Jack stroked me all over with his bare hands. Up and down. Not leaving any part of my body untouched. I’m trained as a masseuse, and yet I’m one of those strange creatures who don’t like to be massaged. In fact, if I don’t know someone well, I don’t like to be touched at all. I don’t hug people on greeting. I don’t spontaneously hold hands with my friends. I have a history of being stand- offish in this way.
When Jack used his bare hands to stroke from the tops of my shoulders down to my feet, he made me purr like a relaxed panther. My body was humming, electrified. He didn’t tickle me. He didn’t touch me too gently. He used firm strokes, over and over, until I felt as if I were flying. Only then, after he’d put me into an almost hypnotic trance of pleasure, did he bend close on the bed, press his face near the nape of my neck, and say, “You worried me.”
He’d lulled me, tricked me, created this false sense of safeness in my surroundings, and now that was replaced by instant awareness. My skin prickled. My muscles tightened.
“On purpose,” Jack continued.
His breath warmed the back of my neck, but I would not turn my head to look at him. I was frightened of what I might see in his cold blue eyes.
“I told you before,” he continued in a menacing whisper. “I told you not to make me worry.”
Oh, I’d been so pleased with my plan. And it had worked exactly how I’d hoped. But should I have confronted Jack in a different way? Spoken to him like an adult rather than playing behind his back? No… He understood this. He understood dirty pool. Christ, he was a lawyer after all. But that didn’t mean I could get away free. Jack had to take back the power. And that meant I would endure the punishment he chose.
I could feel Jack’s body against mine, pressing hard. He was still dressed, which made me feel more naked than ever. He straddled my body from behind, so that I could feel how hard he was, and I knew that I’d turned him on. He was like steel. Even when I’d made him worry, I’d
managed to turn him on. We had a powerful connection, a type that rarely exists. You can meet people who will spank you. You can meet people who will tie you up, who will fuck you six ways to Sunday. But this was different.
Jack could read me.
“You’re so smart,” he continued. “What do you think I should do to you?
I held my tongue.
“I’m asking you a question,” Jack repeated coolly. “You get two chances in my world. Name your punishment.”
Like in the fairy tales. You know the ones. The Grimm Brothers’ cruel tales—always my personal favorites. In which the evil queen or imposter princess is tricked into naming what ought to happen to someone who has behaved in the exact manner that she has. (The royals never recognize themselves, somehow.) But this was different. He would do what I said. And I was responsible for choosing the proper level of discipline. It would be like sending me out to cut my own switch. If I chose one too weak, too slender, I would be punished far worse than if I picked correctly from the start.
I knew better than to tell Jack to spank me. Spankings are candy to me, a reward more than a true punishment.
Two things Jack didn’t like: worrying and waiting. I was digging my hole deeper by the second.
“Crop me…” I didn’t ask it as a true question, yet I didn’t have the strength to make my voice a statement. The cadence was somewhere in between.
“Good choice,” Jack said, rising from the bed and heading to the chest. “We’ll start with that.”
I tensed, automatically. I wished for clothes, even clothes Jack would lift or rip off me. Being totally naked is always worse. Always. Jack started slowly. Each stroke hurt, but I could tell he was saving his energy, and this scared me more than if he’d cut fiercely from the start. Jack had a plan. He might be pretending to put me in charge, but he was driving the car. He knew the route.