Bound, Spanked and Loved: Fourteen Kinky Valentine's Day Stories (3 page)

“If there’s a next time,” I whispered, hanging to my nerve by my fingertips.

“I think that can be arranged, especially for a naughty girl like you.”

He took out his phone and called me so I had his number. “Why don’t you tell me when you’re ready for another spanking?” he said, helping me down off his lap. “Call me when you’ve been a bad girl, and I’ll come over and set you straight.”

My legs weren’t working. My ass still hurt. Had I seriously just signed up for another spanking from Slab Hands? He let me back into the club, and I wandered dazedly to the front as he went back on duty. Holy shit. What had just happened? Ack. I’d never even gotten his name from his goddamned nametag, and I wasn’t going back to ask him now.

I decided to put him in my phone as “Slab Hands.” Accurate enough.

Chapter Two: Paddles, Belts, and Straps

––––––––

I
thought about him, yes. I thought about him all the time, and played the spanking over and over in my mind, but I didn’t text him. I was too embarrassed, too afraid. I hadn’t had the best luck with relationships since I’d left college, and let’s be honest, he was way out of my league.

But if
he
were to call me...

Please, please call me, you hot, scary spankoholic.

I wished for it every day, but two long, agonizing weeks passed with no contact. Was he waiting for me to call him? I wasn’t brave enough. Didn’t he realize I needed him to engineer this? Then finally, late one Friday night, I got a text from Slab Hands.

Hello, Christine. Are you being a good girl?

And I thought,
no, I haven’t been a good girl at all. I haven’t texted you, and it’s been two weeks!
I didn’t write that, though. I wrote back,
I’ve been an angel.

Ha. Telling lies again.

And then he wrote,
You ought to be punished.

I put my head in my hands. My pussy started barking orders.
He’s hot. Let him spank you again. Whatever it takes to get him inside me.
Yes, my pussy was a gay man, and he wanted some Slab Hand cock.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” I whispered, staring down at his words. It had been a shit week at work. I was in my baggiest pajamas and I didn’t feel pretty or desirable.

Hello?
he texted.
Ignoring me?

Too nervss to tipe rt now.

It was a joke. Kind of a joke. My fingers were actually shaking.

You should be nervous
, he wrote.
You’re the most spankable girl I’ve met in a while.

All my breath left me. He liked me. That’s what he meant, right, that he liked me? He thought I was spankable, the “most spankable girl” he’d met in a while. He probably used that line with everyone, but I didn’t care. It made me smile and curl my toes and run my hands through my tangled hair.

I’m a mess
, I confessed in the interests of full disclosure.

I’ll straighten you out
, he texted back, and I could practically hear his deep, rumbly voice.
Can I come over this weekend? Maybe Sunday night? I’m off work.

Okay.

I’ll bring everything we need.

And I thought
paddle, belt, strap...
I was sure he remembered what I’d said the last time we were together. Maybe he’d been thinking about it all this time, planning what he was going to use on me while he waited for me to call. I ran to the bathroom to look at my ass in the mirror. Was I spankable, really? I thought I was kind of fat. I heard another text come in and stared down at my phone.

Sunday at eight?

Yeah,
I texted.
I’ll make dinner. Is that okay?

Sounds amazing. Thanks.

Oh God, he used manners. He
thanked
me. He was also going to spank me.

I’m sorry
, I texted.
I don’t know your name. Remember, I didn’t have my glasses...?

Wear your glasses this time
, he texted.
Or else.

And my name is Mateo.

Mateo. That was a perfect name for Mr. Tall, Dark, and Spanksome, nice and virile and Italian, but I left him in my phone as Slab Hands. It gave me a secret, shivering thrill to see it at the top of our text stream, and to remember my first spanking under those gargantuan hands. In a couple of days, I was going to get another spanking.

Oh wow, and I’d asked for it.

I couldn’t freaking wait.

*****

I
cleaned up my place, which wasn’t that hard, since it was the size of a shoe box. I also washed my sheets in case we wanted to have sweaty, abandoned sex on them later. I bought new condoms to replace the year-old ones left over from the almost-relationship that never quite developed the Christmas before last. A modern woman had to be prepared, and besides, I didn’t want my grouchy pussy to start lecturing me about safe sex in Steve Buscemi’s voice.

