by Maren Smith
As if on cue, the phone rang.
“I’m not here,” Travis said, and let himself into his office.
His secretary narrowed her eyes after him and picked up the phone. “Hello, this is Greta. How may I help you?... Why, hello… Mister Bicos, what a surprise…”
“I’m not here, Greta,” Travis repeated, using his best warning tone.
“…Why, yes. He just walked in…”
He needed a new best warning tone. Travis stopped just inside his office door and gave her The Look instead. “Someone is going to be working both Thanksgiving and Christmas this year if she’s not careful.”
“…Please hold and I’ll transfer you right over…”
He obviously needed a new Look, too.
The phone on his desk began to ring.
He gave Greta an even sterner Look just to be sure. She smiled at him as she replaced the receiver back in its cradle, and Travis sighed. He needed a new Look, all right. He shut his office door in disgust.
Travis made it back to his desk, answering the phone on the third ring by switching it automatically to the speaker.
“What the hell are you trying to pull?” Max demanded angrily.
“Hello to you, too.” Travis set the briefcase of money on the floor by his chair and sat down to go through the rest of his phone messages. He weeded out all of Max’s messages and threw them in the garbage.
“I guess I can’t blame you for trying,” Max barked at him. “But you can kiss whatever plans you were hatching goodbye. The Kuronabes sent me an invitation to visit their business in Japan. Despite all your machinations, the better man still won.”
Travis glanced up from his messages to look at the sizeable stack of mail Greta had placed on his desk. Crowning the pile was a cream-colored, three-by-five card-sized envelope. He fished a letter opener out of the top drawer of his desk, slit through the sealed flap and, while Max continued to boast, read the card inside.
“Marsha and I will be flying out Friday. While you’re sitting in your little emperor’s office, you better believe we’ll be toasting your failure at thirty-thousand feet.”
“Do you still fly TWA?” Travis asked.
“Of course. They’ve got the best service.”
“Wonderful. I prefer United anyway. I received an invitation, also.” Travis smiled down at his speaker phone. “Polish your horns and shine your cloven hooves. You’ll want to look your best when I stomp you into the dust in Japan next week. Now if you don’t mind, I have a fantastic, beautiful, adorable wife to go home to.”
“I’m going to crush you,” Max seethed from the speaker. “I can do it in Japan as easily as I can here.”
“Marsha’s sleeping with your gardener.”
The speaker phone was silent.
“It’s true,” Travis said. “He used to be my gardener, but I lost him in the divorce.”
“You’re full of—”
“She’s also sleeping with the pool cleaner, her physical trainer, and the chief dog groomer at Doolittles. I never have been able to figure that one out. She doesn’t even like dogs. And her gynecologist, well, let’s just say most women don’t have monthly exams, and Marsha’s are little more in-depth than conventional methods generally advocate.”
“Bullsh—”
“Have a wonderful evening.” Travis disconnected the call. Sitting back in his chair, he held the invitation in his hand and smiled. The marathon wasn’t over by any stretch, but he was still in the running.
Leaving everything on his desk for tomorrow and taking only the invitation with him, Travis left his office. Whistling, he headed home.
***
Jamie flitted from one side of the kitchen to the other, pulling china down from the cabinets, checking the progress of the pan of Swanson’s lasagna bubbling in the oven, stopping at the table to adjust her black fishnet garter stockings and tugging futilely at the ridiculously short French maid’s skirt that she’d bought on the way home. She turned and for the umpteenth time, checked to see how big her butt looked via her reflection in the sliding glass doors to the backyard deck.
Oh yeah. Very nice.
This dress was eighty dollars very well spent, and she was glad she’d splurged. Although after a year of hoarding pennies, spending so much on a single outfit that she couldn’t even wear out of the house felt positively… sinful.
But would Travis like it, she wondered, brushing a hand back to tug ineffectively at the hem of the skirt, bringing it down barely low enough to cover the plump swells of her bottom. When she bent over, even just a little, the black lace of her panties came into view. Just a thin black stretch of fabric, the lacy texture rasped across the sensitive surface of her bottom and made her that much more aware of the rapidly approaching moment when Travis would inevitably arrive home.
