by Dani Dundee
“I know, Sir,” I coo with a flirty sway. “I try so hard to behave.”
“Not hard enough, I’m afraid. What you need, Miss Sweeten, is a strong dose of correction that you won’t soon forget. Bend over. I want those hands all the way across the desk.”
“Yes, Sir.” Ah, yes, Sir, yes, Sir, yes, Sir. In my mental skin flick, I do exactly as he asks, even lifting up on my toes to present a sweet target for him.
Throbbing and hot, I tucked my fingers into the most boring underwear I own and drove two into my wet blossom of passion. I probably shouldn’t come with my guest about to arrive any minute, but I really didn’t want to stop. As the faux spanking commenced, I kicked off my loafers and set my heels up by my thighs.
I oozed on my probing digits as I ground roughly into my walls with frenzied thrusts. Raising my hips to meet the hard shoves of my hand was something I’d never done before, but I loved it. I groaned and my breaths rushed out.
With the headmaster’s warmup on my bottom over, he tosses my skirt up over my back and skims my panties down my legs. His fingers then brush very lightly against my engorged slit that he crouches down to inspect. His hot breath, right there, tickles my sensitive skin. He compliments himself on the blush he just painted on my ass and warns me of the true reddening coming my way.
When his roaming finger wiggles deeper into the divide and his thumb twists right outside my anus, I lost my resolve and ached and contracted wildly on my embedded fingers. I lowered my butt to the mattress, flopped my wet hand over my head, and lay there in calmness as electric sparklers fizzed along my walls and inside my stomach. My belly and pelvic area melted into pudding. I hummed and sighed as the squeezes tallied to a dozen, fifteen, eighteen. My body was content with that, and I deliciously wound down from my orgasm in self-provided ecstasy.
I sat up and looked around. Where was my spanker anyway? It must be time now. The clock on the nightstand said he was eleven minutes late. I launched off the bed, tore into my bag, and pulled out my purse. I extracted the phone from the pocket inside. I missed a message.
Sorry, Cupcake. Changed my mind. Not ready for this yet.
Fuck! Well, I didn’t want to be spanked by a guy who was too chickenshit to go for it anyway. He’d probably suck at the task.
I wrote, Not much of a Tiger are ya? You couldn’t have told me this BEFORE Go Time??? So much for making plans with a sexting buddy. Grow a pair before responding to an ad next time. You wasted my time AND money. Now I’m out, $150, plus tax, for a room that’s 30 mins from my house!
I was so steamed up and livid, I chucked pillows around the room and punched the mattress. Fantastic! All my best-laid plans just blew up in my face. Getting spanked was all I’d been thinking about for days, no, for years. I’d even bought implements to collide with my own damn backside. Errrr.
Well, I stripped off the uniform. No point in wearing a reminder of my fucked-up night. I watched TV for a little bit, but that only depressed me.
Hell! Determined to have at least some fun, I put on a cute black shirt, tight jeans, and some sexy heels that allowed me to show off my freshly manicured toenails.
I left my room with my keycard and a little clutch purse and rode the elevator down to the lowest level to check out the restaurant. I could at least shake off my frustration with a sour appletini and then maybe call up some friends to go dancing. They’d be excited because I haven’t had a night off of kid duty in ages. My parents get to snuggle and spoil the little sprouts all weekend. But, I didn’t want to go dancing. I wanted … to get whacked. Hard. I wanted to cry myself to sleep, rubbing a tender, red bottom that had met a hand and a paddle and a belt.
The infestation of people in leather regalia and fetish wear I spotted dropped my jaw. “What’s goin’ on?” I asked the string bean when she asked me how many.
“Oh, a BDSM conference.”
“BDSM, hmm,” I muttered with my face warming. Well, if I couldn’t get my own spanking, maybe I could watch one live. That would be fun. And mighty damn hot. My mouth watered and my totally unloved and famished trove started to throb just at the thought of it.
She asked me about seating again.
I shook my head and scratched my cheek, jerking myself out of a kinky reverie. “Uh, um, one. I’m alone, so I’d feel more comfortable at the bar, thank you.”
