"Do you want to leave?"
"Then what’s the problem, Sam?"
I didn’t have a problem. And I couldn’t verbalize my question. How pathetic for a writer to be unable to find the words.
"You want to know where you stand," he said, and suddenly he was sitting up in the bed, bolstered by the pillows, and he had pulled me over his lap. I could feel myself getting instantly wet. I can’t tell you why being spanked is such a f*cking turn-on for me. But I can tell you that Jack was the best—at the build-up, the anticipation. At drawing out every second of a scene. He put me over his lap now for no reason at all except that he liked to spank me. I knew he wasn’t punishing me for waking him up, although he could have use that as an excuse if he’d wanted.
"Three in the morning is not the appropriate time for a serious discussion." He could have said anything. Instead, he simply lifted the new, sheer little nightie and started to stroke my naked ass, his warm hand lingering on the curves of my cheeks. I didn’t have on any panties. Jack liked me to sleep semi-nude.
"You were in the equivalent of a Master/sub relationship with Byron," he said, as if telling me a bedtime story. He slapped my ass once, as if the name Byron incensed him, and I squirmed but caught myself quickly, on guard. "Except that he never gave you what you wanted. He controlled you. He domesticated you. But his punishment was by far crueler than mine will ever be."
It was awe-inspiring how well he understood. Summing up Byron so easily.
"I don’t want you to be silent," Jack said. "If you have something to say to me, say it. If you have an issue, spell it out. If you don’t like what I’m doing or where I’m going, you’re free to speak. You should never be afraid of me in that manner." He spanked me again and then paused, and I could guess he was admiring the blush coloring my rear cheeks.
"Don’t lie to me. Don’t cheat on me. Don’t flirt with another man. And we’ll be fine."
I took a breath, wondering if it was okay to talk now. I was ass-up over his lap, in a very indelicate position. I pushed past my fear and said, "You do everything for me. It’s a little difficult to get used to."
He laughed. "So I like to pamper you. Sue me. I’ll let you take care of me in other ways."
I’ll say here that I wasn’t some girl plucked from the cinders, unused to the whirlwind lifestyle of the rich and famous. Byron came from extreme wealth. His father’s place was down the street from the Playboy Mansion. When Byron and I traveled, we went first class—to New Orleans, to Hawaii, to luxurious beaches and faraway ski resorts. But I’m a working-class girl at heart. I’ve always been more comfortable hanging out with guys who work at grocery stores and coffee shops and garages. Still, with Jack, the money didn’t seem to mean much to him. He didn’t flaunt it or brag about it. He used the cash as a vehicle to get what he wanted: treats for the two of us.
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He spanked me rapidly then, bringing me back to the present with that vibrant spark of pain. And finally I was able to voice the one thing that had worried me.
"What about my writing?" This was a whisper. Jack stopped spanking me, and his hand returned to making those gentle strokes up and over my now-smarting rear.
"That’s yours. All yours. You tell me you have to work and I’ll back off. You tell me you need my help, and I’ll give you a hundred percent. I won’t interfere in any way."
And that was somehow all I needed to hear. And once again, we were off...
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