Friday, September 13, 2013

So Spank Me!

(Book Cover Image removed to comply with Google restrictions on nudity)

I seem to be on a roll with the spanking erotica... that may be telling from a personal point of view, but I'm offering no personal confessions!

Here's a hot spanking excerpt with a novel this new D/s relationship is headed for its first explosive clash, from my novel Naughty Baby. I think my favorite part about this one is the sparring build up between this wary submissive and the very astute Dominant Patrick.

Enjoy! A good weekend to you all! Lizbeth

Some lapses in good behavior are simply accidental, unconscious and unintended. Some are as deliberate as they are manipulative. Maybe I was calling him out; perhaps I was just too smitten or too scared to know what I actually wanted from the dreamy Patrick Helms. I’m still not sure why I was twenty-eight minutes late for our 3rd date. I could have attributed it to the traffic, which was a bitch that night, or a queasy stomach, which was actually quite true, or the rotten day I’d had, having learned that I was just one of five excellent prospects being considered by Halsey Lewis Advertising. Same was pretty much true of the other major ad firms that had my resume for review. There were no guarantees for a job at the end of the month—my job search was not going as well as hoped. All these circumstances might have made great excuses for my being late, but I said nothing in my defense when Patrick opened the door. It was his face that clinched my silence. The moment I saw him, I knew a defining moment had begun. No jaunty smile, no snappy remark. His handsome face was as solemn as a Sunday preacher’s. I shuddered, thinking it might be best to slink away and never return.

       But regardless of his less than friendly welcome, he wasn’t turning me away, at least not yet. In fact he stepped back from the door and allowed me to enter, just as he shot off the first cryptic retort.

       “You always so casual with your relationships?” Definitely not the Patrick I was used to.

       “I’m not sure what you mean.”

       “Aw c’mon, sure you do, Claire. Three dates, three specific times, a man who’s obviously a little anal about time in the first place, and you’re late, not just minutes late, but enough to make me wonder exactly how serious you are about you and me.”

       I turned and he caught my eye.

       You and me…the sound of it threw me into a panic and I was stumbling over a pathetic, “I’m so sorry.” I stared at him blankly, a tiny ray of hope looking for encouragement, but sorry had no effect on the man.

       “What? No excuse?”

       “Would any excuse be acceptable?”

       “Sure. You have a good one? I’m all ears.”

       “No, I don’t have a good one.” I stepped back, trembling. All the want and need clamoring through my body at that moment, and suddenly I felt the possibility of a relationship slipping from my grasp. With my current job situation off the table for discussion, there were no excuses for being late that I dared try.

       Without changing his expression, he moved beyond the entry way and led me into the interior of his upscale penthouse. Much like in the art gallery days before, my eyes yearned to take in the visual impact of Patrick’s home. High-tech, sleek lines, glittering glass, rich woods, the comfort of big chairs and slouchy couches scattered with pillows. His one enormous greatroom covered all the elements of living—except where he slept and brushed his teeth, and I truly doubted that I’d get that far.

The smell of garlic and Indian spices hung delicately in the air—and a hint of orange. My mouth watered for a moment. “Curry?”

       “Curry it is. Good guess.” Even then, he didn’t crack a smile.

       He moved into the kitchen, which looked out on a casual sitting area surrounding the fireplace. He poured two glasses of wine, then with me still hanging back, and far too hesitant to bridge the gap between us, he moseyed forward, with the same solemn expression. My heart thumped so loudly, I could hear it pounding in my ears, throbbing in my chest. The tension soured my stomach and I didn’t dare take a sip of wine.

       “Any chance you have a cracker…maybe a little cheese?”


       “Haven’t eaten all day. I don’t like to drink on an empty stomach.”

       “No, you wouldn’t. That would make you drunk too fast, too quickly out of control, too vulnerable to me. You’re very guarded, Claire. Closed up like a vice. Like you have something to hide. Do you have something to hide?” He viewed me with one fixed eye. The moment seemed unbearably intense.

       “Hide? No, no…I’m just…” I gulped and looked down at my feet before my gaze returned to him.

       “Just what?”

       I couldn’t think of a thing to say. He walked me deeper into his upscale lair, beyond the easy exit into vulnerable territory, shaky knees and sweaty palms. I felt like a prisoner being led to the gallows. Afraid of where these thoughts were taking me, I shook them from my mind and took a sip of wine—totally forgetting my nervous stomach. I needed a good buzz to get me through the next few minutes.

