No Place Like Home

by April Hill

  "New York City isn’t exactly Kansas, Detective,” I said with a small, bored yawn. “I’ve lived alone in some pretty tough neighborhoods, and I’m used to looking out for myself. Besides, I’m training for my black belt— in karate." (Major lie, of course. I have no idea what ‘black belt’ even means, but it sounded impressive.)

  But Detective Everett wasn’t impressed. “There are all kinds of belts,” he remarked dryly, touching the brass buckle of his own belt. "You might be surprised to find out what a plain brown leather belt from J.C. Penney’s can do to a trained black belt, when she’s bent over the back of a couch with her backside bare. Lock your doors like I told you, and I won’t have to come over here and demonstrate. Good night, now."

  With that, Detective Everett pulled me against him and kissed me goodnight in a manner that made me think he was responding to my signals a lot better than I thought.

  "I’ll call you tomorrow," he said, patting my rear end just a little too hard to be sexy and cute. "And next time I’m here, I’d better not find everything unlocked again. Consider that a warning—me to you." He turned the key to "locked" and closed the door behind him.

  And then, he was gone, without even attempting to collect what he was entitled to after such an expensive dinner and excellent bottle of wine. (Yeah, I’m kind of a cheap date. Ask my mother.) I undressed and went to bed, then lay awake thinking. It had been almost two years since David exited the scene, and not a hell of a lot of had happened, man-wise, in the interim. And now, I was lying there feeling like some fourteen year-old kid with a crush, anxious and unsure of myself, and worried that he wouldn’t actually call me again. The kiss had been wonderful, and even that sly "spanking" threat was kind of interesting.

  The fact is, no one had ever threatened to spank me before, let alone done it. Not since I’ve been an adult, anyway. Punch my lights out, once. Blow my brains out, quite a few times. (I'd worked for a while as a reporter for a gossip magazine, chasing down celebrities.) But no one had ever threatened to spank me. (Oops, excuse me—I should have said that no man had ever threatened it. There was this aging hooker on Hollywood Boulevard one time, who came out of an alleyway and offered to “whup my (obscenity deleted)” with what might have been a riding crop, or maybe a black Twizzler for a sum of money. I politely declined the offer.) Okay, Hanks threat was probably nothing but a bit of macho, male bravado, but it was still intriguing. A few smart little stings on the rear, a pleasant tingling sensation, and then a really shattering orgasm, right? What’s not to like? I tried to imagine it, wishing I'd paid closer attention to his hands. Big, small? I fell asleep amid a swirl of impure thoughts. Who knew? Maybe that being tied to the bed stuff wouldn’t be all that bad. Minus the nipple clamps, of course.

  Something woke me a couple of hours later, possibly a sound, but more like a sensation. Sort of a soft thumping somewhere behind my head. I turned over, only half-awake, and heard—felt really—the thump again. This time, it seemed to be coming from the living room. The rats returning, I thought, with a moving van full of gaudy rat bedroom furniture and lamps. I crawled out of bed and looked around for a weapon. Although I could have sworn I’d left the glass penguin in the living room, he was sitting right there, on my bedside table. I picked him up by his little bald head and made my way down the hall in the dark, intent on surprising the rodent intruders, and maybe taking out a couple of them, armed with the ubiquitous penguin.

  The living room was still, lit from outside with the eerie, sulfurous glow of the bug-light I left on all night in a futile attempt to discourage the little brown beetles whose brittle bodies littered my patio each morning. I stood in the middle of the room without breathing, peering into every dim corner of the room, but nothing moved. The sound had stopped. I tiptoed on through the dining area, and as slowly and as quietly as possible, pushed open the kitchen door, grasping the penguin to my breast. When nothing moved, I gathered my courage and flipped the light on.

  On the other side of the kitchen, beneath the silverware drawer, the lower cabinet doors were wide open.

  You know how scary novels always describe how someone’s "heart stopped"? Well, for a moment, my heart did seem to stop. The cabinet doors were open! My grasp tightened on the penguin. I could feel the little black lumps of his beady eyes pinching against my fingers.

