The Pact

by Justine Elyot

  He didn’t let me up until both bum and thighs were fully covered in bright red heat, and then it was only to go back to the corner.

  ‘Now, I’m going to have a look at the paper,’ he said, having placed me to his satisfaction. ‘And when I’ve done that, we’ll address the issue of your deceitfulness.’

  So would that be it? Two parts? I was longing to ask, but I didn’t dare. Perhaps I didn’t really want the answer. What if there were ten parts?

  I stood there, listening to the rustle of the newspaper, and my thoughts were no longer about the coldness of my backside, believe me. Now that I wasn’t actually over the knee, I started to feel the erotic appeal of my situation. I was standing here, with my bare spanked bottom on display for my stern but loving man, who would give me as much as he thought I needed, regardless of my protestations. I was aware of how wet I was and I pressed my thighs together, hoping part two would be very short and would lead seamlessly to part three, bent over the sofa with Joe inside me.

  I was almost too excited to stand upright by the time Joe put his paper aside and ordered me back out of the corner.

  He stood up, paddle in hand, and watched me cross the room with careful steps, trying not to trip over my trousers and knickers, which remained around my ankles.

  ‘You can go over that this time,’ he said, pointing at the sofa arm.

  I draped myself as gracefully as I could, grabbing hold of a convenient cushion and spreading my legs a little in the hope that it might distract Joe from his disciplinary aim.

  No such luck.

  ‘I see you’re a little bit wet down here,’ he observed, stroking the tops of my inner thighs with such silken fingers they really could have been made of gossamer after all. ‘But this isn’t going to be fun, Claudia. This isn’t foreplay. It’s going to hurt, just like I was hurt when you weren’t honest with me. I’ll give you ten, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ I said bravely, thinking Ten? I’ll die! But I wanted to show him that I trusted his judgement and would take what he thought I’d earned, so I didn’t protest.

  I was less sure of this after the first stroke.

  Christ! It really did hurt. He had meant what he said. I managed to avoid crying out by shoving the cushion in my mouth, but I didn’t think I’d get much further without giving my vocal cords full rein.

  ‘Tell me you won’t lie to me again,’ he said, his voice uneven with emotion.

  ‘I won’t lie to you again,’ I promised.

  ‘Say it after every stroke. And mean it.’

  So I did. I said it, and I meant it. I said it a little more breathlessly, and with a longer gap between the stroke and the promise, every time, because I had to gather myself together after every scorching splat of the paddle, but I said it all ten times, and I meant it a hundredfold.

  By the tenth time, my voice was hoarse – there had been a lot of yelling – and I was wobbly with the intensity of it. My bottom was burning and my eyes were hot with tears but I loved Joe more than ever and all I wanted was to fall into his arms and show him how much I meant what I’d said.

  He put down the paddle and bent over me, his woollen trousers pressing up tight and rubbing my sizzling rear, wrapping his arms around my breasts and squeezing tight.

  ‘I love you,’ he said, his lips right up against my ear.

  ‘I love you too, so much,’ I whimpered back.

  Part three was everything I could ever have dreamed it would be. And so was my exam score at the end of my college course. A little motivation can work wonders.

  Living for May Day

  Kathleen Tudor

  She varied her arrival times, which roads she used, and sometimes even which airports she passed through, but no matter how early or late she was, he was always waiting. He stood on the porch and waved as she drove up in the hunter-green rental. The moment the little Audi came to a stop he strode down the steps and straight to the driver’s door, his arms open to receive her. She stepped into his embrace with a feeling of setting aside a heavy load, and the breath she let out as he squeezed her tight was like her first exhale in eleven months.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said, even though it was the next thing to forbidden between them.

  ‘Would you like to help with my bag?’ She was more than capable of managing it on her own, but he hated to let her.

  He scooped the bag out of the trunk with one hand, returned to her side and captured her arm to escort her inside like she was some lady from a hundred years ago. The thought of being a delicate lady made her want to snort and shake her head, but it was just Thomas’s way. And it was part of his charm.