She nodded, tucked a strand of magenta hair behind her ear, and picked up a menu. “We serve at the bar too. Are you going to be dining this evening?
“I’m not sure. Um, maybe. I’ll take a menu.”
She winked at me and waved me forward.
I followed America’s Next Top Model and slinked up onto a stool at the bar where she’d placed a menu. “Thanks.”
A leather-clad couple at tall table behind me were arguing over an SSC versus a rac dynamic. I had no clue what they were talking about, but I grabbed a napkin and scribbled R A C, which I assumed was an acronym for something? It was kinky alphabet soup I was totally clueless about.
A male said, “Let’s be honest. Wouldn’t you say rac is the more commonly accepted reality, especially when it comes to TPE? People in the community tout SSC so vanillas will feel better about what goes on in dungeons and bedrooms, so victims’ advocates don’t crawl out of the woodwork with their pitchforks, but for many lifestylers, the high is found in the risk, in blurring the lines.”
“Maybe, but I feel it’s too dangerous if safe and sane aren’t a part of the equation at all times. There’s a greater chance of dehumanization or abuse occurring, especially in TPE.”
“It depends on the Dom. Not all are sadistic.”
“I know, but not all self-ascribed Doms are truly Doms. Slut-thrashing wannabes are always sneaking into the mix. I wouldn’t want a Dom who treated his toilet better than me. No thanks.”
“Says you. I personally know two subs who love extreme degradation. I think people can do whatever the hell they want, as long as it’s consensual, at least in part.”
They left the bar area, but my mind was still buzzing about the whole Dom thing. I didn’t know very much about BDSM beyond a couple stories I read, but I was under the assumption that most Doms were sadistic. If that’s not the case, then maybe I can get spanked by a non-sadistic one, tonight, and he won’t slice up the entirety of my ass with a cane. A few lines I could take, perhaps, but for my job, I have to sit for six hours a day, designing ads and manipulating photos, and at home, I’m always on the move, cleaning up messes, playing jumbo Legos in a straddle, changing diapers. So an ass of bloody meat was not an option for me, nor a desire of mine. My spirit soared with hope that maybe this ditch by TigerBlood wasn’t such a bad thing after all. I’d rather get spanked by someone who actually wants to do it. I didn’t want to twist the arm of some chickenshit wimp to get it done. I also wrote, “TPE” and “SSC” down on my napkin and ordered a sour appletini. Safe, sane and consensual. Those words were like comfy throw pillows. Maybe there was a whole lot more to be liked about BDSM.
“Would you like caramel apple vodka and butterscotch liqueur?” the mustached bartender asked. I suddenly noticed he looked like a shorter, much less debonair Tom Selleck. “It’s a decadent complement to the Sour Apple Pucker schnapps.”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll try that. Hook me up.” I paid him and put his tip in a wide bowl on the mahogany slab.
A few minutes later, the light green cocktail was set down before me on another napkin. I beamed. It looked so yummy, with caramel drizzled around the rim and swirled a bit into the wide cone. After dunking the apple wedge that had a bit of melted caramel on the tip, I quickly ate it. Still trying to figure out what TPE meant, I looked straight ahead with my glass tilted at my lips and the sweet-tart bite sliding down my tongue. Mmm. Yum.
Some idiot boor jarringly collided with my right hip and arm, making me crash the glass against my top row of teeth. I coughed up the swallowed elixir that burst off like a firework. “Ow, fuck.” I popped my drink forward on impulse, losing half of it on
my shirt. The stream ran down the gulf between my boobs, getting absorbed by the bottom of my bra. “Shit.”
The impatient, tall dude, all up in my space, leaned forward, his muscular forearm resting on the plank. His sweaty skin slimed up mine! Idiot didn’t even apologize and finger-rapped several times to get the bartender’s attention, who was helping someone else I might add. Dressed in a T-shirt and Nike cotton shorts, Mr. Immediacy was still up against me, slapping the bar like he was far more important than the old lady ordering a gin and tonic. He had no regard for me as I was left hacking like a 2-pack smoker.
When my coughing fit ceased, I sighed in jealousy. The damn bar was getting more of a spanking than me. I was supposed to be begging a headmaster for mercy right about now.