  Okay, so I’d probably left the damned cabinet doors open, or Hank had, maybe, and for this I was standing in my kitchen, about to wet my pants? What's the matter with you? I thought. It's a pair of cabinet doors, not the yawning gates of hell. I set the penguin down carefully on the counter, took a deep breath, and laughed at myself—or tried to. I mouthed a couple of very obscene words— my usual response to feeling dumb— and backed slowly out of the kitchen, my eyes glued to the cabinet door.

  I was halfway down the hall when something thumped again—immediately behind me.

  Since I’ve been old enough to remember this kind of stuff, I can only recall screaming aloud twice in my entire life. Once was in a darkened movie theater while watching Alien for the first time. The second time was that night, standing in my own hallway. I screamed two times, actually, the first time when the thumping started, and the second time when I heard— very clearly—someone speaking my name.

  At the top of the fairly short list of things I’m afraid of is looking like an idiot. And since I end up looking like an idiot so often, when I get an opportunity in advance of the event to avoid making a fool of myself, I usually grab for it. Thus, after lurching into the bedroom and slamming the door behind me, I took a few moments to reassess what had just happened. In all probability, it was absolutely nothing. Then again, if Evil Incarnate was lurking just outside my bedroom door, it was a forgone conclusion that I was doomed to a gruesome death at the hands of the thumping intruder. My grinding poverty had left me with no bedroom extension phone, let alone a cell phone, like normal people. Moreover, my location at the top of this desolate hilltop was not promising, since my screams for help would never be heard over the ceaseless din of freeway traffic.

  My fate appeared to be sealed. The only chance for escape would be a crazed dash from the house, down the cul-de-sac to my nearest neighbor— the aforementioned, unfailingly inhospitable drug-dealer— where I could hardly expect a warm welcome. Even this half-assed "plan" presumed that I could somehow reach and then stuff my entire plump body through the tiny bedroom window and drop six feet to the ground without breaking both ankles, one or both knees, and stripping a lot of flesh from my bones on the jagged artificial fieldstone. Then what? Limp down the hill, bleeding profusely, to Mr. Frankie's steel-reinforced door, to beg assistance from a nest of paranoid, tattooed felons armed with switchblades and semi-automatic weapons? In addition to the plan’s obvious shortcomings, I was stark-naked. Before I could flee an agonizing death, I’d have to find something to wear that wasn’t in the bathroom laundry hamper.

  And there was still the excellent possibility that I was imagining the whole bloody thing.

  Which was why I decided to take my chances and do nothing—which is pretty much how I go through life, actually.

  I did take the precaution of shoving every stick of furniture in the room, including my old teddy bear chair, up against the door. With the barricade in place, I knelt on Teddy’s chubby, threadbare lap and pressed my ear to the door, wary of a sneak attack. By dawn, my back ached and I had a crick in my neck. Shortly afterward, though, I must have fallen asleep, cuddled in Teddy's warm, fuzzy arms.

  At almost noon that morning, according to my none-too-accurate dollar store clock, the living room phone rang. Gathering every ounce of courage in me, I decided to make a bold dash down the hall to answer it— then discovered I couldn’t get out the door because of the tangled heap of bedroom furniture. By the time I plowed my way through to the doorknob, stubbing all ten toes in the process, I was way too annoyed to worry about the brutal death that might be waiting just beyond the door. In any case, whoever had been ringing gave up, and I mi
ssed the call. A minute later, the phone rang again, and I snatched it up—a little too eagerly, evidently.

  "What’s wrong?" Hank sounded alarmed.

  "Nothing’s wrong." I lied. "Why?"

  "You sounded out of breath when you picked up. I’ve been calling you since nine-thirty this morning. You sure you’re all right?”

  "Why would I not be all right? I overslept, and barely heard the phone. How are you?" Casual. Nonplused. But Hank wasn’t buying it.

