Almost Paradise

by April Hill

  “Wait!” Robin screamed. “Will it explode? With all these fumes?”

  “I don’t think so,” Emma shouted back, but already the sound was diminishing, as the bats either settled down or left the cave. “I hope not, anyway!”

  A moment later, on the third try, the torch leaped to life. The dim light cast eerie, dancing shadows on the walls of the cave, and they could see that it had emptied. Here and there, pockets of the small, gray creatures hung in the darkest corners, but most of them had exited the cave, perhaps terrified by the human intruders, or on their usual nightly foray for insects. As Robin and Emma looked around, they found the source of the oppressive odor. Everything in sight was whitewashed in dripping piles of excrement—guano, Emma remembered from her reading.

  “Well, if I were to say ‘shit’ about now, it would be kind of redundant, wouldn’t it?” Robin said quietly, hoping not to disturb the late-sleepers. “Have you ever seen so much crap in one place, before? It’s kind of awe-inspiring, actually.”

  “It’s worth a lot of money, ”Emma said. “For fertilizer.”

  “Finally!” Robin cried. “A small business of my own! We’re probably covered in it, you know.”

  “I’m trying not to think about that. I’m more worried about how we get out of here.”

  “Batman and Robin probably drop by, now and then,” Robin said miserably. “I guess we just wait.”

  They tried the tunnel from where they had come, and found it hopelessly too steep. And then, the torch went out again.

  Six hours later, though it seemed a lot longer, Emma and Robin were still sitting on the floor of the cave, waiting for the sun to rise. The bats had returned a half an hour earlier, through the same opening the two women had used, and after a few minutes of quarrelsome chatter, most of them had settled down, and were now apparently sleeping peacefully.

  “Do we think these are vampire bats?” Robin asked, looking up at the thickly covered roof of the cave.

  “Too small,” Emma said.

  Robin nodded. “I’m not worried, really, just curious. Actually, I’ve read that being bled to death’s not such a bad way to go. Better than starving, anyway.”

  Emma made a face. “You’re not the most cheerful person to be stuck in a bat cave with.”

  “Can you eat bats?” Robin asked curiously. “Not all that long ago, that would have sounded like a pretty dumb question, but lately, I’ve noticed that my food preferences have undergone a change.”

  Then, Emma began to laugh, as well. “Bats are much too cute. I can’t eat cute things.”

  At that exact moment, a familiar voice called from somewhere above them. “They’re not cute! They’re disgusting, and they fucking stink! Yuck! What are you doing down there?”

  When they looked up, they saw Meredith high above them, kneeling on a rocky overhang and peering nervously over the edge into the cavern. And from where the two women sat, she looked remarkably dry, well-rested, and absolutely guano free.

  Chapter Seven

  Meredith leaned over the ledge and called down to the two women trapped below.

  “What are you two doing down there?” she asked again. “Are you like, lost or something?”

  “It’s sweet of you to ask,” Robin replied trying to keep her voice even. “No, we’re not lost, but we are sitting in six inches of bat poop, in case you’re interested. How did you get up there?”

  “From the back door.”

  “The back door?” Emma and Robin asked in unison, exchanging glances.

  “The one from the woods, silly. I found it today, or maybe yesterday, unless it’s already tomorrow?”

  “Merrie,” Emma tried patiently. “Just tell us how to get up there—to where you are.”

  Meredith yawned. “Well, you can’t, actually—without a ladder or something. Why did you go down there, anyway? It looks really nasty.”

  “It is nasty,” Emma muttered through clenched teeth. “We fell. Slid, really, but it’s too steep to crawl back. Now, would you please go back to camp and get Jack and Andrew to help us out? And tell them to bring some sort of rope.”

  “No,” Meredith said sullenly.

  “That wasn’t a suggestion, you stupid airhead!” Robin shrieked. “We got in this mess trying save your fucking ass!”

  “Well, sweetie,” Meredith said smugly. “I’m not the one who’s all covered in nasty, stinking bat shit, now, am I?”

  Emma and Robin had to concede that point.