She turned to face the window fully, smoothing her hands down over the barest, frilly white bib of an apron, the corseted bodice that cinched her waist and offered up her round breasts until they perched on the verge of overflowing the top of the low, square-cut neckline. She touched the lacy headpiece, wondering if her hair wouldn’t look better up or down, but the opening and closing of the front door told her it was a moot point now, regardless. He was home.
Oh, crap!
A burst of anticipation flavored with near panic threw her into a flurry of last-minute activity. She quickly checked her make-up in the shiny surface of a silver pot, slipped her feet into the three-inch high heel shoes that completed her outfit, grabbed a wine glass from the cupboard and tottered as daintily as she could out to the formal dining room. She wasn’t very accustomed to high heels, and she prayed the whole way that she wouldn’t fall and break her ankle.
There was only one place set, and that was at the head of the table where Travis usually sat. She set the wine glass down, nervously adjusted the burgundy cloth mat beneath his plate so it was even with the edge of the table, then stood back to survey her efforts. It looked better the other way, so she adjusted it back again.
“Hello?” she heard called from the living room. “I’m home.”
What if he didn’t like her outfit? What if he didn’t like to role-play? What if last night had only been a one-time thing, something he’d done because she’d asked and been vulnerable? Jamie clasped her hands over her abdomen, willing her frantic ‘what ifs’ silent. Since it was too late to change now anyway, she minced to the dining room door, took a deep breath, unclasped her hands, and pushed her way into the living room.
Travis was standing with his back half to her at the front closet. Having just removed his coat, he was in the process of sliding it onto a hanger and replacing the hanger back on the rack when she cleared her throat. He turned his head and froze when he saw her. All except the hanger, which missed the rack by almost four inches and fell to the floor.
Trying her best not to fidget, Jamie said, “Missus Dorsett is visiting a sick friend tonight. She said to tell you she wouldn’t be back until tomorrow.”
Her voice warbled softly in her nervousness. Did he like the outfit? She couldn’t tell. His face was completely devoid of expression, his eyes traveling the length of her down to her feet, then back up again. He closed the closet door.
“Your headpiece is off center,” he finally said.
Jamie reached up to touch the offending article. Score one point for the ‘what ifs.’ He obviously didn’t role-play. And for a minute, Jamie felt a surge of hot embarrassment flood through her.
Then Travis said, “If you are going to work in my house, Miss Miracle, I expect perfection, in your uniform and your appearance as well as your performance on the job. I thought I made that clear when I hired you.”
She stood frozen at the dining room door, unable to believe he was actually playing along with her. “Yes,” she squeaked, then caught herself and hastily cleared her throat again. “I mean, yes, sir. You made it very clear.”
“Fix your attire,” Travis said solemnly and started upstairs. “You may
serve dinner in one half hour. And, Miss Miracle,” he stopped a few steps shy of the second floor, leaned one hand on the banister and gave her a stern look. “I am in no mood to tolerate mistakes tonight. I suggest you behave yourself.”
Then he winked at her. It happened so quick, at first she thought she might have imagined it.
“Yes, sir. I-I mean, no, sir. No more mistakes,” she called back up to him, but he was already continuing on down the hall to his bedroom.
Score: Whatifs, zero; sexy, French maid—oh, that exchange had to be worth at least three points!
Grinning, Jamie hurried into the bathroom to try and fix her headpiece, which if it was off-center was only slightly so. Her hands were shaking, and she laughed a little at herself for being so giddy. They were married; it was all right if she wanted to lose herself in his strong, safe, comforting touch. It might not be real, but at least she knew Travis wasn’t going to steal everything she had, then abandon her.
At least not for two years.
Jamie blinked at her reflection in the mirror, then stubbornly banished that unhappy thought. There was nothing wrong, she told herself firmly, with having a little fun with a sane, warm, and wonderful man who, if he didn’t love her, well, at least he liked her somewhat.