  ‘Has work been treating you well?’ he asked as they stepped over the threshold. Another testing of the boundaries.

  Jacqueline sighed, wishing they could skip this inevitable negotiation at the beginning of each of her visits and fall straight into their usual rhythms. ‘Well enough, and I won’t say any more. You know that, Thomas.’

  He ducked his head, chagrined. ‘I know. I’m sorry. Come through. I didn’t know when to expect you, so I made some cold soup.’ There was a note of accusation in his tone that she chose to ignore. ‘Did you have a long flight?’

  ‘Is that your question?’

  He paused, then shook his head. ‘No. I’m sorry, Jackie. I didn’t sleep much last night …’

  She dropped his hand so that she could reach around him in a one-armed hug. His body relaxed against hers, and he turned and kissed the top of her head.

  ‘I’ll tell you this much: your soup sounds delicious. I haven’t eaten anything decent all day.’

  ‘Well, go wash up then, and I’ll just put your bag upstairs.’

  The soup was rich and delicious, and she was halfway through her bowl before she realised how she’d been gulping it down. He watched her with bemusement, and she smiled sheepishly at him. She hadn’t been kidding when she’d said that she hadn’t had a good meal all day. More like ages. She’d been travelling for a couple of days now, flying into the country and then taking a series of hopscotching domestic flights to confuse her trail.

  ‘I have my question,’ he said. She set down her spoon and nodded for him to continue. ‘I heard you speaking to some of the farmhands last year. How many languages do you speak?’

  ‘Oh, hmm.’ She screwed up her nose. ‘It depends on what you mean by “speak”. I can go through some basic pleasantries in more than a dozen, but fluently …’

  ‘Fluently, yes.’

  ‘Then five. No, six.’

  His eyes twinkled with amusement. ‘You’re not sure?’

  She shrugged, catching his smile. ‘I always forget to count English. I also speak Spanish, Russian, Arabic, French and Swedish. I’m working on Mandarin.’

  ‘Those must come in handy in your travels,’ he hedged, but this was not like the earlier probing. There was a tease buried here. He was fencing, not digging.

  ‘You know I can’t tell you what countries I’ve visited since last year,’ she reprimanded teasingly, and picked up her spoon again.

  ‘You could tell me which ones you’ve visited before last year, though, couldn’t you?’

  She thought about it. ‘Maybe. Ask me next year if you want to know so badly.’ She smiled to blunt the thrust and spooned up another mouthful. ‘This is delicious.’

  ‘I learned to make it just for you,’ he said. ‘I had to learn to make smaller batches, too. Far too many leftovers for just me.’

  She ducked her head, hiding her expression. ‘You shouldn’t wait for me, you know.’

  ‘So you tell me. But you don’t need to keep looking. I’ll never hang that ribbon.’ That was their agreement. She could only give him one month per year – one glorious May – and no contact in between. When he couldn’t bear their arrangement any more, he just had to tie a blue ribbon around the fencepost at the turnoff to his farm and she swore he’d never see her again. It had been six years, and she felt that same peculiar blend of relief and guilt every time sh
e saw that stark, bare post.

  ‘You’re an idiot,’ she told him. Then she pushed back her chair and went around the table to straddle his lap. He groaned as she kissed him and his cock was quick to respond.

  She had meant to wait. To make it to the bedroom this time. To do things properly. But, as usual, neither of them had the patience. She stood just long enough to kick off her shoes and step out of her slacks, and he didn’t even move that much, simply arching up enough to shove his jeans down to his knees. She was back on him in seconds, her pussy hot and ready as she positioned herself above him. He guided himself to her opening as she balanced, both arms around his neck, breathing deeply as she lowered herself inch by torturous inch.

  ‘I love you,’ he breathed.

  ‘Shut up.’ She rocked against him, taking him all the way inside herself, and he groaned and clutched her hips, trying to hold her still.