  Emma tried again. “Robin’s really sorry she called you an airhead, aren’t you, Robin?” She kicked Robin’s leg, hard, to encourage the correct response.

  “Yeah, I’m fucking tormented with guilt,” Robin growled.

  Meredith stuck her tongue out. “Well, I’m still not going back there. I’m sick of being treated like I’m dumb or something. And Andrew’s probably just dying to spank the shit out of me again, when I go back. Besides, I’ll bet you can’t guess what else I found, old dumb little me?”

  “Well,” Robin said, venturing a guess. “You’ve been whining about needing a pedicure for weeks. Did you stumble across an Elizabeth Arden salon?” Robin guessed.

  Meredith beamed. “Better than that. Keep guessing.”

  Robin sprung to her feet and hurled a rock at Meredith’s head, but missed. “Just spit it out, moron, or when we get out of this slime pit, I am personally going to rip your throat and your unpainted toenails out by the goddamned roots!”

  “Maybe you’ll be in a better mood after you sit down there for a week or so,” Meredith called down, smiling evilly.

  Emma stood up and waved the cigarette lighter.

  “And maybe you’d like me to toss the rest of your cigarette stash into this pool of bat shit,” she threatened. “Go get the guys, Meredith, and make it quick!”

  Half an hour later, blackmailed with the loss of her remaining cigarettes, a reluctant Meredith strolled into camp, where Jack Garrison and Andrew McLean had just returned from their third, ever-expanding search of the beaches, the woods, and the bottom of the lagoon. Meredith’s sudden appearance, along with the news that neither Robin’s nor Emma’s lifeless bodies were about to turn up, brought a vast sense of relief, followed, not unexpectedly, by anger. After Meredith had given directions to the bat cave, she was ordered to stay in the camp. Then, after gathering what useful equipment they had, both men plunged into the jungle to find Emma and Robin.

  The rescue wasn’t difficult, involving a sturdy ten-foot length of braided kelp and a harness of the stout hanging vines called “liana.” First Robin, and then Emma, took turns rappelling up the cavern’s slippery wall, with Andrew and Jack holding the lines and offering directions.

  When both women were safely on the ledge, Andrew pulled Emma close to him, and held her for a long moment, his eyes closed with relief. “Are you all right?” he asked, and Emma noticed a slight tremble in his voice.

  Emma only nodded, enjoyed the comfort of his arms.

  They followed Meredith’s slightly garbled directions for a few feet, to what she had called the “back door,” a wide, easily entered opening in the brush. Easy, that is, if you knew where to look.

  As they emerged into the filtered green sunlight of the tropical forest, Jack shook his head. “I can’t believe this has been here all this time and it took Meredith to find it!” He chuckled. “And that’s not the best part,” he told the two exhausted women. “Wait’ll you see what else the little idiot found, just wandering aimlessly around.”

  Emma would have to wait for a while to see Meredith’s discovery, because as they started down the rocky path back to camp, McLean stopped, took Emma’s elbow, and motioned for Jack and Robin to go on without them. Emma’s heart sank as she realized what their stopping here probably meant. When Robin and Jack had disappeared into the trees, McLean took Emma’s shoulders, and looked into her face.

  “You’re certain you’re not injured? Anywhere?”

  Emma shook her head, too nervous to say an
ything.

  “You’re certain?”

  “I’m fine, really. We just…”

  McLean interrupted her. “You just went off in the middle of the night, endangered your lives, and frightened Jack and I nearly to death,” he said harshly.

  “I know,” she said meekly. “We should have waited for you, and I am sorry.”

  He shook his head. “It’s not enough to be sorry. You’re not a fool like Meredith. I had a right to expect better of you. Turn around and pull your pants down.”

