The Kink Therapist: Nothing But Trouble (Erotic Romance Novelette) (3 page)

There’s no introduction from
Brent
.
He just says, “Tell me what you need.” His voice, deep and sexy, is
full of command, but I’m not sure I can obey ’cause my purpose for
calling is not entirely clear to me yet.

“Hi, um, I’m Molly Channing, from, uh,
Miami.” I’m at a loss for words and pause, grinding my fist into my
forehead. “Uh, God, I’m sorry, sorry. Um…” My face is on fire and
my stomach aches. No, I’m not at a loss for words, I just can’t say
it. How do I ask for
that
? How does this work? I’m hoping
he’ll just have me set up a preliminary appointment. But, then,
I’ll have to say it to his face. I need to say it. I
need
to.

Well, it doesn’t fucking matter anyway
’cause a cutesy computer in a dress blips out, “Thanks for leaving
a message,” followed by a little swirl tone.

What the fuck! I’m on voicemail? Voicemail?
I’ve landed in a box? His welcome mat totally sucks! I call back,
fuming mad.

When he, surprise, surprise, demands to know
what I need again, I lay in. “What the hell,
Brent
? What the
frick kind of message is that? I’m not fucking telling you anything
when you don’t even have the courtesy to state your goddamn name or
leave anything warm, inviting or friendly for people who call.
There’s no beep or, I dunno, ‘
Hi, this is Brent
.’ There’s
not even a pre-message to the message to let the caller know
they’re headed to voicemail. Loser. Yeah, I’ll call you that. I
don’t even know what I need. Fair enough? Go screw yourself.
Bye.”

I hang up, seething at this “Kink
Therapist”, and we haven’t even spoken yet. This shit loser knows
my name. And where I live too! I’m shaking as I crash down onto the
sea of purple pillows on my bed and moan into my hands. I’m such an
idiot. Why’d I call that freak anyway? I called him,
twice
!
He has paddle business cards.
Ones that can sting!
Hell-o-oh!
I stare at the stupid thing again through a squint,
then chuff and chuck it into the trashcan on the other side of my
nightstand. I turn off my light and cry until I’m drowsy and
getting pulled under the crashing waves of my own stupidity and
shame.

When the morning sun nudges me with songs
and cackles, I give it the finger and curse the day.

I plod through the motions, getting ready
for my shove to church, but I’m dreading facing Pastor Rick. He’s
probably gonna ask if I called the guy. Ugh, how humiliating! Why’d
it have to be
me
who witnessed that spank show? I feel so
empty, with a severe craving for some pink, thanks to Pastor Rick,
and absolutely no clue how to get it. It would not be at the hands
of fucking rude Brent, that’s for sure.

I step into the sunshine that had crooned
melodies through my blinds, but it was a trick. It neglected to
mention it brought a companion of humidity along. I should’ve
figured. My head’s already feeling the effects of a sledgehammer
and the swelter when a car zooms by and fires Spanish music into my
ears, bass and trumpets blasting so loudly it makes my teeth
rattle.
Fuck you, Miami. Fuck. You.

I gasp, stop cold and shake at the envelope
that’s taped to my windshield. I scan the area and don’t spot a
soul. Even my mom’s gone.
What the—
My fingers tremble as I
peel back the sealed lip and extract the paper inside.

My pulse has never beat so fast. I tear up
as I read:

Molly Channing:

Sister Mary Margaret tells me you’ve been
nothing but trouble in her class, that you’ve been disrespecting
authority and mouthing off. And I can see she’s not exaggerating. I
heard you mocking me in the hall, and saw you mouth and sign,
‘Loser’, to make your friends laugh. Not only have I heard you
using filthy language myself, you’ve committed the worst infraction
of all in taking the Lord’s name in vain. Shame on you! You are
bratty, crass and insolent. That kind of behavior will not be
tolerated at this school. We will see who’s the LOSER now, Miss
Channing.

Report to my office tomorrow morning, 10 AM
sharp. Make sure your uniform is regulation. Don’t be late.

