D Is for Dress-Up
Page 11
He spanked me hard, until I was crying, until I set my head on the cool wood of his desk and let all the tears flow out of me. And then he carried me to the expensive black leather sofa along the far wall of his office and put me over his lap, pulled down my sopping wet underwear, and spanked me on my bare bottom. His hand slapped my right cheek, then my left, leaving me breathless and shaking. And I cried some more, cried more tears than I’d thought I had in me. I didn’t try to get away from him. I stayed in place as best I could, hoping that he’d see how hard I was trying to please him. Hoping I wouldn’t fail him again.
His hand came down again and again, marking me, making me his. The smacks of his firm hand reverberated in the quiet room. The sound of my breathing, of my sobs, was loud in my head. I was embarrassed by how vulnerable I felt, yet I could do nothing about it.
Afterward, he held me in his arms and let me ask, as he always did. Fair to the end. Let me ask my questions. Let me try to understand. The same way he did at lunch. The same way he did in staff meetings, when he explained what he wanted for the issue, and then let the writers duke it out.
“I don’t understand—” I whispered, tears staining my cheeks, so aware that I was sitting nearly naked on his clothed lap, that I could feel his hard cock pressing up against me through his slacks, that I was leaving a damp spot right on his crotch. So aware of my burning hot skin, of the marks he’d left that I would be able to admire later. “I thought you wanted—”
“You,” he said, his thumb along my bottom lip once more, and this time, I drew it in and sucked on it, as I’d always imagined. “I wanted you.”
And still I didn’t understand. Why hadn’t he said? Why had he talked about the wild nights with the other girls all those times? I stared at him, my eyes wide, trembling in his embrace as he continued.
“I didn’t know how you felt,” he said. “Those mysterious dark eyes never let me in. But when I saw what you did. The dress. The hair. The tan...”He made a face.
“But you always date the sorts of girls—”
He shrugged. “Those are the only kinds of girls there are in L.A.” “That’s not true,” I countered, thinking of Sylvia and her blue Mohawk.
“Come on, kid,” he said, “there’s a cookie-cutter look in this town. All the women I meet have that same straightened hair, same model walk. It’s why I take you to lunch everyday.”
“But you always gave me advice.”
“Not to change you into one of them,” he said, sounding horrified. And I thought back and realized that he had never said a word about my hair, or about the color of my clothes. He’d merely adjusted, the way he adjusted my words, wanting cleaner lines, a tighter fit. Just like he had never demolished one of my articles, sending me back to the start. He had simply polished my writing until my words were ready for print. I closed my eyes, trying to understand, and finally got it: He hadn’t wanted the goth in my world to disappear. He’d simply wanted—
“To make you more...” He hesitated now, and I opened my eyes and stared at him, seeing him search. “...More confident in being you. That’s the only thing you lack. In your writing and in yourself.”
That’s right, I thought. He’d told me that. Confidence was power. “And more than that, I wanted an acknowledgment that you were ready. I gave you those gifts. I took you to lunch. I was waiting.”
As I’d been waiting. Staring at the cracks in my ceiling. Trying to put it all together.
“Do you understand me now?"
“Yes, sir,” I whispered, moving out of his embrace and down on the floor in front of him. I set my head against his thigh, then reached to open his slacks, my lips parting to take in his cock. I would suck it all night. I would sleep with it in my mouth, like a pacifier.
He called himself my mentor, but I had another word. A different word entirely—one I could finally say to his face.
ABouT THe EDIToR
CALLED “A TROLLOP WITH A LAPTOP” by East Bay Express, Alison Tyler is naughty and she knows it. Ms. Tyler is the author of J more than twenty explicit novels, including Learning to Love It, Strictly Confidential, Sweet Thing, Sticky Fingers, and Something About Workmen (all published by Black Lace), as well as Rumors, Tiffany Twisted, and With or Without You (Cheek). Her novels and short stories have been translated into Japanese, Dutch, German, Italian, Norwegian, and Spanish.
Ms. Tyler’s short stories in multiple genres have appeared in many anthologies as well as in Playgirl magazine and Penthouse Variations.
She is the editor of Batteries Not Included (Diva); Heat Wave, Best Bondage Erotica volumes 1 & 2, The Merry XXXmas Book of Erotica, Luscious, Red Hot Erotica, Slave to Love, Three-Way, Happy Birthday Erotica, Caught Looking (with Rachel Kramer Bussel), and Got a Minute? (all from Cleis Press); Naughty Fairy Tales from A to Z (Plume); and the Naughty Stories from A to Z series, the Down & Dirty series, Naked Erotica, and Juicy Erotica (all from Pretty Things Press). Please visit www.prettythingspress.com or www.alisontyler.blogspot.com.
Ms. Tyler is loyal to coffee (black), lipstick (red), and tequila (straight). She has tattoos, but no piercings; a wicked tongue, but a quick smile; and bittersweet memories, but no regrets.
In all things important, she remains faithful to her partner of eleven years, but she still can’t choose just one perfume.