by April Hill
But this was different. From the moment Mike tossed Robin’s skirt over her head, wreaking havoc on her carefully arranged hair, she sensed a definite lack of sexual or romantic feeling in what he was doing. As she protested the indignity, she felt her panties being yanked down over her butt and down to her knees.
“Stop it, Mike!” she cried. “This is not funny!”
It was about to get even less funny, of course.
“NO! Mike, for– Oww!” This was about all Robin could manage after he began.
The first swat stung like hell, and when she tried to wiggle away and off his lap, he delivered four additional swats, two to each squirming cheek. As each smack struck home, Robin yelped, mostly from shock, but with a certain degree of pain, as well. It was clear that Mike wanted this spanking to hurt, and there was no pretense at all of playfulness.
He spanked her with his hand, holding her firmly in place while he applied perhaps thirty hard, fast smacks, alternating his blows in an oddly methodical manner from one cheek to the other. When he had covered her buttocks with bright red splotches, he moved lower, delivering a number of painful whacks to the backs of her thighs before he allowed her to stand up.
The spanking had not been severe, although to someone unaccustomed to being corrected in any manner, it was humiliating, and Robin reacted accordingly.
“That was disgusting!” she shouted. “What gives you the right to do that?”
“I love you, Robin,” he said softly. “And I’m sorry if I hurt you, but I’ve simply had enough.”
“Well, if that’s the way you feel about it,” she exclaimed dramatically, “Maybe it would be better if you simply left and never came back!”
“Could be,” Mike shrugged, and the gesture made it seem like the entire matter was of little importance to him, one way or the other. He picked up his jacket and walked to the door, opened it, and nodded to her. “You take care, now. Maybe we’ll see one another around school, later. In the meantime, think about everything I’ve said, Robin. Please?” Robin was certain that she saw tears in his eyes as he spoke, but before she could say anything, he was gone.
The next day, while Mike was still in class, Robin used her key to let herself into his apartment. First, she dumped three pots of geraniums (a gift from his mother) into the toilet, and flushed it, with predictable results. Then, she returned to the living room, switched on his computer, opened his mailbox, and punched up the contents. There were sixty-four messages, mostly from students, and many of these had attachments—papers due, assignments, etc. There were a few personal messages, as well, from his family, several friends, and, of course, her own messages to him. She fingered the mouse nervously for a moment, and then began clicking.
Two minutes later, Mike had no messages in his in-box (and forty-six enraged students.) Robin sauntered from his apartment in high spirits, her vengeance satisfied for the moment. She went home and waited for his call, which never came. A few weeks later, she dropped out of school, afraid to see him again. When they had passed, in the hallways, he didn’t even look her way. Several times, alone in her bedroom, she reached for the phone to call him, but always hung up, her pride stronger than her loneliness.
Seven months later, while leafing through the local newspaper, she saw an article announcing Mile’s engagement to a new member of the English department.
She took a job at a doctor’s office, answering phones, and tried to forget the whole episode. It was hard, though. For almost two years, she changed jobs often, and didn’t accept a date, and by the time she began to see men again, she had developed a shell of protection, but almost no insight into her own continuing unhappiness. One night at a bar, she met a drunken Herb Rudnick, who claimed to be a theatrical agent and sometime producer. She fell into a conversation with him, and within a week, she was working in his office. Herb was crude, and a slob, but he asked almost nothing of her except hard work and loyalty. The arrangement was perfect, and she’d been there ever since. At thirty years old, with her screwed-up life at a standstill, Herb wandered into her cubicle with another of his brilliant ideas. He was going to co-produce a movie.
Chapter Five
Robin spent a sleepless night, and by mid-morning of the second day, her anxiety level had risen to the point she had trouble controlling it. In desperation, she hiked down to the sandy spit at the “end” of the island, and crawled up the rocks to see what she could of the rest of the island, hoping to spot Jack Garrison, returning. When she reached the top, she stood and shaded her eyes to look down the rugged shoreline. For maybe two hundred yards, there was little to see but a massive field of fallen boulders that sloped downward until it disappeared into the sea.