  "You sound scared."

  "Yeah, well, you sound like my mother."

  "Do you want me to come by?"

  "Why?"

  "I could feed you, again, for one thing. It’s lunch time."

  Free food. The magic words. "Okay, then," I conceded. "Come on over. Maybe I could find something for lunch here." (Yeah, sure.)

  A chuckle. "Thanks, but I’ve seen the inside of your refrigerator. I’ll take you out, somewhere. Be ready in fifteen minutes."

  I was smiling when I hung up the phone. Things were looking up. I hadn’t been disemboweled and/or dismembered, the sun was turning the smog a pleasant, sickly yellow, my ugly living room looked exactly as it always did, and I was about to scarf down another free meal in the company of a very promising and attractive man. I strolled into the kitchen looking for my purse, and tried to ignore the fact that the cabinet doors under the silverware drawer were now closed. I was apparently losing my mind. The penguin perched on top of the fridge, leering down at me with his beady black eyes. I stuck him in the refrigerator, in the forlorn hope that he’d stay where he was put.

  I didn’t tell Hank about my "scare," for no particular reason other than I was already a little sick of playing the role of hapless victim to his cool, investigating officer. It would be lovely to spend one full afternoon or evening in his company without discussing my "case." I had reason to appreciate his professional abilities more than most people, but at the moment, it was his personal side I was more interested in. Having him think I was the sort of fluttery lady who was scared of her own shadow wouldn’t help.

  The previous night had been wonderful, and perfectly normal in every sense. We had eaten at the Chinese place I like so much in Westwood, laughed at our fortune cookies, then strolled around the village holding hands and looking in shop windows. Very nice, very average, very first-datey romantic. By the time we pulled back into the driveway of my Rancho, I had selected Detective Everett as the man to whom I would like to sacrifice my maidenhead. Since it was approximately fifteen years too late for him to collect that honor, though, I decided that he could simply go ahead and marry me whenever the mood struck.

  I had hoped that our first evening would end in bed, of course, and was profoundly disappointed when that didn’t happen. (Okay, now you know the truth. I'm a slut—whenever I get the chance, anyway.) But when he checked all my doors and windows to ensure my safety, kissed me with undeniable lust and passion at my doorway, then locked me in for the night like a cherished pet Schnauzer, it was kind of sweet. Not precisely what I’d hoped for, but definitely sweet.

  Later that morning, though, I would learn that our romance was not going to be a traditional one. When we got home from lunch, Hank found the bedroom window, the bathroom window, and the sliding door unlocked, and made good on his threat.

  Let’s see, now. How to describe this with at least a modicum of delicacy?

  We had enjoyed an absolutely lovely seafood lunch at the beach before returning to my rancho. I was hoping to spend the afternoon getting much better acquainted, and in anticipation of that, I had changed the sheets, cleaned the bathroom, and hand-laundered the only truly alluring undergarments I owned. The undergarments didn’t go entirely unnoticed, as it turned out, but the manner in which they were eventually exhibited was not what I had in mind.

  Things were going along swimmingly when I mentioned, in passing, the previous night’s scare. In hindsight, and in the bright light of day, it occurred to me that the whole episode had been riotously funny. Hank turned detective again in an instant, though, and began grilling me about every nuance of my story—and getting increasingly irritated by my lame attempts at humor. Then, he made the rounds of the house, peering into the kitchen cabinets, prowling the yard, and, oops! Checking the doors and windows.

  "Jesus Christ!" he roared. "Half your damned windows are unlocked again, and the sliding door, too! "

  The truth was that I was absolutely positive that I hadn’t opened or unlocked any windows or doors after he'd left the night before, but it seemed easier to just keep my mouth shut and take the rap. If I was losing my mind, I wanted to keep it to myself, at least until I’d gotten Hank into bed. "It was hot last night," I explained. "And I already owe a king’s ransom on the electric bill. Don’t get so excited."

  (Dating tip: Never say, "Don’t get so excited" to a cop. It drives him nuts.)

