CHAPTER ONE
"There are some women who find purpose in service," he says.
I nod, thinking he means stay-at-home mothers, women like that. Actually, I'm mostly thinking about his face, the way expressions seem to hover in the air just above it, never settling, never quite visible. It's fascinating. I long to do something, say something, that will make him smile. Or amaze him, make those cat-eyes of his go wide.
"I don't mean changing diapers and packing lunches," he says. My own face has never been able to lie. He must have seen that I don't really understand. "I mean women who dedicate themselves to being what somebody needs. Who derive pleasure from pleasing another in every possible way."
His voice is like dark velvet. It makes me shiver, though I don't know why. Or maybe part of me has begun to comprehend. When he goes on, I'm shocked, but not exactly surprised. "If a man wants to spank such a woman, she'll bare her ass for him, and it won't matter where they are or who might see. If he wants something, she'll do it, whatever he needs from her. No matter how she might feel about the necessary acts."
My cheeks are hot; I'm breathing fast. I don't even know this man! A chance encounter at the library, an interesting slightly older man with an intriguing face, an invitation for coffee, leading somehow to this--I should excuse myself, get up, walk away. (While I still can, part of me whispers, jackrabbit quick.) My mouth is dry. I reach for my cup.
"Come here," he says, an almost-smile hovering around his lips.
It's late. The coffee room is empty but for us, even the barristas disappeared somewhere. I'm not sure an audience would matter to him. I know, beyond any doubt, he's going to spank me; why else mention it? But, does that mean he wants to have sex with me? He hasn't seemed interested in that. Maybe that's naïve, maybe all men always want that, but he's ignored all my signals from the minute he picked me up. Maybe he's just very kinked. Maybe this is how he gets off. My thoughts are jumbled, going 'round and 'round like socks in a dryer; my head spins, but I get up and go to him. It's not a long journey, just across a bit of empty floor, but my heart pounds as if I've run a marathon.
He pats his knee, a signal you'd give a dog. I don't want to understand it, but I do. There are tears streaming down my face as I bend myself over his lap. He doesn't ask me why I'm crying, and I'm grateful for that. I wouldn't know what to say.
He's done this before, I can tell. The way he spreads his legs, to balance me better, so I stop feeling I'm about to fall. The way he rests one hand on the back of my head. He's not holding me down, there's nothing keeping me there but me. Why am I allowing this?
Is he smiling, as he looks at me?
He pats the center of my ass. I've had boyfriends who did worse. (And one... but I shy away from even that memory.) He pats me again, to the right of the first impact, then to the left--above, and below. Five times. With my skirt and panties on, I hardly feel them at all. It doesn't make much noise, either. But he's barely begun. Another round of five, and another, until my ass is the slightest bit warm. Then a harder slap that covers the whole of one ass cheek, followed by another for symmetry. They make me grunt, but softly; it's not a lot of pain. Each strike sends vibrations through my body.
I'm enjoying this. I don't want to be, wish I'd never met this man, wish I'd gone back to my apartment after class, or gone to a movie, or anything else. But mostly, I wish he and I were in bed. He's aroused, I can feel his erection against my stomach, and I'm filled with a strange sort of pride that I do this to him. And me--I'm hotter than I can remember having ever been before, bent over this man's knee in a public place, letting him spank me like a naughty child.
I feel cared for, cherished, each time his hand hits my ass, and the spanks aren't as hard as they could be, I'm sure. I feel flushed all over, and swollen between my legs. Wonder if I'm dampening his leg. Probably. Does he mind? Does it please him?
He stops, and tells me to sit up. I sort of slide off his lap to kneel on the ground, my ass on my heels. Cool leather shoes against warm fabric and hot flesh; I swallow a moan. What has he done to me? What will he do?
His lips faintly curl. A smile, perhaps. Gallant as a storybook knight, he helps me rise. He doesn't say anything about what has just happened, just drives me home--I sit in leather luxury, my skirt raised, only my panties between the seat and my skin. My face is tight; I'm crying again. Is he pleased? Disgusted? I long to ask, somehow don't quite dare. At my door, he kisses my hand, then waits while I go inside.