       “You know what I think?” He was in the kitchen, while I stood on the opposite side of the smooth granite countertop. “I think you’re scared of yourself and how you feel about me, about what could happen between us. Why wouldn’t you be scared? I’ve been in your head, I’ve read about your sexual secrets—all those nasty stories—I know what turns you on. Now it’s you and me face to face, and you wonder what I want of you, what the famous writer wants of Claire Lawrence. You can’t believe this could be real, so let’s chip away at character. Being chronically late diminishes you in my eyes, doesn’t it? Even if it contradicts the woman you really are—who’s never been late for a meeting in her life.” He paused to let his words sink in. “So how am I doing? Feel free to set me straight if I’m off the mark.” There wasn’t a whit of sarcasm, just the cold hard truth, and a blistering stare.

       Shame broke out across my face in a feverish blush. “Boy, the psychiatrist in you doesn’t hold back,” I nervously blurted out.

       “No psychiatry necessary, Claire. Just simple observation.” He placed a plate of cheese and crackers on the counter, pushed it toward me, then plucked the wine glass from my fingers and filled it. I hadn’t realized it was empty.

       His lecture had left me reeling. I’d suddenly stumbled onto a Patrick I’d not yet seen, and though I felt shame raining down on me, my increasing arousal grabbed me by the crotch and tugged hard. The slightest touch might have set me off.

       “So what do you want from me?” I finally found my voice.

       “The truth. The plain unvarnished Claire. There’s so much bubbling up inside you, I think you’re about to burst. Yet you’re closed and cool and wary, nothing like the kinky, savvy, witty charmer I met on-line.

       Kinky, savvy, witty charmer, I might have said as much about him, but he saw these things in me. In me?

       He let me stew on this a while as he turned his back and began fiddling with the chicken curry bubbling on the stove. I watched him with the rice, the soup, the salad—like an episode of Iron Chef, his skilled fingers flew from one task to the next. Then suddenly he turned back to me, “I’m starting to wonder if this—you and me—was a good idea. What do you think?”

       Certainly he saw me shudder and how my face dimmed and the hopefulness I tried to nurture dwindle.

       “You can change this, you know. If you want to. I’m not forcing you into anything. You can walk out the door and never come back, never see me again. Or you could say what you need to say, what’s been pent-up and dying to get out. Up to you.” For a moment a flicker of a smile returned, but just for a moment.       

“All this because I’m a little bit late?”


       “C’mon now.” All hardhearted again. “You know it’s not the only reason, Miss Bursting At The Seams for something…”


       It would have been easier if he’d finished the sentence, because I wouldn’t have had to say the words myself. I knew exactly what was in his mind. It was in my mind too. The elephant in the room swaggered about, his footsteps so heavy on the hardwood that my entire body was beginning to vibrate from the inside out. I could think of nothing but that elephant, and what I should say, but the words were stuck like a razor sharp bone inside my throat.

       He was right; the woman I’d been with him was not the woman I needed to be. It wasn’t Claire. It certainly wasn’t the sexually kinky Clarisse Laurent of my stories. But if I was way off base in my reading of Patrick’s interest in me, I would die of embarrassment once I spit out what I really desired from him.

       I sighed heavily. “You know, I hate it that you’re so goddam right, Patrick Helms, and that I’m so transparent.”

       “Probably something you should get used to.”

       “Well, I’m not used to you, not yet. If you don’t like my being late, as if it’s a blot on my character, correct me.” My emotions sprung up fast; I felt sassy and snide. I rushed on before I lost my courage. “Put me in my place, spank me if you want to spank me. Are you a Dom or just toying with me?” I baited him, I knew that. But I needed to know who he really was: The man I needed or just a friend? I was tired of the waiting, the wondering, the unanswered questions nagging me like some bratty kid, so I spit out the rest. “If you’re going to spank me then do it hard, because that is what I really need.” I paused, thinking that I had much more to say, but that was it. “You wanted the unvarnished truth. You have it now.”

       The words weren’t out of my mouth a second when I saw his jaw tighten and his cool eyes grow colder still. With that subtle shift his entire being took on the authoritarian air I’d seen just glimpses of to that point. Fear turned into arousal, arousal into desire.

       “Spank you? Sure.” My body twittered. “I’m sure I need this as much as you do.”

       He didn’t need to move an inch. He casually reached to his right and opened the drawer beside him, withdrawing a thick, broad, wooden spoon. “Not pretty, but it’ll do the job.”

       He pointed the spoon in the direction of the sitting area and nodded his head. By then, my mind was reeling so fast that I couldn’t think. My ass was burning, my gut clenched, and my face and neck must have been flushed with red.

       I don’t know how I got to the sofa, or exactly how I ended up over the back with my pussy tucked into the cushion of leather. However, I do recall with perfect clarity the first touch of his hand on my bare thigh and how my entire body quivered with the sudden rise in heat; how he reached beneath my skirt and drew it over my behind. I remember him yanking down my panties in anger, and the brief moment when he ran his palm over the cheeks, and how that titillating instant wasn’t nearly long enough to give me the satisfaction I craved.  