“Hey, hey, Mack,” Jocko said. “Can I get a Sammy? Summer Ale please?”
The bar was crowded but not that crowded to have a glued-on companion I never asked for. Uckkk. Fuck off, man.
He moved over a few inches, pivoted slightly, and rubbed his sheen off my flesh. His big hand was warm and firm and perfect, ohmygod, perfect for ... delivering a sting to remember, surely. When he finished mopping up my arm, without even looking at me because he was still gunning for the attention of the preoccupied bartender, he gripped my bicep and muttered, “Sorry.” His thumb tapped Morse code on my skin as he added a few more whacks to the bar, finally catching the Dapper Dan’s eye, bobbing his chin, a pointed finger raised. “Summer Ale.”
The slimy jock was tan with a straight, perfect nose and clean-as-sin fingernails on long, piano fingers. Even dressed down and sweaty, he looked so damn polished and pretentious. His fucking air of importance nibbled me with annoyance. He probably owned a company.
“Bottle or draft?”
He finally let go of me. “Aaaah, draft would be wonderful. In a chilled glass. I just gunned out 3 on the mill. Thank you.”
A minute later, when the chilled glass of Sam Adam’s Summer Ale was set before him on a napkin, he thanked the bartender, with the nametag Mack, of course, he’s actually Mack—I didn’t think to look. Jocko bit into his hunk of lemon. Without even sneering or cringing, he sucked the rind clean, let out a quiet, “Aaahhh,” and cartwheeled the yellow peel onto the bar with a casual flick of his fingers.
I quickly crumpled the napkin of gibberish in front of me and stuffed it into my purse. “Wow. A Summer Ale? You’re so damn hardcore. I’m surprised you didn’t ask for it on the rocks.”
“I just wanted something refreshing to chug.” He finally looked at me, looked me in the eye, and I nearly melted into goo. His sweat-dampened, dark hair demanded rustling, his roads of muscles, devouring, and his azure eyes that waned down to green mist in the middle … my absolute surrender. “Besides, who needs a stiff drink when there’s nothing else here that can rival your intoxicating snark.”
I recoiled and ground my jaw. Annoyed with my own damn “fuck-he’s-hot” attraction to such a snob, I spit out, “You should go for the scotch. Who says you get to enjoy the pleasure of my company?”
He licked lemon juice off his nice bottom lip. “Well, for one, you’re still fucking yapping at me when I just want to knock back a cold one before I hit the showers. And two, your now-hidden napkin pretty much begs for mine, and I have no doubt I could demolish your flimsy resolve with a naughty whisper or two, if I so desired. But something tells me you wouldn’t be able to handle it.”
Huh! What a conceited jerk! “Excuse me? My resolve? Handle it? What the heck do you know? It was a couple of scribbled acronyms or words or whatever.”
“Missing one very important letter, I might add. Shame. You don’t even know the lusciousness of what you wrote down, do you. Nope. You definitely couldn’t handle it.” He snatched his chilled glass of ale and left the bar. The rush of the move left me with a slap of wind and the scent of his beachy cologne-laced sweat.
I followed after him like an idiot. “Hey. What do you mean? What letter? And how the hell do you know what I can or cannot handle?”
His long legs gave him a wide stride that had him miles ahead of me, and I had to just about jog to catch up. Now, I was aching for the loafers. Running in these heels sucked ass. I really don’t know how people can run in those stiletto races!
Of course he had no wait at the elevator. He summoned the thing into instantaneous compliance with one push of his mighty finger. He entered an elevator with a huff and spun.
“Hey. What letter? What are you talking about?” I got my first look at his full front as I darted in after him so I wouldn’t get left behind in ignorance. My face went ablaze and the lapping flames spread like wildfire down throughout my body. I cleared the tingle buzzing in my throat with a sharp cough, but I couldn’t do a damn thing about the one much lower.
He looked like any average runner with a super cute face, except he had bulked-up arms. A storm brewed in his eyes. I should probably mention that I love storms, the thunder and lightning, the hard rain, the shifting clouds that turned moonlight into a luminescent light show of wonder. Storms were both powerful and sultry.
