Under His Roof

by Quinn, Sadey

  Under His Roof

  Amazon Kindle Version

  Copyright 2012 Sadey Quinn

  All Rights Reserved

  http://sadeyquinn.wordpress.com

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to Nate for reading first and rolling your eyes only minimally. I know, deep down, you just love romance.

  Special thanks to Kittish for being the best copy-editor a girl could hope for. You are amazing.

  Thanks to Willsin Rowe for another fantastic cover. If I could order a full size poster of that man, I would. Yum.

  And, thanks to Kittish, Carol, Trent, Pati, Jenn, Claire, and Ginni-- for your encouragement, your edits, and for enjoying the book. I really can't thank you all enough.

  Disclaimer

  All of Sadey Quinn's erotic work is meant for an adult audience. The characters depicted in these scenes are fictional. Any resemblance to actual people is coincidental and not intentional. The characters depicted in sexual scenarios are at least 18 years old.

  ~1~

  Rachel

  I cannot believe I am doing this. My hands shake as I write the e-mail. I type as fast as I can because I’m worried if I don’t hit ‘send’ soon I will totally back out. I don’t want to back out. I know what I need and I know how to get it. I just have to take the first step.

  Hello. Saw your ad. I would potentially like to make an appointment for your services. Please e-mail back with more information.

  Sincerely,

  Rachel

  As I click ‘send’ I squeeze my eyes shut tight, not wanting to admit to myself that I’m actually going through with this. Conflicting emotions rage through my body. I close my laptop. If I can’t see the screen, I don’t have to think about what I’ve done, and I can go about my day.

  But five minutes later I find myself opening my laptop back up and checking my mail.

  Nothing yet. I am a ridiculous bundle of nerves and I scold myself for it. Normally I’m more composed.

  My cell buzzes in my pocket and I yank it out, happy for the distraction. It’s my secretary from work. Perfect. She’s got an emergency with some of the files. Even better. She’s surprised that I’m not raging mad at her. I promise to meet her at the office in thirty minutes. My briefcase is already packed and I head out the door.

  My office is downtown, the Asheville branch of the main firm from Durham. Lakeside Advertising.

  It’s mid-June and the weather is fantastic. I enjoy my commute with the windows down and sing along to Lady Gaga. Even though my commute is through the city, I can still stare wistfully at the pine covered hills in the distance.

  The Secretary Disaster takes up a few hours. By the time I come home, carrying take-out from my favorite Thai place (courtesy of the secretary who caused the aforementioned Disaster), I’m in great spirits. I’ve actually forgotten about the e-mail.

  Until I see my laptop.

  My heart is pounding hard against my chest and I eagerly switch it on. Oh my God! There it is, I’ve got a response! With trembling fingers, I open the message.

  Rachel:

  Thank you for contacting me.

  Attached is a discipline request form and a form for new clients, along with a photo of me. Return them by tomorrow afternoon if you’re serious about requesting my services. If everything in your form works for me, we will make an appointment to meet in person. After that appointment, provided we are comfortable with one another, we can schedule a discipline session.

  David Jacobs

  Whoa. He sounds so serious.

  I open the attachments and stare at his photo. He is in his thirties, and he looks as serious as he sounds. Also, he’s handsome, and this concerns me. I’d expected an older man, more fatherly… or something. But David’s got short, chocolate brown hair and the way it looks in the picture suggests that he tousles it on occasion in lieu of styling or combing. His eyes are brown, lighter than his hair, and they bore into me as I gaze at the photo.

  I’m pleased he does not look creepy, and am grateful he has sent a picture. I will remember to do the same for him.

  Next, I open the forms. They are surprisingly detailed. Giving them a quick skim, I decide to start with the form for new clients.

  Full name. Age. Why does he need to know my age? Weight!

  I do not fill out my age or weight as these things are none of his business. Frankly, I’m not sure why he needs to know my last name. The form is giving me a headache. Wine is my headache cure, so I pour myself a glass and pick at my take-out. The curry smells good, better than it tastes.

  When I flip over to the second document, the ‘Discipline Request Form’, I almost send David Jacobs a note stating I will not be needing his services.

  But I know that I do.

  Sighing heavily, and wishing I had someone in my life to take care of these things for me so I didn’t have to out-source the work to a professional, I begin with the second form.

  I must explain why I want to be punished.

  I write: Being in a powerful position at work has given me great success, but I’ve also become a bit distant with people who used to be close to me. I’m horrible to my friends and family. I’ve forgotten how to be a person.

  Staring at those words on the screen makes my eyes well up with tears. I flip back to the personal form. Second page. Ah, limits.

  There is a list of every single spanking implement I’ve ever heard of and more. For each, there are three options: Yes. No. Maybe.

  I go down the list, checking No to most, Maybe to a few, and Yes to even fewer. A cane? I shudder at the thought.

  Next on the form: scenarios. Would I like role-play discipline? Real-world discipline? Would I like to prescribe my own punishment, or should he do it for me? Or, should we work together to decide on an appropriate punishment?