  ‘Wait! Slow down, I—’

  ‘No. Me too. No.’ She rocked again, seeking that perfect angle, and his cock drove deep, stroking against that sweet spot deep inside. It was like a starting shot, and then she was off, hips thrusting and curling against him, breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He cried out, giving in and bucking beneath her, letting her claim him, and a moment later she rode him over the edge, howling her pleasure into the silence of his kitchen.

  ‘Damn, but I’ve missed this,’ he said, and kissed her neck.

  ‘I have, too.’ Skirting the line, perhaps, but not crossing it. Never quite crossing it. ‘Now come on and take me to bed. I’ve got some thoughts on how to keep you busy until you recover enough for round two.’

  Despite the very, very late night, Jackie was up before dawn the next morning. Thomas’s farm was beautiful, but it took a lot of work. She’d discovered that by doing her morning run along the fence line, she could help him spot problems while she was accomplishing a bit of daily PT.

  He was waiting when she got back, and wordlessly went to start the shower. She smiled gratefully, climbing into the narrow stall beside him and giggling like a carefree girl as they bumped and nudged and soaped each other, their casual ease slowly but surely returning.

  ‘Tip your head back,’ he said, reaching to scrub shampoo from her hair. It smelled like him and made her heart flutter in a way that was both happy and sad.

  ‘You have a rotten fencepost in the third pasture,’ she said, squeezing her eyes shut against the spray off his shoulders, ‘about a quarter of the length from the gate.’

  ‘You ran that far?’

  ‘I like to keep moving. Like right now. Share the hot water!’

  He shifted to give her more of the direct stream. ‘They must have some strict training in the CIA.’

  ‘You know I can’t tell you who I work for.’

  ‘Just that you’re a spy,’ he continued amiably. It was an old game, this guessing and evading. ‘And that you speak so many languages you forget how many sometimes. And that you only take one vacation a year.’

  ‘And that I spend it with you,’ she agreed, and kissed him. The business of the shower mostly done, they turned their attentions to play. He deepened the kiss, stroking greedily through her mouth with his tongue, and she kissed back just as hungrily. His hands wandered up and down her torso, caressing her soap-slick breasts, and she grabbed his ass, pulled him against her and felt his cock jut against her hips.

  She made a hungry sound, tipping her head back to encourage him as he trailed kisses down her neck and across her collarbone. I missed this, she didn’t say, but she could swear he heard it anyway. He growled in answer – could it be an answer when she hadn’t spoken aloud? – and crushed his hips against hers, his cock insistent and undeniable.

  ‘Thomas!’ That she did say, and his answer was immediate, though she hadn’t finished her thought. He knew – always seemed to, when it came to this – exactly what she wanted. She leaned back against the shower wall, bracing herself against him, and he grabbed her leg almost before she’d started to lift it. Then he was inside her, thrusting deep, and she shuddered at the faint sting of soap against her clit, deliciously uncomfortable – paradoxically comforting.

  ‘You’re going to kill me, woman,’ he groaned. That was his question three visits ago: whether she’d ever had to kill anyone. She’d told him she hadn’t, and he’d joked that he would be her first.

  ‘Only if you don’t shut up and – oh!’ His timing was perfect, going from slow gyrations to a quick, decisive thrust. ‘Yes! More …’ His grin was wicked as he adjusted his grip on her leg, steadied himself and rammed her again, his pace growing faster until he was fucking her steadily, pressed up against the shower wall, their bodies steaming even in the cooling water.

  It felt glorious, but something was off. Then he shifted his stance without breaking pace, and she gasped as his new angle found all of the sensitive places he hadn’t quite been hitting. Now he was square on, and her body sparked with tingles, starting at her lower back and the nape of her neck and even her toes, all racing to meet in the middle. And when they did, it was explosive. She tipped her head back against the shower wall, fighting the urge to buck against him as she came.

  Thomas’s pace changed as she cried out and shook in his arms, and he groaned, long and low, as he thrust one final time. He buried himself deep inside her and cried out as he came, his muscles clenching and twitching but his grip on her remaining firm and gentle.

