by Ashe Barker
Fraze gives a snort. “Lyons whisky isn’t alcohol. It’s nectar.”
Declan regards him under his dark eyebrows. “You would say that, but the distillery was started by your great-uncle, so you’re biased.”
“Doesn’t make me wrong, though.”
I’m struggling to keep up. “You mean you bought one of Fraze’s family businesses?”
Declan shakes his head. “No. I inherited it. For some reason the old duke left Lyons Whisky to me when he died. At first I didn’t take much interest, he left a lot of small bequests, but when the profits started to arrive in my bank account four times a year I began to take notice. I like to think of it as my pension fund.”
“I never imagined you as a businessman.”
“Oh. What did you imagine, then?”
“Well, sports, obviously. And I followed your career more or less. You tended to be in the limelight. I could see you as one of those football commentators on the television.”
He shakes his head. “Not for me. Once I stop playing I’ll be done with football. Time to move on. Lyons Whisky first, then I’ll see what interests me next.”
“You must have some ideas,” I prompt.
“You mean besides spanking my old school friends?”
The flush starts somewhere near my navel and rises slowly but surely up my neck to engulf my face. I turn to stare out the window at the breathtaking Northumberland coastline as it hurtles past. I start at the touch of his hand on my shoulder.
“Turn around, Ellie.”
I shake my head.
“Please.”
I do as he asks, though with great reluctance. I don’t know why this conversation embarrasses me as much as it does, but I’m finding it nothing short of excruciating. I have only to tell them to drop it, and I know they will, but instead I cringe and try to hide my mortification.
“I’m sorry. I’ve upset you…” Declan sweeps my hair from my face to reveal my still-flushed cheeks.
“No, it’s just…”
“No more talk of spankings,” Fraze announces. At the same time he produces a small, cream-coloured business card from his inside pocket and slides it across the table to rest beside my laptop. “We do want to keep in touch, though. It’s been too long. My address in Hatfield is on there, and on the back is my flat in Edinburgh. That’s where we’ll be for the next few days. He produces a pen and scrawls his mobile number onto the card, too. “There. No excuses.”
“I don’t have a business card, but this is my mobile.” Declan scribbles his number onto the corner of one of my sheets of notes. “Call me. Now.”
I do, and he quickly saves my number into his speed dial. “Right. So, where are you staying in Edinburgh, how long for, and do you have plans for this evening?”
*****
My plans for the evening amount to checking into my city centre hotel, eating dinner alone in the hotel restaurant, taking a long soak, and hopefully getting a decent night’s sleep before my presentation tomorrow. I explain that to Fraze and Declan and manage not to succumb to their invitation to join them for a meal later.
It’s not that I don’t trust them. Rather, I don’t trust myself.
At last the train glides to a stop in Edinburgh Waverley station. We all shuffle out into the aisle and start reaching for coats, luggage, briefcases. Declan hauls my ridiculous case from the shelf above our heads and sets it down in front of me as he reaches for his own orange holdall. It seems Fraze has travelled light, though I suppose as he’s going to be staying at his own flat in Edinburgh he probably doesn’t need that much.
I start down the central aisle, heading for the exit.
“Hold on.” Fraze reaches for the handle of my case. “We’ll see you into a taxi with that.”
I start to protest that I don’t need a taxi. My hotel is literally a two-minute stroll from the station. I soon abandon that when I realise they fully intend to see me to my hotel and will lug my case all the way if need be. A taxi suddenly seems much more reasonable. They escort me from the train, then flank me as we walk up the slope leading to the main road outside where the taxis wait three deep. Declan hails one and Fraze hands me in, followed by my case.
“Which hotel?” he asks.
“Oh, The Scotsman. Really, I can manage…”
“Be sure to help her with that case,” Declan instructs the cabbie as he hands the man a twenty-pound note. He leans in and kisses me on the cheek. “Call us. Please.”
“I will,” I promise, though what on earth I would have to say I cannot quite fathom.