Sincerely,

Headmaster Ryan

My stomach drops. Shit! What the hell did I
get myself into? Where’s this supposed office? I flip the card over
to find an address along with,
“Purple,” is your safeword. Use
it only if you must.”

Safeword?
This was serious. His note
stirs me up and conjures scorching scenes in my mind. A flurry of
possibilities flicker, leaving me livid and so totally turned on.
Holy headmaster heaven! How’d he know?! He found me pretty quickly
too. What a freak!

I fan my face and take in deep breaths to
try and squelch the internal blaze and my wild pulse. He sounds so
sexy, stern and authoritative.
Fuck, you, BRENT!
I cuss out
my pussy for throbbing like it is and finger it to orgasm, right in
the open in my fucking driveway, while I’m leaning front-side out
against my car. Man, I hope he’s watching. Thinking that he is is
what makes me come so fast. He can tack slutty behavior onto my
list of infractions. Check.

After wrenching my door open, I crash into
my seat and cry. I’m crying because I hate myself for needing
‘therapy’. I’m crying because I can’t wait to be spanked by
Headmaster Ryan and get what I didn’t even know I needed. Fucking
Brent knows! But I’m not caving in without a good fight. He’s rude
and conceited, and I’m going to let him know it.

I glare at my steering wheel and clench it
tight. He has no clue what he’s in for. I
am
‘Nothing But
Trouble’. He was absolutely right about that.

CHAPTER
3

Just as I’m about to turn up the mosaic U
outside a baby mansion, I sneer when I spot a St. Francis Academy
sign outside a stucco off-dwelling to the left. Academy? Are you
serious? It looks like a mini library with its wide steps and four
fat pillars standing like soldiers outside the door. A balcony with
patio furniture sits above the pillars, and French doors up there
are wide open, letting the westbound breeze flap and twist chiffon
curtains. Without the contrast of night, I can’t see inside, I can
only see waves of floral mist behind screen. I throb as I wonder
how many people get whacked or S&M’d on that balcony or in
front of those huge doors
at
night for any passerby to see.
Will I?

After parking much closer and getting out, I
rub my suddenly prickly neck and gaze around the ritzy
neighborhood. I wasn’t really paying attention to placement as I
gawked at house after house. There’s only one other home in close
vicinity. Kink Therapist’s property is also dotted with trees and
his backyard is boxed by an iron fence. It’s mostly private.

My head’s spinning and I can’t stop shaking.
I smooth my short-sleeve sweater and tug it down to expose more
cleavage. It’s lightweight and makes me look rightly stacked. No
way am I wearing a fucking blouse. Button-ups tend to gobble up a
size, and I refuse to ever downplay these puppies. And the only
skirt I could find landed very high on my thigh, so I’ll likely get
an earful about my attire, but I don’t care. I look damn hot.
That’s all that matters.

I close my eyes, take two deep breaths and
make my way up to my doom. I shiver at the shoe clacks as I climb
the stairs. The vibrations surging through my calves tell me this
is very real and not a dream. I’m not sure if I should knock, but a
student wouldn’t. He or she would bust right in and head off to the
office. So, that’s what
I’ll
do. But how will I know where
to go? At least I’m fifteen minutes early.

When I open the door, I stop in my tracks
and shudder. An old woman is sitting at a desk off to the side in
the grand foyer, and a youngish dude, about my age, is slouched in
one of the four chairs in a long hallway leading to closed double
doors. The floor is marble with a giant starbust, but it’s wood,
wood, wood everywhere, a rich burnt sienna, even the winding
staircase 15
'
ahead. The balcony on the
second floor bows out in a half circle near a chandelier with a
gazillion dangling gemstones. What the hell? This looks like a
fucking school entrance, the ritzy, pretentious, unaffordable kind.
With it feeling so bitingly real, I’m freaked beyond the pale. Is
this a
real
academy, like a tiny charter school or
something?

The hag looks up from whatever she’s jotting
in a thin book. “Good morning, Molly. Take a seat please,” she
says, her voice strange and muddy. “Headmaster Ryan will call you
in shortly.” She returns to her book. No, a crossword puzzle it
looks like.