  Well, there is no way in hell that I would let him decide for me. But I’m not exactly suited to prescribe my own discipline, as I’ve never been spanked before. I decide we will work together to determine what he will do to me.

  Then, there is nudity. Will I be naked during the session? No! I write that I would rather not be naked at all, though it says on the form that the client must, at minimum, be naked from the waist down.

  I finish the forms quickly, not going into a lot of depth about anything. I don’t really want him knowing much about me. Scanning through my photos, I find a face shot of myself that is appropriate. I send the forms and photo to him with a note:

  David,

  Attached are the forms, per your request.

  Please advise me when you are available to meet in person.

  Rachel

  Six minutes later I am amazed because he has already written back.

  Rachel:

  I had a cancellation and can meet you for a drink this evening. At Maddy’s Place. Do you know where that is? 8:00.

  If that does not suit your schedule, please let me know and we’ll meet tomorrow. I understand that cases such as yours can be urgent.

  David

  What the hell does he mean by that? Urgent? I resist the temptation to write a snide comment back.

  David,

  Maddy’s Place at eight is fine.

  Rachel

  I hit send and check the time. I’ve got almost four hours until eight. I wander around my apartment, not exactly sure what to do with myself.

  Tonight I am meeting a professional disciplinarian. Wow. If my friends only knew.

  Actually, my friends would probably love to hear about me getting my butt spanked. Ever since my promotion I’ve been progressively short and rude with them. My time became so damned precious that making room for them, for small talk and leisure activities, is incredibly difficult. My best friend Samantha doesn’t even call me anymore.
I asked her why and she said the words that pushed me into emailing Daniel Jacobs:

  “Because whenever I call you, you treat me like I’m a waste of time. You’re just… you’re a bitch, Rachel.”

  Though it was a cruel thing to say, I know she needed to say it. I can’t bear to lose her and my other friends. Being single and almost thirty, friends are all I have. Besides my job, of course.

  At seven I am a nervous wreck. I can’t escape the feeling that I’m doing something terribly indecent by meeting with a man who plans to discipline me.

  I take deep breaths. I'll wear my professional work clothes in order to appear business-like. He should not get any wrong ideas. With long suit pants and a jacket, I hope he'll take me seriously.

  The drive to Maddy’s is short and I arrive early. I ask to be seated in the far corner of the restaurant so I can watch the door. A skinny blond girl, who doesn’t look old enough to be working, leads me to a padded booth.

  “Can I get you somethin’ to drink? Would you like to see the menu?”

  “No.”

  She looks at me as though she is expecting more.

  “I'm meeting someone,” I finally say, and she leaves me alone to go seat a family that's arrived. I look around, trying to remember the last time I was here. I'm pretty sure I came with Samantha once. I don't think we ate though. No, we sat at the bar and gossiped over a bottle of wine.

  He arrives at eight. On the dot. I wonder if he waited out in his car so that he could arrive precisely on time.

  He sees me immediately and smiles. Wow, he looks even better in person than in the photo. He’s wearing a brown suede jacket and dark blue jeans and his stature is confident and strong. He looks good.

  Oh, no.

  I hadn’t wanted to be so attracted to him! But he is still far away, across the restaurant, and has plenty of time to show me an unattractive quality. Perhaps he will walk funny. Or maybe he’ll smell bad.

  When the blond hostess greets him, he points to me and chats with her for a moment, making her giggle. She leads him to the booth and he slides in across from me. He did not walk funny.

  She says again, “Menu? Somethin’ to drink?”

  “Yes ma’am,” David says, winking at me. “I’ll have the stout. Still got it on tap, right?”

  “Yep. And for you?” she asks, turning to me.

  “Dry martini. No olives.”

  The girl pauses for a minute, looking a bit nervous. “Um, David… Ryan called in sick…”

  David hops up. He gives me a little apologetic smile and follows her around the bar and I stare in disbelief as he makes my dry martini.

  “Here you are,” he says as he brings our drinks to the booth. “Sorry about that. I’m David.” He gives me his hand, and it’s cold from shaking the martini.

  “Rachel. Nice to meet you.”

  “Yes. A pleasure.”

  “Know this place well?”

  “My brother owns it. Well, my older brother, Mitchell, owns it. Ryan is my younger brother and can be a little unreliable.”

  I raise my eyebrows and, without thinking, say, “I’d have thought you could take care of that kind of thing.”

  David’s eyes narrow and I wish I could grab the words and shove them back into my mouth. I look down at the table. “Sorry,” I mumble.

  He opens his jacket and pulls out folded papers from the inner pocket. I know these are my forms and I swallow hard. I am so nervous I cannot believe it. It is not like me to crumble under pressure. Then again, it is equally not like me to hire a disciplinarian.

  “So,” he begins, pressing out the creases from the folds and peering at the papers on the table. “You're looking for a little help.”

  I sip the martini, which tastes perfect, and nod.

  “Some women who come to me have specific things they want to be punished for. You, however, are seeking discipline. I can tell that. And I like that. It’s what I’m best at.”