“Hope it goes well tomorrow.” Fraze also kisses me. “Good luck.”
I clutch my laptop case on my knee as they close the door and step back from the vehicle.
A couple of minutes later, my cab pulls up at the front entrance of The Scotsman hotel, on the North Bridge, right in the heart of the city. My conference is taking place at the university, and I could have arranged for accommodation closer to the campus, but I love city centres and Edinburgh is one of the most elegant and intriguing. I’d already arranged for a two-night stay so that I could spend the day after the Symposium wandering around the rabbit warren of alleyways leading off the Royal Mile. I might even find time for a spot of shopping in the New Town, though the prospect of taking even more luggage back with me is enough to make me pause.
I check in and tow my case into the lift, then along the carpeted corridor to my room on the fourth floor. Normally I would unpack, even for a short stay such as this, but I can summon no enthusiasm for my usual neat and efficient ways. Instead, I abandon my case just inside the door and fling myself on the double bed to stare up at the ceiling. The room boasts satellite TV, WiFi, and a well-stocked minibar, but I ignore all these amenities as one word continues to swirl around in my head.
Spanking.
Add to that bare bottom, just to inject a spot of diversity, and I further cloud my thinking by pouring on hefty doses of embarrassment at my obsessive fascination with the ridiculous tableau it conjures up. My imagination is working overtime. Shame and humiliation are in there, too, because no matter how strenuously I denied it when Declan pointed it out, I see no merit in lying to myself. I am aroused by the idea, and curious, and itching to experience the wicked, forbidden naughtiness of it. The spanking would hurt, but that’s only part of it. A small part. It’s more the…the vulnerability. I imagine being exposed and defenceless, at the mercy of not just one man, but two.
And what a duo. Fraze and Declan were mouth-watering at school, but as adult men they are beyond gorgeous. At twelve I was too young to properly appreciate their rare masculine beauty, though I was certainly not oblivious to it, even then. Now, I am quite overwhelmed by them. Their scandalous suggestion, and my utterly inappropriate response to it make a heady cocktail, and not one likely to lay the foundation for a stellar performance in front of some of the finest clinical researchers in the northern hemisphere.
I need to get a grip. Fast.
As a scientist, I regularly come across anomalous data, the measurement which just doesn’t fit, the seemingly incongruous finding nestled there among the predictable and the mundane. And in my experience, it is the unexpected, the unexplained, that usually holds the key to understanding. It is these ripples which cause us to expand our thinking, widen out theories to encompass more and more, to analyse, explain, and ultimately master.
This spanking phenomenon is no different. I need to know more. I need to research, I need to learn, to understand. I rarely have the time nor, indeed, the inclination to read fiction, but I’m not completely unaware of what’s out there. If I was into leisure reading, my genre of choice would without doubt be erotic romance. Spurred on, and purposeful suddenly, I roll from the bed and pull my laptop from my briefcase. Moments later it’s set up on the dressing table and I’m scrolling through lists of deliciously suggestive titles on Amazon. Tempting though they may be, I’m not in need of a Daddy nor do I want to know what it would be like to be taken by a ba
rbarian warlord in this world or any other. Fraze and Declan are full of surprises, but I doubt shape-shifting is part of their charm, so I skip past the wolves, bears, dragons, and decide to narrow my search somewhat. I type ‘spanking’ into the search box and I sit back.
Bingo!
Domestic discipline and BDSM. Now those are the keywords I need. I buy an anthology of short stories which promises me stern Doms and feisty submissives, though I recognise neither myself nor Declan and Fraze in those descriptions. I just fancy the book, I suppose.
Trying another tactic, I type my keywords into Google images, and my screen is suddenly awash with pictures ranging from the ridiculous to the seriously disturbing. Too wide. I narrow my search, homing in on images which seem to me to be erotic and pleasing. My pussy quivers at the sight of reddened, clenching bottoms, occasionally soft flesh criss-crossed with vivid red stripes from a cane or strap.