“Oh look, a stray, curious kitten. Not surprising. My damn allure. I am so scorchingly hot, especially with my layer of sweat and all. Want a lick?” He held out his arm to me and I moved to his side and sneered.
“No. I don’t want to lick you.” But that wasn’t entirely true, so I added, “Not yet.”
One of his eyebrows perked, but he beat down a smirk before it could fully materialize. He used a metal key on the elevator panel to access secret buttons, pressed level 4S, the top floor. The fucking top floor? The penthouse suites? Are you kidding me? No wonder he’s an ass.
I sought kindness in his face as I said, “Look. I’m really, really sorry for copping an attitude back there. I got stood up by a blind date, some guy I met online, and I’m in a sour mood. I didn’t mean to take it out on you. I just want to know what you were talking about. What letter?”
Under his breath he said, “What a fucking fool.”
He didn’t even ask for my floor, but I wasn’t even sure if I was going back there, to a hell of boredom and unpinkery. This guy had me intrigued. “Pardon me? I’m a fucking fool for asking you about a letter? I’m just curious, that’s all.”
“No, I meant your date. You are rude, pestiferous, bratty. Forget dinner, I’d have so much fun taking you down a peg … or five. Right after you licked me on command.”
My mouth fell open, but at least he was no longer looking at me to see it and the blush taking over my face. “Oh my god. Wow, you are such a conceited pig.”
“Honey, that should be the least of your worries. Maybe I’ll tell you about that missing letter if you tell me why you wrote down those words in the first place. Are you a journalist or something, some snoop?”
I huffed and flopped my arms but felt very penguin-like under my stiffness. “No. I’m a graphic designer. But I’m so … I’m so bored … and damn tired.”
“Of?”
“Of not feeling sexy. Of not getting anything for myself.”
“Goodbye.” We reached his floor and the bell gonged. When the doors slid open, I gasped. Holy hell! Heavenly angels sang up here. It was like coming out of pauper’s alley into a palace. Marble floors, soaring, carved ceilings and a sheet of water along the back wall that raced down marble slabs into a garden pool with koi.
I had to shake myself out of my stun and chase him down the hall. “Wait! You didn’t tell me the missing letter.”
He spun back towards me and growled. “Because you’re lying to me, copping out. Those mysterious terms perked something inside you and urged you to write them down and then hide them. You overheard people I imagine, discussing things you don’t understand. So, I’ll ask again. Why’d you write ’em down?”
“I’m tired, um...”
“Of?” he cried. “Let’s try this again.” He swirled both hands in the air. “Spit it out.”
I couldn’t say it and I teared up.
“You know w
hat, child, if you can’t admit what you need and want, you won’t ever be satisfied in life, and you’ll go to the grave thinking it was life that slighted you. Peace out.” He shook his head, pivoted in his Adidas sneakers, and left me to my confusion.
“Peace out? You’re calling me a child? What are you, fucking ten? Who says that? Do you have a bunch of pocket monsters in your phone?”
“Fifteen actually. Last chance. You’re tired of?” He entered his room, and I was out of breath, leaning on the doorjamb when he opened the door to his suite. After taking two steps in, he turned to face me and gripped the wooden door frame right above my head. But the luxurious site of cream, charcoal, burgundy and plum beyond his broad shoulders caught me off guard. My room looked like it was in an entirely different hotel.
Even though he didn’t invite me in, I was sucked in by the funky decadence. I popped in under his arm and gazed around to find sleek sensibility mixed with touches of Victorian flair in a steampunk-meets-Futurama mashup. “Whoa, this place is amazing and so gorgeous.” I suddenly realized what I’d done and spun back with my mouth open. “Sorry.”
“That’s why I stay here when I come to town.” I went to bolt back out and he got in my way and grabbed my arm. “Let’s add intrusive to your list of infractions. Miss?” He set his chilled glass of weak lemony beer down on a credenza.
I gulped at the word ‘infractions’, to which he smirked. He then impishly grinned at my steaming-hot, fiery-red blush that bloomed as a result of my abashment. He fucking knew. “Divine. Divine Sweeten.”
He looked me up and down. “Is that for real? Are you a hooker?”
“No, I am not a hooker! And yes, that’s my name.”
