Ready for Love

by Carolyn Faulkner

  Dinner was pizza for me, but he ordered something healthier for himself from the Chinese place, which I razzed him mercilessly for. "You haven't gone running today—are you scared you're going to get fat?"

  "No, I've been eating junk all day, and I want to have something healthy. I'm not saying that you have to—not that I won't at some time in the future."

  I was fine with him not wanting me to use Uber. I would be fine if he punished me for missing doctors' visits, as he had Jane. But messing with my food? That was going to be a problem.

  But the pizza arrived then, and I couldn't be bothered to even remember what I was supposed to feel indignant about in the face of cheesy garlic bread and a pan crust pepperoni pizza.

  "What did you disappear to do before you came home?" I asked eventually, when my belly was full and I was being nicely distracted both by Jessica and her intriguing nemesis, by how wonderful it felt to be held again, and how attentive he was being to me.

  It was definitely something I had forgotten that I missed. His arm lay casually around me, squeezing my arm every once in a while, or rubbing it, playing with my hair and cuddling me close to him, asking occasionally if I needed or wanted something, if I was cold, or if I minded him touching me like he was.

  Minded? Hell, no. Only if he stopped, I informed him fervently, which made him laugh.

  "Do you really want to know?" he asked, a teasing smile on his lips.

  "Yes, I do. Unless it's something bad."

  He'd gotten up, but he came back to me. "It's not something bad, I promise. It's something very good."

  Deck produced a big rolled up piece of paper that looked at first like blueprints—and they kind of were, although they were really more of a sketch than anything else.

  "You mentioned that you wanted your bathroom made over, and I did say I owed you one, so—" he said by way of explanation as he spread the paper out so I could see it. "I worked on this in my spare time when I was gone. If you're willing to lose your third bedroom—which is very small, anyway, we could expand the bathroom into it and it would be really gorgeous. You could have a separate shower stall, heated floor tiles, a bidet, if you wanted."

  "Oooh, how fancy."

  I really loved what he had come up with for a plan, but I certainly wasn't going to let him do it for free. Or at all, if he wouldn't let me pay him to do it.

  He seemed unwilling to talk about it at all, and that made me uncomfortable, and I let him know that he had, in no uncertain terms—firmly, but not in a way that could be interpreted as disrespectful.

  "Why don't we talk about it later? Those are only preliminary plans, anyway. Lots more things to nail down before we break ground on it."

  Although we were only five or so episodes through our marathon, I had started to yawn, and someone decided that I needed to go to bed.

  Somehow, I became the nine-year-old that never wanted to go to bed, but he didn't threaten to spank me or anything. Deck simply leaned down to whisper into my ear, "I'll make it worth your while."

  And that was all I needed to encourage me to beat him to my bedroom.

  He cleaned up the living room and kitchen a bit—being the neat freak that he was—then joined me.

  His loving this time was just as unhurried, just as deliberate, and every single bit of it was centered on me. I tried to touch him as he removed my pjs, but he lifted my hand from where it had been making its way down to the lovely bulge I could see and wanted to touch, putting it down on the bed, near my waist, saying, "Don't move," then did the same thing to the other one before sliding between legs that he bent gently back and held there.

  Without another word, he proceeded to ravage me—taking his sweet old time and being very deliberate, taking me apart piece by piece with his mouth, rubbing the slight stubble that had appeared since he'd shaved this morning over my most tender parts, only to quickly soothe the anguish he had caused with his lips and tongue.

  And he again reduced me to the lowest common denominator of myself, to a writhing mass of ecstasy while he remained all contained and controlled, still deflecting my hands and mouth that sought to do the same thing for him, even once he'd snuggled himself up against me, making me the small spoon and holding me, safe and secure, within the circle of his arms.

  "You don't have to worry about me, baby. Watching you come like that and knowing that I'm the cause of it is darned close to as good as any orgasm you could give me. And besides." He kissed me just below my ear. "Tomorrow's only Sunday, and we'll have lots of time to make love then. Sleep, lovely. I'll be here, watching over you."

  Taking him at his word, I relaxed and fell asleep.

  The next morning, I didn't give him breakfast in bed. Instead, I nearly devoured him whole. Damn, I loved making him shake with the things I could do to him with my mouth! I loved how he threw his whole body—not just his hips—into coming, towards the end, and how he filled my mouth, and then me, to the point in both areas where I was on the brink of crying Uncle, but I never made it.

  Instead, I did my best to relax and let him slip down my throat or up inside me. I knew the only thing that was holding me back was my mind, so I learned to tamp down any concerns I had and just do what he needed.

  And I know I'll never forget the way he screamed my name the second time I brought him off, later that afternoon. He was as uncontrolled and uncontrollable as I have ever seen any man, grabbing my face and fucking it until—seconds later—a sweet, warm stream of him spurted down my throat.

  This time, we really applied ourselves and we finished Jessica and started on Vinyl, although we didn't get too far into it before I began to yawn and he turned the TV off and carried me into the bedroom.

  "But I wanted to see what all the hoopla was about in regards to Bobby Canavale's cannoli."