  He reached to turn off the rapidly cooling shower, and she was waiting with a kiss when he turned back to her. They were mostly dry by the time either of them thought to take their make-out session out of the shower stall.

  Thomas had tried, in the past, to discourage Jacqueline from helping with the chores around his ranch, but she was not easy to dissuade when she put her mind to something, and he was too much a gentleman to tie her to the bed and leave her aching for him all day. She tried to help make up for their inevitable late starts with her best ranch-hand impression.

  Today, that meant helping with the fence post. It had to be cut free, dug out and the gap mended, and she’d become familiar enough with the work to be where he needed her. Their work went quickly and quietly, the silence between them as comforting as a soft-washed flannel.

  ‘Didn’t see any others?’ he asked when they were finished.

  ‘No, not along this line. I can run the east pasture tomorrow.’

  He nodded agreeably. ‘Sure. Meantime, we can drive the rest of this fence length for a ways. I’ve got most of the afternoon free.’

  That was unusual, but not unheard of. She nodded and climbed into the cab of his pick-up, bracing for the jouncing ride without bothering to buckle in. They barely got out of first gear, so there hardly seemed to be much point.

  He drove up the length of the fence, then turned to follow when it turned. Soon they came to a gate, and he got out of the idling truck to open it. They drove on, further than she was expecting, and she was surprised to note that he wasn’t paying much attention to the fence. ‘Thomas?’

  He stopped the truck and killed the engine. ‘I think I see something over the top of that hill.’ He hopped out and didn’t wait for her or open her door, and Jacqueline followed, beginning to worry. He set a quick pace to the top of the hill and vanished over the crest, and she picked up her own pace. ‘Thomas! What are you doing?’

  He didn’t answer and her worry spiked, but it couldn’t compete with the adrenalin rush she felt when she crested the hill and found him. He was kneeling on a blanket, a small box in his hand and utter panic in his eyes.

  She was already shaking her head. ‘Thomas, please don’t—’

  ‘I know you won’t marry me,’ he said, cutting her off. ‘I know you can’t, so I won’t even ask. And I know I’m not supposed to say this, but I love you.’ He swallowed, hard, and continued. ‘I don’t know your last name, or what your job really entails, or what your family is like …’

  ‘Was like,’ she whispered, and he nodded gravely, accepting the nugge
t of information as the gift that it was.

  ‘I don’t know where you go when you’re not here or what you do and I’ve promised not to ask. And I won’t. But I will ask this.’ He opened the box and she nearly collapsed with relief when she saw not a ring but a bracelet; simple, tasteful, elegant and … damn it, it was perfect. Still, she didn’t move towards him. ‘I wait for you here every May, and every May you descend on me like an angel, but I want more than hope. I want a promise. I want you to be my May Queen. A formalisation of this … this little pact we’ve made together. Will you do that, Jacqueline? Will you promise to come back to me every year and let me love you while I can?’

  Finally, she allowed herself to move towards him, but when she collapsed to her knees in front of him it wasn’t to take the bracelet but to grasp his other hand. ‘You’re a fool, Thomas. Even if I promise you my every May, I can’t promise you anything else. What man could live with that?’

  His gaze was earnest and steady. ‘Haven’t I proved by now that I can? That I will and I do? That I’m willing to endure my self-imposed solitude when I know that at the end of it is you?’

  ‘I never asked—’

  ‘No. I offer it freely. Because I love you.’

  ‘Thomas …’

  ‘Because I want to spend every May with you for as long as we live.’

  ‘Thomas—’

  ‘Because I want to know –’ and here he choked up a little ‘– I want to know that if you ever don’t come back … I’ll know why.’

  That was the worst part of this. The most unfair. There was no way to get him word if something happened to her. If she was hurt or killed. She bit her lip and dropped her head, her eyes filling.

  ‘Say yes. Say you’ll be my May Queen,’ he whispered.

  Jacqueline met his eyes. ‘Yes, love. I promise.’ She held out her arm for him, and he clasped the bracelet around her wrist with shaking fingers, then lifted her hand to place a tender kiss on the skin just above the jewellery.