“Thanks.” She knows my name? I itch to
hightail it out of here, but curiosity and a savage thirst for pink
and pain, not to mention bounce, pushes me past the staircase, down
the hall and into a red velveteen chair beside Slouch. I sigh and
bob my heels like a junkie in withdrawal.

He’s pretty cute, wheat-colored hair
splaying out around his collar, bangs sweeping to the left,
threatening to block his eyes. Nice arms. Nice legs. I can only
imagine his chest. His tie is loose, top button undone. Good Lord,
is he going to hear me get spanked? Heat slinks up my cheeks and
neck. He’s staring ahead, arms crossed, ignoring my perusal of his
body, not saying hi or even acknowledging my presence at all. He
only took the time to look me over when I first came in. Am I
repulsive or what? Whatever. I can ignore him just the same.

My breaths are getting away from me with
randomness, and my heart’s pounding so fast, he can probably hear
it. It was dumb to sit in the chair right next to him when there
are others. I shift and fidget, hands bouncing between armrests and
my abdomen. I finally lace fingers together and shove the tight
weave to rest on my thighs. Minor irritations nibble at me. “Sooo,
um … is this a
real
school?”

“Today it is,” he mutters.

Even in dull mode, he’s got a nice, rich
voice, one that could easily make my knees quake if I were standing
… or if he were giving me stern commands. I imagine a couple. And
they’re bad … bad … oooh … mmmm,
sooo
bad. Yeah, I like the
last one best. But now I know I’m blushing from that. Maybe he’s a
sub though. That would suck. What a waste of a sexy voice. Or he
could be gay. Double suck. I snort when I realize what I just said
in my head, then quickly clear my throat. “Um, do you mean it
changes day-to-day? What will this place be tomorrow?”

He shrugs.

Aaaand we’re back to silence. Lovely. I
swish my pursed lips back and forth. After several clock ticks, I
flip my dark hair behind my shoulders, then arch my back in a good
stretch and massage my neck as I rotate my head to work out the
kinks. I catch myself moaning and nip that humiliation factor in
the bud. Some loose locks fall forward again from my movement and
kiss my breasts with a caress. I whisk them back and accidentally
bump his arm with my arm and a flutter of my fingers. I jerk away,
but he quickly reclaims contact with my skin, giving a slow,
intentional
graze that makes me shiver. His arms still
crossed, he forsakes his arm muscles for tactile fingers and
streaks them up and down my upper arm, which rakes up goose bumps.
What the hell’s he doing!

Yeah? Two can play that game. I drop my gaze
to the leg closest to me. His left. I put my hand on his knee and
let it rest for two seconds, then I slowly drag my index finger up
and down his thigh and don’t stop until I reach his nuts. I add
more digits and draw six circles over his entire package with my
fingertips, then cap off with a hearty squeeze. I jerk upwards
three times and smile at the nice stiffness I created.

I let go in a flash, it suddenly hitting me
that I just committed a criminal act, like, one that could land me
in jail and stick me on a list with
real
pervs. Ohmygod!
What the hell’s wrong with me!

His eyes, blue like gas flames, zoom to bore
into mine and his tight jaw grinds. He’s breathing like a bull, and
it’s most definitely
not
from any kind of upset or offense
taken. He’s electrified … blazing with hunger. Hmm. Wonder what
made that happen.

I whisper, “1 to 0. Point for Molly,” as
sweetly as I can. I lick the tip of my index finger and chalk it up
in the air with some sizzle. I’m thrilled and beaming.

He whacks my arm. “You can kiss that sexy
smile goodbye, sweetheart. Game’s over. And
I
won.”

He finds my smile sexy? Like,
sexy
sexy
?
When I unhook myself from the snag on his compliment,
I say, “You wish. I fight dirtier than you can imagine,” and look
back at the … receptionist?

“Yeah, my junk can testify to that. Forget
her, she’s deaf. But you’re wrong. It’s done and won, Hot Legs.
Aren’t you gonna ask me how I know?”