Once I accomplished that, I started cooking. The culinary arts were my one area of expertise, so when he knocked on my door at eight o’clock on Sunday, I was pretty confident in the chicken pasta dish I’d thrown together from scratch, and the rum-soaked tiramisu I’d made for dessert.

Sadly, I wasn’t as confident in my appearance. I adjusted my nerdy glasses, checked my teeth for lipstick one last time, then reached under my dress and tugged at my possibly-too-small thong panties before I went to let him in.

As soon as I opened the door, my insecurities fled, replaced by pure and breathless admiration. No more black jeans and nightclub tee shirt. He was wearing a blue polo shirt that made his eyes look magical, and faded khakis that showed off his legs to perfection. He had a black bag slung over his shoulder, which he dropped on the floor in my living room. He’d also brought...sigh...a bottle of wine.

Between my casual, printed dress and his polo and khakis, I realized we were kinda dressed for a date, and the wine made everything seem even more date-like.

“Wow,” I said. “You didn’t have to bring anything.”

“Yes, I did. God, you look adorable in those glasses.”

Adorable? He probably meant a
dork
able, but his smile gave me a warm feeling all the same. I took the wine and shut the door, and blathered a bunch of apologies about how small my place was, and how old my couch was. He cut me off, sniffing the air.

“Something smells delicious, and I’m starved.”

I led him into the kitchen, which wasn’t big enough to eat in. We made plates and took them back out to the living room with the wine. He started groaning at the first bite. I turned to him in alarm.

“Do you hate it?”

“Are you kidding? This is incredible.” His eyes rolled back in his head as he took another bite of chicken and pasta. Okay, he was laying it on a bit thick.

“Is it really that good?” I asked. “Or are you just being nice?”

“You don’t realize this is good?” he asked, looking at me in disbelief.

“I’m just not sure what you usually eat.”

“I usually eat shitty takeout and bland protein shakes.”

I eyed his muscles. I guess you had to drink a lot of bland protein shakes to keep those guns blasting.

“I like cooking,” I said. “I work in a restaurant. I’m only a junior chef now, but I’m learning a lot. I hope to become head chef someday at some schmancy restaurant.”

“By the taste of this meal, Christine, you’re well on your way.”

He wolfed down dinner without any self-consciousness, which flattered me and made me happy. Conversation flowed easily. I wasn’t sure why, except that he was really comfortable with himself, and that made me feel comfortable too. From time to time, my gaze strayed to the bag he’d left beside the door. It was about the size of a gym bag. Had he come from the gym...or...?

“Are you ready?” he asked. “You keep looking at my bag. You know what’s in there, huh?”

“I have an idea.”

“So are you ready?”

Our plates were empty. All that was left to do was carry them to the kitchen and throw them in the dishwasher, which took about thirty seconds. I turned to him, and then lost my nerve and stepped back.

“There’s still dessert. Tiramisu.”

“Dessert’s for after your spanking,” he said. “If you’re good girl. If you’re a bad girl...well...”

“No dessert?”

“Nope.”

“Wow, those are some high stakes.”

He grinned at me. Oh yeah, that was an evil grin. “You don’t even know.”

He led me back into the living room and stood me behind the couch, facing forward. Crap. I wished I’d drunk more wine for courage. Too late now. Without a word, he put a hand between my shoulders and bent me over the back of the couch. He flipped up my dress and tweaked the back of my thong again.

“This time, the panties come off,” he said in a low voice.

“Do they have to?” I felt really naked. “Can you at least turn the lights down first?”

“No. You’re beautiful.”

He yanked my panties down and left them around my ankles. I felt naked, but yeah, kind of beautiful too. I mean, if he said it, it was true. Right?

“Legs straight,” he chided, when I tried to slouch closer to the couch. “Stick your ass out and leave it there.”

Oh Holy Mother of Baby Jesus. He threw me a sultry look and loped across my living room to pick up his black bag. I thought he’d looked huge the first time he spanked me, but inside my small apartment he seemed even bigger. He brought the bag over to my coffee table and set it down, knelt beside it and unzipped the zipper.

