“Whose shirt are you wearing…young lady?”
She sucked in a breath and slammed her eyes shut.
“Yours,” she gulped.
“Yes, it is. Like you, that shirt belongs to me, too, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And did you ask my permission before you put it on?”
“N-no.”
“It’s bad manners to take something that isn’t yours without permission, isn’t it?”
“I…”
“Cat got your tongue, woman?”
“Uh…”
“Answer me.”
“What…? Bad…? Yes…”
“Yes, what?” he whispered.
“It’s…” She looked down to watch her fingers fumble with each other at her belly.
“Look at me.”
She did…slowly.
“You were saying?”
“It’s bad…manners to take something that isn’t yours.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
His hands made slow circles over her bottom flesh. Her clitoris tingled. She understood now why the bottom was such an erogenous zone. So close—so close to the area this man standing before her had awakened in such grand fashion. She was stunned at how his dominance affected her. He showed it in subtle ways—the way he placed his hand at the small of her back to lead her, the way he held her hand in his when they walked, or just when sitting and talking, the possessiveness with which he handled her. Never did she feel controlled, and that was the key, wasn’t it? The key to it all. And Keaton knew it. She was putty in his hands.
“What am I going to do with you?” he continued.
“I…I don’t…know.”
“You don’t know? Hmmm.” He slipped one arm around her waist and kept the other over her bare bottom. He moved closer, his mouth now against her ear. “What happens to naughty girls who take things that don’t belong to them?”
Her mouth flew open and her stomach did that free-fall-to-her-feet thing. “I…I don’t know.”
“You don’t, huh?”
“May…maybe y-you need to show me w-w-what happens to naughty girls.”
“Yes. Maybe I do.”
Keaton swept the coffee cup off the stump and pulled the axe out, tossing that aside as well. Then he sat. His erection strained painfully against his jeans. He took her hand.
“I think you need a good spanking, young lady. When was the last time, hmmm?” He ran his hand up and down her bare leg. “When was the last time a man took you over his knee and spanked your bare bottom for you?”
Her face grew hot, and she looked around the property. As the sun rose, it painted a different picture across the lake, unaware and unconcerned with the drama that was playing out below. No, contrary to how she was currently feeling, the earth had not stopped twirling. She was never more grateful for the 5.65 acres of property than she was now. He intended to conduct this little game outside in front of God and country. She hoped no one else was lurking in the bushes—doctor, lawyer, Indian chief, Sasquatch, maybe?
“I expect an answer, Marissa Carol.” Oh, lordy. Her throat clicked with the unhappy acceptance of dry-mouth. Not dignified in the least.
“I…I don’t…don’t know….remember.”
“Don’t remember, huh? That’s not good, is it?”
“I…no, I guess it isn’t.”
“I’m going to spank you, young lady...do you understand me?”
Jesus. “Y-yes.”
“I’m going to turn you over my knee. That is how naughty girls who take things that don’t belong to them are spanked. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
Still holding her hand, he pulled her closer. She was to his right. He rested his right hand on her right bottom cheek and then took her left elbow with the other. And with the authority he seemed born with, Keaton Ross pulled Marissa face down across his lap.
Her tender, hyper-sensitive skin became more so once contact was made with his hard thighs and denim jeans. Her nipples ached and she throbbed down below in rhythm with her heartbeat. This was different, much different than when he had pulled her on top of him and spanked her, then touched her so intimately. Yes, in this position, she felt vulnerable and, dare she say…young.
What the hell was she doing? She was a grown, modern woman, with grown children. She wrote books about sex and intrigue and lust, and broken hearts and promises both, yet here she was, across the lap of a young buck who…Jesus, Mary and Joseph…did things to her no man had ever attempted, said things no 21st century, genderless American metro-sexual would dare attempt; exerted total dominance over her, enveloped her in a safety net of lust and strength and freedom—yes, Goddammit, freedom—and told her, in no uncertain terms, that he loved her. It was fucking intoxicating. She realized he was talking.
“…don’t belong to them are…are you listening to me, young lady?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, really? What was I saying?”
“I—I…I don’t know.”
He paused, the silence suddenly loud in her ears; the downshift into controlled annoyance, whether an act or not, was palpable. “Did you just lie to me?”
“I…n-…yes…”
“Yes. Yes, you did.” His hand was moving up and down her bare leg, and that made it very hard to concentrate. She was chilly, but maybe it was the tension. Yes, that was it. The tension.
“What happens to young ladies who take things that don’t belong to them, and lie?”
“I—they g-get…s-s-spanked?”
“That’s right. And where do they get spanked?”
“On the…on their…bottom?”
“Hmmm?” He moved his hand up, and took the flannel shirt with him. The cool morning air caressed her now exposed bare bottom. “What’s this?”
“M—my b-bare bottom.”
“That’s right. Where do they get spanked, young lady?”
“On the…bare…bare bottom.”
“That’s right. Naughty young ladies who take things that don’t belong to them, and lie, get spanked on their bare bottom.” He folded her shirt higher, exposing her lower back. This minor adjustment suddenly made it all too real.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered. She was stunned at how her body reacted to him. She could feel him, his body, against her bare skin. His breathing had become uneven, and she could feel his hard bulge beneath her tummy. Her arms hung down, almost touching the ground, and her legs, for the moment, were straight out behind her. He ran his hand over her bare bottom and her skin reacted, the cool-hot prickling forcing a gasp from her lips. Her entire body was on high alert. Every nerve was on and firing.
“I’m going to spank you, young lady. I’m going to start slow, and then we’ll see how it goes.” He watched the gooseflesh rise on her pale mounds. Marissa had a beautiful ass, firm and perfectly curved. He ran his hand down over each cheek, letting his thumb trail the crevice that divided the matching set. She arched her bottom up into his hand.
“Keaton…”
“Trust me,” he whispered. He brought his hand down on her right cheek, then brought it down on the other cheek. She jerked in time with his hand as it fell in an easy, steady rhythm. He stopped and rubbed her pinkening flesh.
“Are you alright?”
“Yes,” she whispered. God, was she!
“I’m going to spank you harder now.” He did, his hand connecting again, and again, and again. He found a rhythm, first one side and then the other, the connections predictable. Then his hand was all over the place, landing where she least expected it. He upped the tempo and the force of the smacks until she was writhing over his lap. She threw her hand back for protection, and he removed it just as quickly, bringing his hand down harder.
“Putting your hand back earns you a harder spanking, young lady. Do you understand?” He punctuated every syllable with his hand to her bottom, faster now, harder.
“Oh, God! Keaton! Oh…ah! Pl—!”
He stopped and ran his hard hand over her tender backside.
Just Right!