The possible result of an eons-old volcanic movement, the seaward side of the mountain had apparently crumbled, creating a giant, steeply angled and crevassed staircase. Even now, at low tide, the ocean was crashing violently over the tumbled rocks. The idea of crossing the treacherous and uneven expanse seemed impossible to Robin. Beyond the rocks, though, she could make out a perilous strip of beach clinging to the base of the cliff. The narrow strip looked no wider than six feet, and every few moments, another wave broke, inundating the slender strand of beach in a swirling vortex of chin-deep water. Maybe a hundred yards further on, the narrow pathway appeared to round a curve, or possibly turn inward. If Jack had gotten that far safely, she reasoned, he could have reached solid, dry ground—if he’d been very, very lucky.
She tried twice to climb across the avalanche of boulders before the breakers hit, and was driven back both times by the thundering surf that smashed against the steep side of the cliff. On her second effort, a wave slammed her into a rock with such force that she slipped and fell, bumping painfully down the giant staircase of wet boulders all the way to the sand and collecting bruises and scrapes at every step. She got up to try again, and noticed that behind her, on the strand, the beach was shrinking. The tide had begun to roll in. Scraped and badly bruised, with both her knees bleeding, Robin limped back to camp and did the only thing she could do. She waited.
By late afternoon, Robin was frantic, dreading another sleepless night of worry. Every muscle in her body ached from the earlier fall on the rocks, so she walked down to the beach to bask in the hot sun. She sat down on a rock at the edge of the lagoon, and stretched her legs out, enjoying the warmth.
In the bright sunlight, the lagoon sparkled. Robin had often thought this spot would be perfect for a resort. The warm water in the lagoon looked emerald in one light, and at other times a deep aquamarine. When a wave rushed between the sheltering rocks, churning up the fine white sand on the bottom, the lagoon became clouded and turned a dull-green, and then, as the sand settled, the water turned clear as glass again. When the water was clear, she could watch the bottom of the lagoon for hours. It was a jewel-box of color, with areas of rainbow-hued coral and anemone, and improbably colored fish darting between the submerged rocks.
At times, the lagoon seemed to operate like an enormous tide pool, inhabited by an ever-changing assortment of smaller sea life, and on his first trips below, before he’d decided to avoid the lagoon, Jack had brought up quite a lot of fish and a few edible crabs, which he smoked and dried. (He had caught the infamous sea cucumber here, as well, Robin remembered with an almost nostalgic sigh.)
There were no sea cucumbers in sight today, but she watched idly as a large starfish moved slowly across a rock, its progress almost imperceptible. And after a few moments, she noticed the unmistakably long tail of a good-sized ray, half-buried in the sand under the same rock. Already hungry, she could almost smell the fragrance of freshly caught, spit boiled stingray—a sumptuous supper she didn’t even have to share.
In the back of her mind, Robin did hear Jack’s voice warning her about the lagoon, but at this moment, her stomach was speaking louder than Jack was. The first time she had tasted the flesh of a ray, it had amazed her that Robin Farrell, one of the reigning queens of fast food, could actually be enj
oying something as unlikely and as unattractive as roasted ray, but the fact remained, the damned things were delicious. And not ten feet away, in clear water and ridiculously easy access, lay an unsuspecting two-foot long, sumptuous seafood entrée. She reached for two of the sharpened sticks they kept handy by the rocks, and slipped as quietly as possible into the crystalline water of the lagoon.
The water was incredibly warm on her skin, and as she swam slowly downward through shafts of green light to the sandy bottom, even her scraped knees felt better. The ray hadn’t moved, assured of his invisibility, his small brain apparently incapable of understanding that the eighteen-inch long tail that extended from beneath the rock had given him away. Robin pondered the amazing way nature chose to balance the odds as she moved very cautiously forward, transferring the sharpened sticks into her right hand as she came within range. Suddenly, the ray’s tail flicked once to the left in a shudder of fear, and Robin thought he’d sensed her presence. But a moment later, she realized that it was the change of light that had frightened him. A large, dark shadow had just swept across the bottom of the lagoon—the sun moving behind a cloud, probably. Robin raised the sharpened stick above her head.