  Even though she had half expected this outcome, Emma wasn’t prepared for the sound of his words—spoken to her. Part of her—the modern, adult, self-sufficient woman part, rebelled at being treated this way, like she was a disobedient child, or a tedious brat like Meredith. Yet somehow, another deeper part of Emma Douglas was preparing to submit to this undeniably peculiar request without argument. Andrew McLean’s obvious concern for her, and his relief at finding her unharmed had surprised and touched Emma. She had spent most of her life being the “strong one,” and the “capable one” in any relationship. Now, she was being confronted for the first time by a man whose strength was greater than hers, who cared for her, and felt the need to protect her. His methods might be a bit old-fashioned, she reasoned, but she found his strength and determination somehow comforting, and attractive. She would leave the discussion (with herself) of political correctness for later.

  On the other hand, having already witnessed Andrew’s “corrections” of Meredith, Emma was not looking forward with pleasure to what was about to happen. Something in his manner told her that her own “correction” would be no less unpleasant than Meredith’s, in spite of his obvious affection for her.

  Unlike Meredith, Emma had been spanked as a child. The spankings had been rare, since she had usually been a complacent and well-behaved child, but she could also be willful, and on those rare occasions, she had suffered what most well-loved children did—well-deserved, but fairly mild paddlings, on her clothed bottom.

  She had a strong feeling that this paddling would be very different from those.

  All of these only half-conscious thoughts went through Emma’s mind in the few moments it took her to turn around, undo the top button of her shorts, and lower them to her ankles. Behind her, Andrew McLean spoke again, softly.

  “Now, raise your shirt.”

  Emma did as he asked, shaking more from embarrassment than fear. Somehow, she knew that he wouldn’t actually hurt her, but being naked in front of a man not something Emma Douglas had done often in her life, and she had never done it under these specific circumstances. Miserably, she drew up the tail of her shirt and held it above her waist

  Behind her, she could hear Andrew snapping off several switches from a nearby bush. Emma squeezed her eyes shut, and waited.

  The first blow of the three switches across her bare backside made Emma jump, cry out, and instinctively throw her hands back to cover herself. Patiently, and without a word of reproach, he moved her hands away, then reached around her and crossed her arms over her chest. The next two blows were considerably harder, and lower—an apparent penalty. Emma bit her lower lip and closed her eyes tightly, determined not to make another sound—or to move, if she could help it. The decision to take this whipping had been hers, and understood without being told that submission meant exactly that—submission.

  The switches struck again, six times in a row this time, cutting what felt like burning welts across both cheeks of her buttocks. Emma winced at each blow, and in spite of her best intentions, moved her feet apart by just a little. By stroke fifteen, she was moving in place from foot to foot and making little involuntary moaning sounds that she hoped were inaudible. These understandable reactions were evidently not a cause for penalties in whatever rulebook McLean was using, and her little dance brought no significantly harder swats.

  A moment later, he threw the switches aside and sat down a on a large rock, but as Emma reached down to pull up her shorts, he shook his head. “Leave them as they are, and come over here, to me,” he said. Covering herself as best she could, Emma came and stood in front of him, her head down, and blushing miserably.

  When he took her by the elbow and pulled her down across his lap, Emma’s entire body seemed to flush at his touch. She had thought the whipping was over, and as bad as it had been, it had seemed oddly impersonal—a hard lesson about disobedience from a stern but caring teacher. And as such, she had made the “philosophical” decision to endure it as what it was—a lesson. But there was nothing remotely impersonal about this—being draped in this ridiculous position, across the lap of a man with whom she was she was already half in love—to be spanked—was without a doubt the most humbling and humiliating experience of her life. Her face was so hot she felt like she was sunburned, and for one moment, she debated with herself about protesting, or simply refusing.

  Emma was wrong about one thing, though it would be a few minutes before she realized this. She was about to learn that the one good thing about pain is that it tends to take your mind off just about everything else, even what seems like the most humiliating experience of your life.

  For his part, however, Andrew McLean wasn’t in a philosophical frame of mind, at all. He was simply angry, and even as he raised his arm aloft to deliver the first swat to Emma’s shivering backside, he knew that this spanking was about payback and revenge. Last night, for the first time in years, he had been frightened to the very core—frightened that he had lost the woman with whom he had fallen in love. The woman he’d waited for years—now lost because of her own frivolous, foolish actions. And now, the lady was going to pay for frightening him with a well-scalded ass.