She was still in the bathroom when she heard Mister Sane, Warm and Wonderful call down the stairs, “Miss Miracle.”
Despite his reassuring wink of only a moment ago, there was a sternness in his voice that made her stomach tighten.
Jamie left the bathroom and came back out into the front room, looking up at the second floor. He was leaning on the banister very close to where he’d spanked her the night of the charity event. He’d removed his tie and the first two buttons of his shirt were undone. He looked good, but he also did not look happy.
“Come here,” he told her. “Right now.”
He must like Naughty Maid scenarios, too, she thought as she crept up the stairs, her legs so weak and shaky that her knees all but knocked together. He certainly knew how to play his part.
Her fingers fidgeted nervously with the bottom hem of her skirt, and her stomach was alive with the fluttering of anticipatory butterflies. As she approached him, Travis seemed to grow as big as a mountain, as unyielding as a statue. When he folded his arms across his chest and gave her that steely-eyed, disapproving glare, it made the skin of her bottom positively crawl with dread.
He reached out as she drew closer and took firm hold of her arm. “I want you to tell me what’s wrong with this picture.”
When he led her into his bedroom, it wasn’t difficult to see the problem. As neat as his house was, the rumpled bed where she and Megan had taken their afternoon nap—so Jamie could hug his pillow and breathe his scent as she slept—stood out like a sore thumb. The empty plastic bag that she had brought her costume home in lay on the floor next to her discarded clothes, with her sneakers sprawled in the middle of the floor, just waiting to trip the unwary.
“Is picking up the bedroom not on your list of daily chores?” Travis asked.
“Um…” She had actually meant to pick this up before he got home, but in the bustle of cooking dinner—well, okay, in the bustle of opening the box and popping the frozen lasagna into the oven—she had forgotten. “Sorry.”
She started towards the bed and bent to gather up the clothes, but Travis stopped her.
“Too late for that, young lady,” he said. “I’m already home. And there’s still this to discuss.”
He took her to the bathroom and opened the door.
A wadded-up and wet green washcloth lay in the bottom of the sink, which hadn’t been turned completely off and was dripping. There was a damp towel in a heap on the floor by the Jacuzzi tub, where it must have slipped off the rack after Megan started crying and Jamie had hurried off to pick her up. A slight scattering of make-up containers peppered the marble countertop.
Sheepishly, she said. “Oops. I forgot I left the make-up out.”
She didn’t even realize what had slipped from her mouth until Travis said, “Are you helping yourself to my wife’s make-up?”
Jamie started and looked at him with very wide eyes. Oh yeah, she was still supposed to be the maid. “Uh, I… uh…”
Travis took hold of her arm, and in the next instant he was seated at the foot of the bed and she was tumbling down across his strong thighs. Or thigh, rather, with her legs well apart as he scissored one of hers securely between both of his. Her mons pressed intimately upon his knee as he positioned her to straddle it, and for one frantic, panicky moment Jamie forgot that this was supposed to be in fun.
Her mind flashed back to those few times when she’d found herself bent over his lap, kicking and sobbing, with absolutely nothing enjoyable to be found in the spankings he’d delivered. Jamie caught her breath, unable to stifle a whimper as he flipped back her little, frilly nothing of a skirt to bare her lace panties. She thrust a hand back, trying to catch the hem and pull it sharply back down again, but that only got her wrist captured and pinned up behind her.
Jamie’s entire body stiffened when he lay his hand on the center of her bottom, her panties only the thinnest of barriers between her and the heat of his touch. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, gritted her teeth and cringed as she waited.
But so did he, waiting patiently, gently caressing her soft bottom, softly squeezing first one round cheek and then the other, until she gradually relaxed again.
“Do you remember what I told you earlier this morning?” he asked.
Oh Lord, but he sounded so silky and seductive. His tone alone took the edge off her nervous fear. Jamie bowed her head, burying her face in the blankets before nodding.
“I’m a man of my word, young lady. You know that, don’t you?”
She nodded again. “Yes.”