Ouch! But still…
I find blogs and websites dedicated to the exquisite art of BDSM. I read of safe, sane, consensual play, of safe words and aftercare, of responsibility and trust.
And somewhere, somewhere deep inside, it starts to make sense. Not a lot of sense but some. Enough.
I’m not mad or perverted. Neither are they. Apparently Fraze and Declan like to get their kicks this way. Nothing wrong with that as long as everyone concerned is happy with the arrangement. And surprise, surprise, it seems I just might be wired that way, too.
I need to think, and the best place for that is in the bath, I find. I soak for the best part of an hour, luxuriating in warm, foaming bubbles scented with essence of apricots and pomegranate, then I use the shower attachment to rinse and wash my hair. I call down to room service while I’m drying my shoulder-length bob and ask for a baby spinach and ricotta ravioli with a side salad and a pot of tea. My food arrives whilst I’m getting dressed. I’m not wearing anything too showy, just a pair of smart grey trousers and a red blouse. I thank the waiter and tip him five pounds, then take the time to sit at the small table in an alcove close to my window overlooking the North Bridge and savour the delicate flavours. After all, having arrived at a decision, I’m in no hurry now. I have all night.
I check the hand-written address on the card Fraze gave to me. I don’t know the street, but a quick squint at Google maps confirms what I suspected. The apartment is in the city centre, in the area known as New Town, perhaps a ten-minute walk from my hotel. Should I phone first? They might have gone out. Or there may be someone else there with them. It’s a family wedding, after all.
I decide against phoning. What will be, will be. I shrug into the smart grey jacket I bought for the conference and I let myself out of the room.
Edinburgh is a lively place by day and barely less so after dark. I’m surrounded by restaurants, bars, hotels, and tourist shops which remain open well into the night. Everywhere is light and sound. Music plays in the bars, the din of voices wrapped around more languages than I can recognise. Traffic continues unabated, horns sounding and doors slamming as fleets of taxis ferry people around. I enjoy the evening walk, pause to admire the floodlit splendour of Edinburgh Castle, the medieval fortress, which has dominated this city for the last nine centuries or so, and make a detour through the ornamental gardens running the length of Princes Street in the shadow of the castle. I exit and cross the busy shopping thoroughfare then make my way through the geometrically arranged streets of elegant Georgian townhouses built in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries to offer gracious accommodation to Edinburgh’s richest and most important citizens.
It suits Fraze and Declan nicely.
I find the correct street and halt before the neo-classical portal. A flight of eight regal steps lead up to the door which is painted a glossy black. Originally a single house for a wealthy merchant, the building has been divided into apartments. Four doorbells indicate my choices. I examine them and select the one marked Frazer-Lyons. I press it and I wait.
“First floor. Come on up.”
The disembodied voice from the small grille beside the doorbells is followed by a sudden, sharp buzzing sound. I push the door, and it opens easily to my touch. I slip into the elegant entrance hall to be confronted by an ornate staircase right ahead of me and a less grand-looking pair of sliding metal doors to my right. The voice said first floor, right? I ignore the elevator and head for the stairs.
There is only one apartment on this landing. The door is graced by a single number one and the name Frazer-Lyons beside it in understated grey lettering. And it is ajar.
Did they see me, perhaps, walking along the street? Certainly, they seem to be expecting me. Or maybe I’m just that transparent. Well, I’m here now. I knock on the open door then step inside the apartment.
“Kitchen’s on the right. Just leave it on the table. If you can hang on for a moment I’ll—
Oh. It’s you.”
Fraze emerges from a door along the hallway and pauses to regard me. His surprised expression soon gives way to a lazy smile, enough to melt my knickers.
“You were expecting someone else.” I state the obvious.
“Pizza delivery. Have you eaten?”
I nod. “Yes. At my hotel. I… I could come back later.”