  Deck laughed out loud at that, and I had to admit I loved the sound.

  I loved much more than just the sound of him, but it was hurtful to think about that, so I didn't, really, although the feelings were there, whether I wanted them to be or not.

  "Can't we watch another episode in here, please?" I asked, dismayed at how easily—even without trying or demanding it—he had reduced me to begging.

  "No."

  "Please, please, please?"

  I didn't really know how far I could push him, but I guess I had hit the limit.

  When I got into bed—where he was already sitting up against the headboard—I had no sooner settled up against him when I ended up over his lap.

  "No! Why are you doing this? Stop!"

  I must've sounded like every bad spanking porn ever made, not that he noticed.

  While his enormous hand was colliding painfully with my rear, he explained methodically, "I believe I told you that I won't have bratty behavior, and constantly asking for something that you know I've already decided we're not going to do definitely constitutes bratty behavior."

  Compared to the spanking I'd gotten over the Uber business, it was much lighter, but that did not mean it didn't hurt—it most certainly did!

  I pouted, moving away from him as soon as he'd let me—not allowing him to give me aftercare, preferring, instead, to curl up, facing away from him, arms crossed over my chest, body rigid and angry.

  "As does pouting," he pointed out, and I've never wanted to smack him so hard since I met him.

  I didn't say anything to him for a while, until his soft calm voice drifted to me, asking, "Do you need another spanking?"

  I couldn't imagine how horrible that would feel. I was still trying to recover from the one I'd gotten yesterday, much less the one he'd just given me! I certainly didn't need or want another.

  My response was quick and vehement. "No, no—please." I didn't care if I sounded pathetic. I did not want another spanking today.

  "Come here, then," he said, reaching out for my hips and using them to pull me against him, surrounding me again with his big body.

  And as much as I wished I could resist it, I ended up falling asleep
in his arms, moments later. The combination of my recent spanking and soul rending orgasms, to say nothing of all the food I'd been eating lately and the way he chose to console and soothe me—with his voice and his hands and his body—conspired against me to make me sleepier than I wanted to be.

  I dreamt of him. One particularly vivid dream consisting of him taking me from behind, holding both of my hands captive above my head in one of his as the other helped him first arrange me, opening me for him, then guiding himself into me, and lingering there to bestow butterfly soft touches to every bit of that slick flesh, eventually arriving at my clit and tweaking it, strumming his fingers over it slowly, the same way he was taking me.

  Slowly. Carefully.

  Devastatingly.

  I was just discovering how much being helpless against him contributed to desires that were already well away.

  I could hear him whisper in my ear before nibbling just below it, "That's it, Gemma. Submit to me—your body, your mind—your soul. I'll take everything you have to give, and more."

  And, a long while after that, when he knew I was on the brink of utter desolation at having been stimulated for so long with no release, he finally began to press my aching button a little harder, flicking it a little faster.

  As he rammed his cock into me more roughly than ever before, I knew he was at least as close as I was, and somehow—I have no idea how—he managed to find that illusive tempo, and just as his name was flying from the back of my throat, he growled mine, grabbing my hips with a grip I knew was going to leave marks on my fair skin and hauling them back against him, forcing me to receive every bit of him and the cream with which he was splashing against my inner walls.

  Chapter 7

  The rest of that weekend was truly blissful, even the spankings, and there were plenty of those. Probably an even amount of sex and spankings, even though Deck kept reassuring me that I was a good girl. He even told to me that he expected that I'd be getting quite a few smacks at first.

  And he also confessed to me that he was pretty sure that he was in love with me. I broke down into tears, because I didn't know if I could say the same thing back to him, which I told him. He reassured me, in his usual wonderful way, that he could—would—wait as long as was necessary for me to be sure about my feelings.

  We established a safe word and talked about standing rules. I was surprised to be a part of the discussion. Somehow, I thought that I would simply be given rules to follow—not take an active part in making them for myself.

  But Decker was endearingly adamant about wanting my input about almost everything, and before long, I realized that, of the few rules he'd made for me so far, all of them involved keeping me safe in some way, and that just melted my heart.

  I don't know why, but being cared for, being submissive to him like this—in all the ways he was already caring for me and all the ones he was proposing to do—made me more vulnerable to him physically, of course, but also intellectually and emotionally.

  And it was the emotional part that had me crying on his shoulder that last day, Monday, after I'd just gotten another spanking. This time, using an implement, for using my phone when he'd decided we'd not use them that day and concentrate on each other, instead.

  As if we hadn't been doing that all along, but I could see his point. They were seductive and addictive devices, sucking away the time you would have been spending with friends and loved ones, and instead, spending it absorbed in your own little compact, electronic world.

  But I hadn't turned the sound down on mine. I knew where he'd put them—on the shelf in my closet—and when I was alone in the bedroom, surprisingly, and I heard the trill of a text, I knew I had to answer to find out who'd sent it and what it said, even though I knew it was quite likely to be something stupid.

  Of course, he caught me doing it—caught me red handed trying to type back a reply—when the phone was rudely snatched from my hand. This time, he put it, along with his, into his briefcase and locked it before turning his attention to me.