I lean against my door like a B-movie heroine, one hand on my heart, the other on my ass. Oh, woe is me. To hell with that--my hand moves down my body, parts my pussy lips, thrusts three fingers in. I've never felt this way before.
As I cum, I wonder what he's doing. Is he jacking off, thinking of me? I cry out: pleasure. Triumph. But it's not enough. I want to see him smile as I melt.
* * * *
The week passes in a daze, as I wonder why I let him do that to me, what he got out of it, why he left things the way he did. I go to class, but don't hear a word the professors say. Beg off nights out with friends, and wander for hours, alone, dreaming of him. The library, the coffee shop, I visit again and again, hoping he might be there.
Finally, I see him, but he's not alone. A party of business-suited types, and he should be just as anonymous as the rest, but dark hair, cat-grace and speaking hands draw my eye instantly. I fall in behind them, shadowing the crowd, waiting for a chance to catch him alone.
It's not to be.
I argue with myself for an hour, should I go talk to him, should I stay away. The bar's got a fairly mixed crowd; I go in, to be closer to him. There's a band playing, but I don't hear a chord. All I care about is him.
He sees me, but beyond a little nod, makes no move to include me in his crowd. I might be a stranger, or a passing acquaintance, certainly not a date, or a friend. I feel like I've been stabbed ?bright sharp pain and strength bleeding out of me. I sit, huddled around my pain, and wait. What else can I do? At least I can watch him, and dream.
He's alone now, briefly, just turned away from the bar, not yet back to his conversational group. Now's my chance, if I have the courage to take it. I leap to catch him, put myself in his way. "H-have I done something wrong?"
Those cat-eyes sweep me up and down. For a second, I'm afraid he actually doesn't remember me. Not to sound vain, but that doesn't happen with straight men. I'm not beautiful, but double-Ds on a petite frame make an impression in men's minds. Plus, my ass is nearly as generous as the front end, which he should know, and I've only a too-little wasp waist in between. I wear lots of dresses, floor-length things, trying to minimize my curves, but still, men tend to notice me. And I can't believe he wouldn't remember. It's only been a week.
I'm about to remind him, to say something about the coffee shop (what if that doesn't work? Will I be able to mention the word spanking? My cheeks are burning already). He nods. There's a new almost-expression on his face, this one not quite a frown. Disapproving? No, not that. Disappointed, yes, that's it.
"It's simply a matter of how you wish to present yourself. What image you want the world to see." His hand lifts, fingers flicker. Like sign language, almost, or visual poetry. He has beautiful hands: big palms; long fingers; shining nails, a little longer than I expect to see on a man, so when he gestures the white tips leave trails to follow in the air. (Would he scratch, in bed? Would I let him? Stupid question, of course I would.) What image do I want the world to see?
He's talking about my clothing, that's what the hand signal meant. The frumpy, schoolmarm dresses I wear to hide my form. There's an element of disdain in his gesture, a hint of dismissal.
My heart hurts, just from the thought he might be displeased with me. I open my mouth, and the truth comes out. "I don't know." Can I be any dumber? Well, yes. I take a breath. "What image do you want me to show?"
Cat-eyes flicker, almost glow. I shiver as his glance rakes over me.
* * * *
He doesn't talk very much. It's strange. I'm used to men--boys, really--who chatter on about nothing at all. "Did you see that touchdown?" "How about those Rams?" He's not like that. He doesn't tell me I look pretty, or that he likes my new clothes. The most I ever get is an almost-smile.
It's enough, more or less. I crave his approval like a drug. He likes loose but low-cut tops, skirts that reach just to my knee. High heels. Tight pants that show off my ass. He's very fond of those. I measure his reactions, and change my life to earn his merest nod. His eyes are warmer when he's pleased; that's worth anything.
I buy a dress I think he'll like, silky, slinky, kind of tight. He hates it--not that he says a word. I can tell, just from the expression his face hints at but does not wear. I'm crushed. More than that, I'm confused. I look good in this, why isn't he pleased? I steel myself and speak.
His answer steals the breath from me. "You must be accessible at all times." Accessible to what, for what? Beyond that first spanking, and the occasional pat on my hand, he hasn't touched me! As always, he reads my face, or maybe my mind. "Accessible to my needs."
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