  Hank reached up and slammed the bedroom window closed.

  "No one could climb in from up there, anyway," I observed. "Just leave the damned windows alone. You’re acting like a paranoid old lady."

  (Just to be on the safe side, I wouldn’t tell a cop he’s acting like a paranoid old lady, either.)

  A moment later, looking very grim, Detective Everett sat down on the bed, pulled me rudely across his lap and, yes, began spanking me. Not really hard, I suppose, but certainly hard enough to make me rethink last night’s delightful but highly inaccurate spanking fantasy. He simply flipped up my skirt and started smacking with his bare hand, maybe a dozen times on my sensually pantied bottom, with no comment on, or noticeable interest in, their color, brevity, or perfect fit. In fact, the only thing that did seem to interest him is that my flimsy underwear was interfering with his mission.

  Then, apparently unsatisfied with the color of my rear end, he yanked my panties down to my knees and continued smacking my squirming, absolutely naked behind. And with this simple change, what he was doing to my fanny began to hurt— for real. Swearing and kicking, I threw my hands back to cover what I could reach, a move that earned me a half-dozen really painful swats between my opened legs. This guy wasn't messing around, and when I called him a couple of choice names, he tightened his grip and wrapped one strong arm around my waist to hold me in place. And when he started spanking again, there wasn't one single delightful thing about it.

  I would like to report here that I was enormously turned on by my first spanking, and that Hank was so overcome with lust that he fell upon my luscious nakedness and ravished me to within an inch of my life. But that didn’t happen. In fact, everything that did happen happened so fast that I had neither the time nor the inclination to savor the details, which is just as well, since I was left really embarrassed, with a blazing sting in both sore buttocks, a red nose, and not much else.

  Having never been spanked before as an adult, I didn’t know exactly how to gauge this one on the Spanking Richter Scale, but I did decide that its sensual aspects were probably overrated. The heat radiating from my behind could have warmed toast.

  "That was a kind of gentle reminder," he said, dumping me on the bed. "Lock your windows, and your doors, and keep them locked. The next reminder won't be so gentle."

  Gentle!" I shrieked. "I can’t believe you fucking did that! What gives you the right to…?”

  I didn’t finish the question, partly because I was so mad I could barely talk, but mostly because Hank looked like he might start all over again if I didn’t shut up.

  "I could report you for this, you know," I said coldly, finally regaining my famous self-control and pulling my skirt back down.

  "Yes, you probably could," he agreed. "But then, you’d have to buy your own dinner tonight, and those knockout bikinis and matching bra would be wasted."

  "How do you know there’s a matching bra?" I asked quickly, always the astute detective.

  "Good police work. I’m a trained professional, remember."

  "Police work, my ass!" I whooped, rather inappropriately, under the circumstances.
"You guessed!"

  He grinned. "Okay, I guessed."

  So I rubbed my extremely tender bottom, and asked the Big Question that had been worrying me.

  "So, tell me, Lieutenant, do you do this a lot?"

  "What? You mean spank my dates?"

  I nodded…and blushed. "Yeah. Do you?"

  He shook his head. "Nope. Not until now, anyway. You’re my first."

  "Am I supposed to feel complimented by that?" I demanded, still annoyed. "What’s the approach with the other women in your life. Or should I say, with the normal ones?"

  "Flowers, candy. You know, the usual."

  "But I’m special, is that it?"

  Hank smiled. "You could say that."

  I was suddenly overcome with a familiar morose feeling—having to do with my personal appeal. You see, this wasn’t the first time a man had courted me oddly. I’d had a few, actually. I once had a guy send me a thirty-two foot long tapeworm, floating in a jar of formaldehyde. (The tapeworm, not the guy.) He was some kind of biologist, and I was pretending to be really, really interested in tropical diseases just to suck up to him, you know? So maybe I’m just not the flowers and candy kind of girl. I summoned my courage and asked Hank his opinion. Was I maybe a little peculiar?