“You could, but I’m willing to bet you won’t. I think we’d better hang on to you while we can.” He turns as Declan appears in the doorway behind him. “We have a visitor.”
“So I see. And a lot more appetising than a quattro stagione.” Declan beams at me. “Hi, Ellie. Nice to see you.”
“Er, right,” I begin. “This was a mistake. I’m sorry, I just—”
“To what do we owe this pleasure? Was there something you wanted, Ellie?” Fraze’s tone is soft, his eyebrow raised in that quizzical way he has.
Caught, I stand, rooted in the hallway and tell myself I should just be honest. I did come here looking for something, something tempting which they dangled before me and I turned down. I have to assume their offer still stands.
“I’ve been thinking…” My voice trails away.
There is silence for several seconds, until Fraze breaks it.
“Okay. What have you been thinking, Ellie?” Fraze’s expression is more intent now, his tone sterner. He expects an answer.
“I was just… I mean, I wondered…”
“Yes? What can we do for you, Ellie?” Declan speaks to me in a softer tone, but I’m not fooled. He, too, expects an honest response.
“Spank me,” I whisper. “Please.”
Chapter Four
Both men smile, sexy grins that are enough to turn my insides to liquid. I swallow. Hard.
Declan takes a pace towards me. “I confess this is a surprise. We thought you might come around to our way of thinking, but not quite so soon.”
“You…you talked about me?” I squeak.
“We talked about little else since you hopped into that taxi, to be honest,” confesses Fraze. “Won’t you come inside and we can discuss your…” He hesitates, considering. “…your requirements.”
I make a show of consulting my watch. “I don’t have that long, actually. I need to be up early tomorrow, for the conference…”
“A decent spanking can’t be rushed. Shall we—?” Fraze is interrupted by the trilling of the doorbell. “Ah, now this probably is our supper. Dec, could you make Ellie comfortable while I see to this?”
Declan ushers me along the hallway, somehow relieving me of my jacket as we go, and guides me into the first room on the left. It’s a spacious lounge complete with leather sofas and a television which takes up half a wall.
“We like to watch sport,” Declan offers by way of explanation as I stand gaping at the monstrous screen.
I suppose they would, a professional footballer and an earl who used to play rugby for Scotland’s amateur side.
“Please, sit down. Can I get you anything? A drink?”
I decline the drink but plop onto the expanse of dark brown leather nearest to me. Will
they do it here? In this room? Will I have to bend over the arm of one of these sofas?
“Don’t look so scared, Ellie.” Declan sits next to me and loops an arm over my shoulders. “Nothing will happen unless you agree. You can back out any time.”
Maybe he’s right, in theory. In practice, if I turn and run now I might never have this chance again. And it is a chance, I see that now. My curiosity is on overdrive. I’m fascinated and terrified at the same time, but if I let this opportunity slip by I’ll never forgive myself. I came here for a spanking, and I won’t be leaving until I’ve had what I came for. The matter of the maths exam is important, to me at least, but that’s a smokescreen really and only part of what motivates me. I have other reasons, too, reasons I’m only just beginning to acknowledge and explore.
“Here, drink this.” Declan has ignored my words and poured me a glass of iced water. I’m on my second, very welcome sip when Fraze saunters through the door.
“I left the food in the kitchen. We can eat later.”
“I’m sorry,” I begin again, “for disturbing you.”
He just grins and takes a seat opposite. I’m reminded of earlier, on the train, but this time there’s no table between us. And no other passengers to worry about. Now, it’s just the three of us and the elephant in the room which is my imminent spanking.
“Look at me, Ellie.” Fraze’s tone is quiet but compelling. I have no choice but to obey him. He continues, holding my gaze as he speaks. “We shouldn’t rush this. We won’t. But if you’re nervous about it—and Ellie, we can both see that you are—the sooner we get it over with the better. The first time is always a big deal. Your second time will be easier.”
“S-second time…?”
“Well, assuming you like it, obviously,” says Declan. “But I think you will.”