And then, well...he started pulling out all kinds of scary shit and laying it in a line across the couch cushions. A wooden paddle. A leather paddle. A clear plastic paddle. A narrow paddle. A black riding crop. A green riding crop. A bath brush. A slotted wooden spoon. A non-slotted wooden spoon. A rectangular strap. A braided whip. A slightly longer braided whip. A slightly shorter braided whip. A narrow wooden dowel. Another strap, this one with the word ANGEL cut into the leather.

I’ve been an angel
, I’d texted him.

Jesus, he was running out of room on my couch. Was this only show and tell, or was he going to spank me with all this shit? Because seriously, I’d be dead by the end.

He took out a leather wrapped stick, considered it, and stuck it back in his bag. He brought out a black ping-pong paddle, a red wooden paddle with holes, and one more paddle that looked small but thicker than the others. Last but not least, he unbuckled his belt, doubled it over, and laid it at the end.

That done, he looked right at me.

I stared back at him. I’m sure I looked a little judgey. “So, you’re
really
into this, huh?”

“I’m
really
into it. This is about a third of my collection.”

I swallowed and considered the perverse array of tools. “I asked for this, didn’t I?”

“You definitely asked for it.” He gestured toward the implements. “But you get to be the master of your own destruction. Choose three.”

“
I
have to choose?”

He stood and regarded me, his legs braced apart, his hands on his hips. “
You
have to choose.”

From my bent-over position, I had to strain to look up and meet his eyes. His crotch was closer to my eye level. I detected a rigid bulge growing in his jeans, so apparently I wasn’t the only one who wanted this. I dropped my gaze back to the tools and considered my options.

I’d fantasized about spanking all my life, but I also remembered how painful my first spanking had been, compared to my fantasies. I had no doubt these items would feel even more painful.

I kind of wanted to go the safe route and pick the “easiest” looking ones for my own self-protection, but some reckless part of me also thought I should go for broke. Because, I mean, this might be it. Mateo seemed to like my cooking, and he seemed to like
me
, but he was an Adonis, and I was a glasses-wearing dork. He probably had a thousand girlfriends to spank whenever he felt like it, so he might potentially decide never to see me again after this session.

In the end, I picked the red paddle with the holes because it was pretty, the ANGEL strap because it was funny, and his belt because, well, he’d just taken it from the waistband of his khakis and that had looked fucking sexy, and I liked the idea of him walking around wearing a belt he’d once used to spank my ass.

Even though it was a really whippy, worn, scary looking kind of belt.

He made no comment on my choices, just put the other implements away so the three I’d chosen were left on the couch cushions in front of me. Then he freaked me out by staring at them and switching them around into different orders, as if considering what would give me the most pain. He ended up with the belt first, then the ANGEL strap, and the red paddle last.

“Are you ready?” he asked, taking up the belt and wrapping it around his wrists like he was loosening it up for me.

“Holy crap. No, I’m not. How much is this going to hurt?”

“I’ll warm you up first.”

Oh geez. Okay. He moved to stand behind me and I flushed, thinking about my naked ass and my naked legs and all my fucking nakedness on display back there. I started to shake, I couldn’t help it.

“It was easier when I was over your lap,” I said.

“I imagine it was.”

Apparently he had no concerns about this being harder for me. In fact, I was pretty sure it made him happy.

“Legs straight. Ass out,” he said, tapping my naked cheeks with the belt. It was only a warning shot, a light impact. His firm, demanding voice made my pussy even wetter. If he kept up with the deep-voice thing and the orders, my arousal juice was going to start dripping down my legs.

He rested his left hand on the small of my back and stood beside me, kind of an anchor, but not enough of an anchor. He brought the belt down across my ass with a solid
whap
and I surged up onto my toes. I tottered sideways a little and he held me straight. Wow. It stung, but not too hard. Not yet. This was just the warm up.

But it still hurt.

He whapped me with the belt again, and then again, warming all the spankable parts of my cheeks. After five warm up strokes, he paused and rubbed my ass. “You’re getting there, all right,” he said.