       But then it wasn’t tenderness that either of us were after. I knew that I needed a spanking, about as much as the angry Patrick needed to vent his rage on me. This was justice, spoken in a language we both understood and I knew that the offended Patrick would not hold back.

       Extraneous thoughts can pierce the brain in a split second. For me the extraneous thought was a sudden instant of concern. I remembered the welts from LuAnn’s caning the week before, still faintly visible on my behind and taking forever to fade. I prayed that in the dim light Patrick wouldn’t notice them and suspect that I’d been recently punished. I didn’t want the moment to be about that awful day. The spanking needed to be solely about Patrick and Claire, and no one else.

       And it was.

       Wasting no further time inspecting my fair-skinned behind, he brought the spoon down against my ass with a thundering roar. Again and again in a repeated cadence he laid on the swats until I could no longer swallow the shriek that erupted from my throat. After that bone-chilling cry, he paused, “Shrieking females tend to rouse my wrath. Better put a clamp on it, unless you want your pretty behind torn to ribbons.”

       Of course he was exaggerating about the ribbons, but he made his point.

       He began with the spoon again, using the same methodical technique, but with new expectations of my verbal response.  I bit my lips instead of shrieking like a banshee, even so, the air reverberated with the noise, with moaning cries, and the sound of wood slapping against flesh. I took the pain, trying hard to put up a good front, although the sting was too hard to bear in silence. I managed with a lot of cringing, and seething through gritted teeth. But even with the overwhelming sensation of pain threatening my resolve, I held on.

       By the time he put down the spoon tears were rolling down my cheeks. Then just to mock me, I suppose, he laid the nasty thing on the seat of the couch, where if I opened my eyes, which I did, it would be the first thing I saw. One look at the hated thing and I shut my eyes.

       While the tense moments ticked by, Patrick returned to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, which he downed in a single gulp, then he grabbed something from the countertop and returned to my side, yanking me back upright. My skirt instantly dropped to cover what was certain to be a very red behind, though his right hand remained, firmly clutching my right ass cheek. I didn’t dare move without his permission.

       I expected him to find some suitable segue to take us into the rest of the night—the delicious smelling curry for one—but he had other ideas.

       “You think I’m done?” he smirked, cracking that solemn expression for the first time that night.

       “I was hoping so.” I gulped back a sob, wiped my eyes on the arm of my sweater, and looked at him hopefully.

       “You had your moment, now it’s time for mine.”

       While pushing me toward the long fireplace wall just opposite his kitchen, he tucked the hem of my skirt into the belt at my waist. With my panties at my ankles, I stumbled forward awkwardly. Thankfully, I wasn’t going far.

       “Hands behind you, at your waist.” He ripped off the order with an air of authority that made me quake in all the right places. Then I watched, bewildered, as he placed the bottle-cap he’d snatched from the kitchen against the hardwood wall before my face. He gave me a gentle nudge. “Nose on the bottlecap, Claire. While I finish dinner, you’re going to stand here like a good little girl and entertain me with the sight of these rosy cheeks. It’s been a long time since I’ve spanked a naughty girl’s behind and I intend to appreciate this one. You forget to pay attention…the bottle cap drops… it’s off to the woodshed again. Next time I won’t be so nice.” This time when he lay his hand against my rear there was no tender gesture of affection. He roughed up the cheeks with several firm squeezes, raising the color I’m sure, while clearly heightening my humiliation. I could feel the playful Patrick emerge. I imagined his smile, the triumphant face, the glint in his eye. I was dying for a glimpse, but I wasn’t about to let the bottle cap drop. “When the color on your cheeks finally fades, we eat,” he explained, then he headed back to his curry.

I poured every ounce of focus I could muster into keeping that bottle-cap pressed to the wall. I remained motionless, still as deer in the woods, waiting for Patrick to end my shame and set me free. Was it the clatter in the kitchen, my cell phone ringing, or just a stray thought that diverted my attention for that one moment? I still can’t say. But as soon as the bottle-cap hit the floor, the entire apartment seemed to freeze, Patrick included. For the next several seconds, I heard nothing but the sound of my beating heart. I assumed that he heard that small clink of metal on the hardwood, however, I think it was my bending down to retrieve the cap that brought his attention back to me. No sooner did I have my nose parked against the tiny thing again then I heard him spout out: “Don’t think I didn’t see that, Claire.”

       Though I breathed a little easier realizing that he wasn’t going to descend on me again with the wooden spoon, I didn’t dare assume he was finished. I returned my focus to the bottle-cap, while Patrick finished our meal. Ten minutes later, we were drinking wine and eating curry at a table by the windows.

Copyright (c) Lizbeth Dusseau, 2010, all rights reserved