And then, as she started to strike, the ray seemed to explode before her eyes, disintegrating into a cloud of blood and shredded tissue. An instant later, something gigantic moved past her, its coarse skin abrading her arm from wrist to elbow. The bottom of the lagoon became a whirlpool of sand and pinkish water as the shark flailed the ray’s torn carcass from side to side, ripping it in two. In the dim, bloody murk, Robin could make out little more than a vast, dark shape, but as she pushed upward, kicking frantically to reach the surface, she saw the shark’s massive open mouth and staggered rows of bloodied teeth just inches below her feet, and a pair of black, almost lifeless eyes.
She shot up through the murky water, gasping for air as she broke the surface. Just in front of her, there was a sudden churning and a huge upsurge of white froth as the shark burst from the water, its tall black dorsal fin slicing at an angle through the still lagoon. Robin stifled a scream, and swam as hard as she could for the edge of the lagoon. The safety of the rocks was only yards away, but the shark was between her and the edge, now, moving in an almost leisurely circle around her. There was no rush, and the shark knew it.
Robin dangled in the water, trying not to move or to breathe as the shark passed by her again, close enough to touch. Abruptly, it turned again, thrashing its swallow-like tail as it churned the water and brushed by her almost on its side, as it were playing with her. Its ghostly white underside was so close she felt the sandpaper skin scrape her shoulder, and at the touch of it, she let out an involuntary cry of terror, and made once more for the rocks. Behind her, she felt, more than saw the shark turn toward her way, serious now, and moving fast.
She had reached the edge of the lagoon and was trying to get a hold on the slippery rocks to pull herself up when the shark reared up behind her. Its enormous mouth yawned wide, reeking with the odor of decay, from an earlier kill, probably, and bits of the ray’s torn flesh still clung to its ragged teeth. Robin closed her eyes and clawed at the ledge of the lagoon, and at that exact moment, a large coconut seemed to come out of nowhere, and then a second, striking the shark in the right eye. The animal veered slightly left and turned to come at her again, but this time, as it passed, a third mysterious object—an enormous rock—suddenly crashed down on its head. Bleeding from the head and apparently dazed, the shark flipped on its side and flashed away from the edge of the lagoon.
In the few seconds it took the shark to regroup, Jack Garrison reached down and dragged Robin up over the rocky ledge, and to safety. Appearing to lose interest, the shark swam lazily away, flipped its tail once, and vanished beneath the surface.
Dragging Robin behind him by one arm, Jack stumbled up onto the beach and dumped her on the sand. Still gasping and choking on seawater, Robin managed to get to her hands and knees, while Jack dropped down next to her, exhausted and shaking.
It was several minutes before either of them spoke. Robin laid flat on her back, staring up at the clouds, her arms at her sides. She felt numb, her limbs weak and unsteady.
“Gee, I’m glad you’re back,” she murmured.
“That’s all you’ve got to say?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
“You’ve got really good timing?” she suggested, trying to manage a small laugh.
“I warned you about going in the lagoon!” he shouted. “If I’d shown up two seconds later, you would have been–”
“All right, all right!” she snapped, her temper returning along with her strength. “I get it, and I’m sorry! All I was trying to do was to get dinner, and I almost–”
Jack slapped his forehead with frustration. “You almost were dinner, you little idiot! Jesus, Robin, you scared the…”
Robin sat up. “Why are you back so soon, anyway?” she demanded, deciding it might be an excellent time to change the subject.
“Maybe I had a feeling you’d do something really stupid,” he growled. “And guess what? You did!”