  Emma’s reaction to the first smack was shock, and she understood instantly the point of the switches. From the very first solid crack of Andrew’s large palm on her “pre-tenderized” backside, the pain was immediate, and searing. Her plan had been to submit to this well-deserved spanking with grace and bravery, like a medieval martyr going to the gallows. When it was over, she would bow her head and choke back her tears, noble to the end, and forgive him. At which point, in her fantasy, he would take her in his arms, apologize sincerely, and promise to love and protect her for the rest of their lives. (In a castle, in his native Scotland, ideally.)

  It didn’t happen quite that way.

  By the tenth smack, Emma was biting her lip and gritting her teeth. By the fifteenth, she was squirming and wriggling in misery, and somewhere after whack number twenty, she surrendered her pride and began to howl.

  “I’m sorry!” she shrieked. “I didn’t mean to … OW! OH! Oww! Stop, PLEASE, Andrew! I promise, I’ll never–Oww!”

  Emma’s bare buttocks were on fire, and with each scorching blow, she prayed for it to be the last. This was so, so much worse that she had expected! The entire “Loving Submission to Handsome Alpha Male” scenario she had been formulating in her mind was rapidly losing its appeal, and its glamour. Emma was a liberated woman! She did not want to actually grovel and beg, but she was getting very close to doing just that! And then, just before she reached that point, Andrew stopped.

  For a moment, though, Emma didn’t realize that he had stopped. Her ass was throbbing so badly, the spanking still seemed to be in progress. Like when you’ve been on a moving vehicle, she thought, and come to a sudden stop. Exactly like that, without the fiery butt, of course.

  Emma lay very still, until she could catch her breath.

  “Are we done?” she asked, trying to sound matter-of-fact.

  “Yes, I believe we are,” Andrew said pleasantly. She knew without seeing his face that he was smiling. To her amazement, she no longer felt embarrassed, just … Emma wasn’t sure what she felt, other than feeling confident that her backside was on fire, and probably smoking.

  With as much dignity as she could summon, Emma stood up, lowered her shirt, and tried to pull her shorts back up—something that she quickly realized was going to be impossible. As discreetly as she coul
d, she rolled the shorts into a small bundle, and tugged the tail of the “big shirt” down over her pulsating buttocks, wishing the thing was a lot bigger than it was.

  McLean took her arm and directed her back on the path, where Emma found walking a little more difficult than she’d expected. Not a few of the switch strokes had landed (accidentally, she hoped) between her legs, and every movement of her thighs chafed and stung.

  “I have something to show you that might … help,” he said, referring, apparently to her waddle. She could see that he was trying not to smile at her misery.

  “What is it?” she asked, her voice just a bit short.

  “It’s a surprise,” McLean said.

  “I think I’ve been surprised enough, today, if it’s all the same to you,” she said caustically.

  “Well, now,” he observed as they continued walking. “What happened just now shouldn’t have been that much of a surprise. You have been present at several of Miss Von Kessel’s lessons.”

  “I’m not Meredith!” she snapped. “Meredith doesn’t have the sense to…”

  “Exactly,” he said. “And you do, which is why what happened back there was not really a lesson, but vengeance. I’m not particularly proud of it, but you frightened the hell out of me, and I have just spanked the hell out of you for doing it. Now that we understand one another, it won’t happen again, am I correct?”

  “I suppose,” she grumbled. “But I still don’t think it was fair. Where is this wonderful surprise?”

  He pushed through the brush, and pointed. Emma gasped.

  “My GOD!” she shrieked. “You mean this has been here all along?”

  “Yes. It took our friend Meredith to stumble directly into it.”

  “It” was a small but incredibly lovely cascade of fresh water that gushed down the rocky face of the mountain, and spilled into a deep pool—shimmering, and crystal-clear.

  Emma walked up to the mossy edge of the pool, and stuck a toe in the water.

  “Can we drink it?”

  “Absolutely. Or swim, if you wish.”