He swatted her, hard enough to make her gasp out loud and grab at the back of his shirt with her free hand. That one spank was enough to ignite the barest sting upon the surface of her skin and a warm, throbbing heat quickly permeated her bottom.
“Yes, what?” he demanded.
“Sir!” she gasped. “Yes, sir!”
“You’re in enough trouble without adding disrespect to the list.” His hand came back to rest on her bottom. He caressed her, the plump spankable curves, neatly framed by black panties and garters. “And it’s already a rather sizeable list now, isn’t it?”
Jamie squirmed, unconsciously parting her legs a little wider as he stroked her left buttock down to the back of her thighs, the tips of his fingers lightly brushing the crotch of her panties with each pass.
“Isn’t it?” He swatted her twice more, a single crack of his open palm to the lowest part of each buttock. The last stiffened her on his lap again and made her kick an awkward, one-legged expression of sharp discomfort.
“Oh yes! Ouch! Yes, sir! I’m sorry! I’ll do better!” Jamie buried her face in the bedding, losing her pent in breath to a barely muffled moan as his hand returned to rubbing her bottom. In all honesty, it was the gentlest spanking he’d ever given her, but the sting was certainly there and the effect of the heat from each swat was building an answering warmth, a low, throbbing, pulsating ache down between her thighs. It was making it very hard to pay attention.
She bit the blankets when his hand shifted, turning to press flat along the crease of her buttocks, all four fingers lying right across her sex. Intimately cupping her and pressing in.
“You’d better believe you’ll do better,” Travis said. He gave her the gentlest of slaps there, each one punctuating his words as he said, “I have very little patience for disobedient maids.”
She grabbed the back of his shirt again. The fingers of her captured hand shot open, then closed up into a tightly clenched fist as he cupped her again, pressing firmly into her.
His voice husky and low, he said, “I’m not getting through to you. These panties need to come down.”
Travis made her stand up. Lacing her fingers behind her head, she
waited on trembling legs while he slid her underwear down her legs.
His hands caressed her from thighs to ankles, playfully snapping the back of one garter before he touched again between her legs, feeling her arousal. The effect it had on him was easy to feel when he lay her back down across his lap. Once more straddling his knee, he parted her legs wide open to provide himself with the most personal of views as well as easy access to all that he wanted.
“You may not kick,” he told her and wrapped his arm around her waist. Jamie started when she felt his hand beneath her parting the lips of her sex. She grabbed the bedding as he found the sensitive nub hidden there. “Do you hear me?”
Jamie nodded rapidly, short jerky motions. Her eyes were closed, her hips flexing involuntarily as he gently massaged her between his fingers. “Oh, yes, sir! Y-es, yes, yes, sir!”
“You may not reach back, either.”
She shook her head just as fiercely, grinding down on his touch, panting and moaning softly, trying to muffle the sound in the blankets.
“And you may not come without my permission,” he said. “Am I clear?”
Jamie started, hardly able to breathe much less think because of how he touched her.
“If you come before I allow it, I will get a paddle from the closet and put it to harsh use on you.” He raised his right hand and brought it cracking down upon her squirming bottom. “Understood?”
“Oh! Yes, sir! Yes!” She threw her head back, clinging to the bed in an effort to keep from flinging a hand back, and he lay a second, then third, then fourth swat sharply down in the same spot. With one leg imprisoned between his and his arm wrapped so firmly around her hips, she could barely move more than an inch in any direction. That was how he spanked her. Hard. The way lazy maids ought to be spanked for neglecting their duties.
But it was his fingers, moving constantly between her thighs, that made her cry out. The slow, sensual caresses quickly became unbearable, even more so than the fire he was lighting in her rapidly pinkening bottom cheeks. It made the pleasure coil inside her like a tightly wound spring, and had Jamie begging him for release. Her whole body shook from the effort it took to hold her pleasure at bay, and still he didn’t stop. He spanked her until his arm ached and he’d turned her bottom a dark, rosy hue. His fingers caressed and stroked and made her mindless to everything but his touch, both the painful and the pleasurable, melding them expertly together.