“I was doing just fine!” she grumbled. “I’m not even sure that stupid shark was serious, now that I think about it.”
Jack looked at her with total disbelief. “You don’t think he was serious?” he bellowed. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? Serious?”
“I don’t think he was really after me. Let’s face it, if a shark that size wanted to make me lunch, I would have been lunch. And I hardly think a half-assed, lame-brained rescue attempt with a bunch of coconuts would have discouraged a determined man eater, do you?”
“Lame-brained,” Jack repeated.
“Yes, lame-brained,” Robin replied smugly. “And half-assed. I thank you for the thought, but I was doing just beautifully without your help, thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Jack got up and strode off toward the beach, and as she watched him go, Robin began to feel an unaccustomed and unexpected pang of guilt. Something about this situation— how she had behaved, and how Jack Garrison had responded—that reminded her of Mike, and the memory wasn’t at all pleasant. What she saw, when she looked honestly, was a pattern she thought she had left behind, and outgrown. Now, it seemed she had merely disguised it. She stood up and walked slowly up to the hut, wondering where Jack had gone. When he came back, she told herself, she would try to explain, and apologize for treating him like shit.
* * *
The sun had been down for well over an hour, but Jack had still not returned. Robin wasn’t worried about him—exactly—but it surprised her that he could nurse a grudge, or stay angry, for so long. Bearing a grudge was something she was good at, not Jack. The evening had turned cool, so Robin slipped on her baggy shirt, pulled up their one “chair,” and sat down to wait for him.
The wait wasn’t long. Only minutes later, Jack walked up. His face was grim, and in one hand, he carried a dripping handful of the thick, cord-like kelp they sometimes used as rope. The plant had a long, scientific name that she couldn’t remember, but Jack had once told her that it was also known as bullwhip kelp—because of its peculiar appearance and strength, presumably. Robin was about to discover that the name was all too accurate.
Robin began to brush the sand from her legs, and to form the words for her intended apology. She didn’t have time to finish the thought process, however, before he grabbed her by the elbow and shoved her face down over the wobbly bamboo chair. In another moment, he had flipped the tattered shirt up and over her head and yanked down her bikini bottoms. He pushed her well forward over the thatched seat of the chair, until her backside was a perfect target, and then folded the kelp into two sturdy loops.
“My mom always used to say that spanking one of us kids hurt her more than it did us,” he said grimly. “But I promise you, this is going to hurt you a hell of a lot more than it does me.”
“Knock it off!” Robin screamed, struggling to get up. “I’m getting
damned tired of your arrogant–Oww! Damn you, Jack, let me go!”
The two loops of wet kelp thudded into her bared backside with a dull, double thwack, making a distinctly unpleasant squishing sound, and leaving two crescent-shaped marks and a scalding sting. Robin’s eyes widened in shock and her mouth opened in a howl of pain as he leveled an even harder swat to the soft crown of each cheek. She was already composing an insincere plea for mercy when the fourth and fifth thwacks slashed across the soft, exquisitely tender undercurve where her thighs met her buttocks. When blows six and seven struck in the same place, Robin arched her back and bucked wildly, and for a second, she managed to slide sideways off the chair, onto her feet. But Jack wasn’t done. He dragged her back and dumped her on her knees, with her upper body across the seat of the chair—and held her there with his left hand planted firmly between her shoulder blades.
“Not yet, kiddo,” he said, almost affably. “By the time we’re done here, there’s not going to be one square inch of your damned butt that’s not on fire. When you toddle off to bed tonight, I want you to be rethinking a few things.”
“I’m already rethinking them!” she shrieked. “Like how I was stupid enough to actually be missing you! How I was fucking worried about you—that you’d fall off a fucking cliff, or drown, or–”
The rest of her remarks were lost when Jack began again, the blows coming underhand now, leaving curved welts directly on the sensitive spots between Robin’s thighs and her ass, and finally, across the backs of her thighs. At last, she gave up all pretense at bravery, and began to moan and plead with him to stop.