  And, oh, how I wish he hadn't!

  I had been getting such regular punishments for the past several days that the idea of another one was truly upsetting, although he didn't let that dissuade him in the least. We were in the dining room, which was open to the kitchen, where his briefcase lay on the table.

  "Go get me a wooden spoon," he said, leaning back against the table.

  My eyes filled with tears at that, but I knew better by now not to disobey him, so I went to the kitchen—as slowly as I thought I could get away with—found one right where I knew it would be in the utensil caddy on the counter and brought it back to him.

  "Good girl."

  Why should I feel so good about going to get him a spoon with which to punish me? But I did. There was no denying it. Any time he praised me, it went right to those sensitive spots between my legs—and I had a sneaking suspicion that he knew it.

  Hell, even the punishments ended up there, although I certainly couldn't feel it while in the midst of one. It was when he held me afterwards that I began to notice my panties were always wet after he'd spanked me. And it seemed that the more severe the punishment, the wetter my panties were.

  That, he definitely knew. He often touched me intimately after he'd had to punish me, as a method of soothing me, I guess, although it often had the opposite effect. And he rarely satisfied me directly afterwards, but instead, played with and teased me while holding me tight. That just insured that the next time he made me come, it was that much harder.

  "Now, bend over the table for me."

  I was in one of his t-shirts and a pair of my panties, but he was so much taller than I am, when I bent over the end of the table, the hem of the shirt didn't ride up much.

  As I could feel his hand sliding up the inside of my thigh, I whimpered a bit, and he drawled, "Reach out and grab ahold of the table on either side, as far up as you can, and you won't move your hands from there again until I tell you you may, if you know what's good for you, baby."

  Another—longer, louder—groan as I reluctantly did as he said.

  That hand was on my bottom, caressing it over my panties, raising my t-shirt without actually trying to. But he didn't pull my panties down quite yet, as I expected him to. No, he was a true master at this. He rucked my shirt all the way up until it was under my armpits, so that the entire line of my naked back was exposed, my bare breasts flattened to the surface of my dining room table, and my bare bottom sticking out from the end of it.

  "Now spread your legs, so t the outside of each foot touches a table leg."

  I wasn't even sure I could get them that far apart without falling, but somehow, I managed to, all the while knowing that I would never be able to get the image my mind was providing me with of how I looked like this out of that mind. Every time I looked at the table for the rest of my life, I'd see me there, spread for him, waiting for him to discipline me.

  Once I'd accomplished that, he murmured, "And the same thing goes about not moving them, too."

  He didn't wait even the slightest beat after saying it, when he snapped that spoon down on my behind with a horrible splat.

  And I had thought his hand was horrible! This was—at least as much, if not more—simply because it concentrated all of the power of his stroke into a much smaller area, delivering much more of a sting for a smaller effort.

  As he began to pepper my skin with stark, swift smacks, it became harder and harder for me to remain still.

  When I finally wiggled to the left just a bit too far, my leg leaning in with me, well away from the table leg it was supposed to remain in contact with, he came to stand closer to me, curling his left hand around my right hip to pull me against him, and delivering ten much harder smacks that each had me shrieking my discomfort to the world.

  Luckily for me, there was little around me but woods, and I was probably only managing to startle the birds and some squirrels, even though the windows were open.

  After thos
e ten, he leaned back again, and I regained the position I knew he wanted me in, and the rest of the punishment recommenced, on a butt that was even less able to handle it.

  I have no idea how long it all lasted, but when he put the wooden spoon down on the table, I think he knew I was at the end of my rope.

  He carried me to the bedroom and tucked me against him on the bed, holding me as I cried out my pain, murmuring quiet, sympathetic things as he patted my back and held me tight.

  "You've had a hard time of it these past few days, haven't you, my love? This has been a bit more of an overwhelming introduction than I thought it was going to be." I heard—even through my tears—as he took a deep breath and asked, "Do you want to step back from this? Put it away from a while and revisit it later down the road in our relationship? That would be fine with me. All I want is what would be best for you."

  I surprised myself—and him—by reaching up to cling to him, wrapping my arms around his neck and holding on for dear life. "No," I whispered huskily. "No, please."

  I couldn't find the words necessary to explain to him why I didn't want to revert to a vanilla relationship, but I didn't. It might have been an instinctive move rather than an intellectual one, but I knew in my heart that it was the right one."

  "All right, then. We won't. But I want you to know that I'm very proud of you for how far you've come in such a short time."

  I couldn't remember the last time anyone had told me they were proud of me. Andre must've, occasionally, but I couldn't pull any specific memories about it, and it meant a tremendous amount to me coming from Decker.

  There was one thundercloud on the bright horizon of our relationship, and that was Taryn. I don't think I was aware of just how close he had become with her. He didn't seem to see it as a romantic relationship—he'd friend-zoned her completely.

  But I could tell, every time I saw them together—which became more and more frequent the closer he and I got—that she was after him. I don't know if she thought that she should inherit him from her sister or what, but I wasn't at all sure how to approach this situation.