  I have no idea what he means but I nod like I do.

  He smiles. “How old are you?”

  “How old are you?” I shoot back.

  “I'm thirty-six.” He is no longer smiling, but looking at me with hard eyes which I now notice are not exactly brown, but more like hazel. They seem to shimmer. “How old are you, Rachel?”

  I’m blushing. I know I’ve been rude. “Twenty-nine.”

  He writes this information down on the blank spot on the form, then looks up at me. “Can I see your driver’s license, please?”

  With shaking hands I produce my license and hand it over, not questioning for a minute the validity of his demand. He jots down some of my information and then hands it back to me.

  “Sure you don’t have any medical conditions I should be aware of?”

  “I’m sure.” I whisper.

  David pushes the papers aside and stares at me hard, though his eyes are still shimmering and seem so kind. “You were probably wondering what I meant by punishment versus discipline. Many of my clients come to me with specific things they have done wrong. Then, depending on the client, a punishment is scheduled and delivered for each of the wrongdoings. Understand?”

  Oh, it is so far out of my realm of comprehension that there is no way in hell I can understand. But I nod anyway.

  He continues. “Others are like you. They have become a person who they don’t want to be. Regular discipline sessions can be of great help.”

  I take another sip of the martini. “Regular sessions?”

  “Yes. You won’t go from being a bitch to an angel after one spanking, Rachel.”

  I blush more when he says the word ‘spanking’. “Oh,” is all I can manage to say.

  “Now, I would like to go over how typical sessions play out. But first, tell me if you're comfortable with me.”

  “Comfortable?”

  “If you feel very uncomfortable right now and you’re having second thoughts, you should go. This is a free consult and I don’t like wasting my time with women who aren’t serious about improvement. I expect that you aren’t feeling emotionally comfortable, but I need to know if you are for whatever reason repelled by me. Sometimes, very rarely, a person is just turned off of the idea of discipline when they meet me. Or, vise versa; I’m turned off and know I won’t do a good job with them. As of this point, I think I can work with you, Rachel. Do you feel the same about me?”

  I contemplate this. I am comfortable with him. Outstandingly so, considering the circumstances. “Yeah,” I say casually.

  “You are serious about making improvements in your life?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you are serious about employing me to help you do so?”

  “Yes.”

  “OK. I’ll tell you a little about what you can expect from a session. You can feel free to interrupt and ask questions.”

  “All right.” He certainly is professional. He has clearly given this speech many times before, but I still feel like he cares about making sure I understand what he is saying. I like him. David Jacobs.

  “Sessions occur at my house, which is a bit out of town. Because of my location and the nature of my business, I’ll e-mail you a list of references who can verify my honesty and integrity. Contact at least one of them. Understand?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When you arrive, we will sit together and discuss the session. I can be a very strict disciplinarian and can dole out harsh punishments, but only at your request, because of what you’ve indicated on this form.” He waves the sheet of paper in the air and I get the feeling he would prefer be the one deciding the severity of my session.

  “OK.”

  “After we speak, we will begin the session in my discipline room. Upper body clothing is optional, lower body clothing is not.”

  I stare at him blankly. He’s not leaving room for negotiation. “Why?”

  “I have to be able to see my target.” He smiles again and I’m beginning to find his casual calmness irritating.

  “I thi
nk you can still see… the target… if I’m wearing a skirt.”

  “I disagree, and I am the professional. This is not a matter up for discussion, Rachel. Are we moving on or are you leaving?”

  I frown. “Fine.”

  “Fine. With someone inexperienced, such as yourself, the first session will be longer than our subsequent sessions. I need to get a feel for what your body needs and what you can take. You will find that your second session is much different.”

  “You really don’t think this is a one time deal?” I ask. He's making major assumptions now.

  David sighs. “I can only speak from experience with others. I can’t speak for you. We’ll just have to see.” He takes a sip of his beer which he has barely touched and I play with my empty glass. “Want another?” he asks.

  “Please.”

  He hops up and makes a refill and I watch him as he moves. His butt is incredibly perky and images flash in my mind of me spanking him, rather than the other way around. I push the lewd thoughts from my head and instead focus on contemplating what the hell I’m doing. I’m happy to hear about the references. Maybe they’ll help me understand what to expect.

  He is back in a flash and sitting in front of me and I’ve got a cold martini to sip again.

  “I don’t like to go into much detail about what your session will be like. I allow my clients to work with me on severity, but once we settle on the ground rules, I go with what works. You will probably not enjoy it.”

  “So why am I doing this?” I say, quite loudly. I clamp my mouth shut and hope I wasn’t overheard.

  “So, why are you doing this?” he says back.

  Nice retort.

  “I guess… I don’t know…” I look down at the table, suddenly feeling very sad. “I don’t know what else to do.”

  David's voice is gentle when he responds. “Rachel, this session won’t kill you. It won’t even hurt you that much, except for maybe your ego. I’ve had a lot of clients. Your type is the most common.”