining room in an awkward, whispering clump. Renee's hair was swept to the side in a gorgeous, unimpeachable ballerina bun, a diamond-encrusted tiara perched on top of her head. She was dressed in a tight-fitting, shimmery red gown with a plunging neckline that showcased a sliver of her taut abs, and emphasized a pair of bronzed, impossibly round breasts. She cleared her throat, waving her fingers dramatically towards the silenced staff, brandishing a staggering marquise-cut diamond engagement ring.

  “Mr. Donahue and I are getting engaged!” blurted Renee, squealing in excitement.

  Coraline reached for Sandra's hand, breathing an audible sigh of discontent. Sandra's heart dropped to her stomach, her ears ringing, unable to look away from the sparkling monstrosity on Renee's finger. There was a soft, slow clapping from one single member of the staff.

  “I'm so sorry, I couldn't hold it in anymore – isn't this exciting?! I'm gonna be your new boss!”

  The clapping stopped abruptly.

  Sandra bent forwards, whispering in Coraline's ear, “Where's your dad?”

  “I think I saw him in his study, I'm not too sure.”

  “Great, hey, why don't we head back to your room? You can wait for me there, I'll just be a second. I need to talk to your dad about something really important. Would that be okay?”

  “Sure, let's go, beats staying here listening to her,” muttered Coraline, leading Sandra away from the dining room.

  Coraline waved at Sandra as she scurried towards her room. Sandra walked towards Tate's study, her mind tumbling in full speed as she attempted to string her thoughts together. She knocked on the closed door, taking a deep breath and wriggling her fingers. The door cracked open, Tate's rugged, handsome face poking through the space.

  “Hey,” said Tate, glancing down either side of the corridor, “Not now, slut. Daddy can't play right now.”

  “No, Mr. Donahue,” said Sandra, swallowing, “It's not that – I need to talk to you.”

  “Is something wrong? I'm actually in the middle of something, can it wait?”

  “No.”

  Tate pulled the door open. Sandra shuffled into the room nervously as Tate walked over to the full-length mirror. Her turbulent train of thought slowly winded down, her attention falling to his reflection. He was buttoning his dress shirt, the dark, fuzzy trail down the deep navel, the almond beige flesh of his defined stomach visible through the slit of his closing shirt. He caught her entranced gaze through the mirror, winking.

  He turned around and bent over to adjust the laces on his black dress shoes, peering up at her expectantly, “Now what was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

  “Right,” mumbled Sandra, “There's no easy way to say this, so I'm just gonna say it – Renee's dad isn't sick – he's never been sick.”

  “What?” Tate's brows furrowed, frowning, “Is this some kind of joke? Cause we got engaged?”

  “No,” said Sandra softly, looking down at her dandelion pumps, “I wish I was. James Lipton, Sr. is retired and well – he lives out in Key West.”

  “What?” Tate scoffed, rising from the floor, “Where are you even getting this?”

  Sandra pulled out a manila envelope, handing it to Tate, who snatched it out of her arms, glaring at her as he shook out its contents. He stared at the glossy photographs and stacks of paper in his hands, his expression growing increasingly grim. He screamed out in rage, knocking everything off his desk violently with his arms. Sandra jerked, bending forwards to tidy up the books, stationery and fluttering sheets of paper strewn across the floor.

  Tate heaved, kneading his temples furiously with his fingers as he paced across the floor. He glanced over at Sandra, who was quietly arranging his table, his heart walloping against his constricting chest. He hoisted her upwards by the arm, and threw her against his desk, Sandra squealing in surprise, stumbling backwards. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, and mashed his lips against hers, his sharp tongue slipping in her mouth, his hand slowly moving upwards, grabbing hold of the plait of her braid. Sandra gasped as he pulled away, her lipstick smeared all over her mouth and chin.

  “What –” stammered Sandra.

  Tate clinched his arm around her wrist, staunchly forcing her towards him, dragging her towards the bookcase.

  “You unleash this terrible fucking news on me – you think I'm gonna let you go without punishing you first?”

  Tate booted the bookcase open, Sandra squeaking in reply.

  Chapter Seven –

  Sandra crumpled in Tate's arms as he hauled her into his playroom and shoved her onto the floor. His cock pulsed, slowly swelling to life against the cotton of his boxer briefs as she peered up at him with wide, watery eyes, the roughed plait of her braid untwisted, her quivering chin, stained with her lipstick. The aching curve of her supple left breast was in danger of slipping out of her sweetheart sleeves, drooping down her shoulder, the run of her sheer, black pantyhose exposing a slice of her plump thigh. She looked utterly humiliated, and to Tate, she couldn't have been more beautiful than that very moment – all he wanted to do was pounce on her and rip her tight pussy apart while she begged him to stop, secretly relishing the mixture of pain and pleasure.

  “Get the fuck back on that bench, you dirty little whore.”

  Sandra got on all fours without being told, and hiked the flowing hem of her skirt over her waist, scrunching up the fabric in a ball and stuffing it in her mouth. Slowly, she crawled towards the sinister steel bench, the thick, fleshy curves of her bubble-shaped cheeks jiggling with each step she took. She snuck furtive, yearning glances at Tate as he rubbed the bulge of his erection through his dress pants.

  “Good fucking slut, giving Daddy what he wants.”

  Tate hoisted her onto the bench, face down, Sandra wincing at the sudden friction between her arms and the cool, leathery cushion. He shackled her arms together in front of her as she leaned forward, her back arching on the inclined surface, and roped her legs together behind her. Sandra craned her neck, peeking at Tate, yelping as he stunned her w
ith an open-palm smack across her face. She moaned, the sopping folds between her legs contracting, her cheek numbing.

  “I didn't say you could look at me, slut. Keep your eyes forward.”

  Sandra submitted, staring straight ahead as Tate attached the rope around her hands to a dangling bell on the ceiling. He loosened his silver silk tie, draping it over her eyes, tightening the knots behind her blindfold. She panted, spots swirling in her pitch-black vision, wheezing out her mouth as he stuffed a crumpled, damp cloth in her mouth, stifling her cries.

  Tate peeled off his pants and brushed off the buttons to his dress shirt, translucent through his pouring sweat, his thick erection aching as it throbbed in his fingers. He leaned over, pushing his face close to the crotch of her pantyhose, the pungent, musky aroma wafting out of her folds. He rubbed his fingers against the slick, lubricated sheerness drenching through her pantyhose, grunting noisily under his breath as he ripped a small hole, revealing her wet, pulsing hole.

  “No panties,” smirked Tate, gritting his teeth as he shred off the rest of her pantyhose with his fingers, “You little slut.”

  Sandra arched her back in excitement, writhing and convulsing pathetically in her petrified state. She gnawed at the balled up cloth in her drooling mouth, squeaking helplessly as Tate grabbed hold of one cheek in one hand, his fingernails clawing into the creases of her flesh, slapping her other cheek with his free hand. Disoriented, she shrieked in surprise as a glob of scorching heat seeped into the flesh of her back, her thighs trembling uncontrollably.