Finely Disciplined Thoughts (8 page)

Seven years after the boost the naughty boy, who lived to flaunt convention, had afforded her political future following a whirlwind courtship, and she still couldn’t get enough of him on the home front. Her family wealth and his family genealogy were the perfect combination to soothe voters’ fears that the tiny politician with the Herculean temper might not be up to the job of representing their interests in Parliament.

Mark had, she admitted, been perfectly charming, as only he could be, since their arrival. Three hundred years and sixteen generations of aristocratic breeding did tell — even when the six-year-old in him took over. Believe it or not, he was a gentleman, even if she could have penned a book — no, wait, make that several volumes — detailing his oft-times decidedly ungentlemanly behavior.

Just now, he was putting away the final bite of beef on his platinum-rimmed plate. And eyeing his anorexic neighbor’s scarcely touched meal speculatively, considering helping her dispose of it with his usual hearty appetite.

Lauren’s disaster antenna went on full alert, realizing he was perfectly capable of spearing the waif’s grilled fish and transferring it to his plate, and she automatically leaned toward him slightly and willed him to look at her.

Which he did. Complete with that devastatingly handsome little-boy grin that caused the scar just above his lip to distract her temporarily. She promised herself to aim a kiss at it later, if he was a very good boy right now. And probably even if he wasn’t, she admitted to herself.

But at the moment she needed to head off disaster. It was a simple message she delivered — a pointed look at the temptingly-filled china near his right hand and an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

It was a simple message received — the long-fingered hand glided gracefully back toward his own place setting and he swallowed the temptation to clean the skinny blonde’s plate for her.

He would exert great self-control in this stuffy, pretentious, mind-numbing company and do his wife proud.

He even signaled his intention to behave properly by giving her a lazy and very private wink.

At least, she thought that’s what he was conveying. And she relaxed into that thought for a full thirty seconds before it occurred to her that the action was open to another interpretation entirely.

But by then she was much too far behind in the game to make the slightest difference in the final score.

“I understand we’ll be taking another look at the home discipline issue next week,” Kelvin Watlington said from his place on a left diagonal to Mark. “The Royal College is pushing for a ban again. But the electorate’s divided, the polls say.”

The topic turned attention Watlington’s way, but no one offered a personal opinion on the subject. So Watlington sought one out.

“Smithwyck, you’re not a pol. So give us your thoughts — as a representative of England’s finest families, you might say. Does a good old-fashioned spanking find favor in your house?”

Well, Lauren thought with faint surprise, there was a conversation starter one didn’t normally hear in political circles. If Watlington were depending on her husband to keep the verbal ball rolling, however, he would be in for a letdown. There was only one answer daddy Mark could give and it would be short and sweet and negative.

“Most certainly,” Mark responded.

And the sip of wine she had just tasted threatened to go down entirely the wrong way. What did he mean “most certainly”? The twins had never felt a disciplinary hand applied to their little posteriors and probably never would. For starters, their father was the appallingly guilty instigator and model for most of their mischief and he knew it well. So though he was quite excellent at bluster and threats, he relied entirely on time outs and missed opportunities — theirs, not his — to keep control of the duo.

And while she had been known, on more than one memorable occasion, to connect the palm of her hand with a masculine cheek, it had always been a beard-enhanced face she took aim at.

“Really,” Watlington mused. “So you do support a firm hand, shall we say, within the confines of the family abode?”

“I thought most people did,” Mark responded with a completely innocent look that signaled approaching disaster. “We certainly find it most effective and rather imperative to the happy state of our home.”

“Well, I’m not sure about most people,” Watlington intoned. “I am, personally, rather at odds with your view. And I must point out that if a clear majority were to share it, we probably wouldn’t have to keep having this discussion about government involvement. But, then again, I’m just the father of three grown daughters, so our perspectives may differ. I suppose if I had a house full of lively little boys I might think an occasional smack on their bottoms was in order, too.” And he chuckled at the table for twelve.

She saw it coming.

She was helpless to prevent it.

She closed her eyes and prayed.

Faith failed her.

“Oh, I do beg your pardon. I’m afraid I misunderstood you completely,” her biggest little boy interjected with a nasty grin. “I thought we were talking about Lauren’s bottom.”

And ten heads with arched brows and open mouths swiveled toward her as rich red color climbed from her chin to her brow.

The distraction of fishnet stockings, she thought, would have been a blessing at this point.

“How could you?” she hissed within the confines of their guest room hours later.

“How could I what?” he demanded innocently while he obligingly unzipped her dress. “He was joking, wasn’t he? I thought it was all in fun. Come on now, my love. Kiss me, Lauren.”

“You pillock. You bloody, blasted booby. You … you imbecilic moron! Do you know what the headlines will say about this tomorrow?”

He paused in an effort to push the dress off her shoulders as she stood in front of the mirrored dressing table, snatching off the few items of jewelry she reluctantly wore on occasions such as this.

Assuming a meditative stance, he considered. “Oh, I don’t know, something about ‘a spanking good time was had by all.’”

She snarled and he abandoned any effort to help her further undress, turning his attention to removing his own jacket.

“How can I possibly be in control of my party if they think I go in for — for …”

“For what?” he asked with a rakishly cocked eyebrow as he removed his cuff links and tossed them toward her open jewel box on the dressing table.

“You know for what. Did you have to make me the star of that peculiarly British fantasy?” she demanded as she struggled out of her slip.

“Aha, it’s the fantasy part that bothers you,” he chuckled, unknotting his tie and pulling it free.

“No, it’s you that bothers me. I can’t take you anywhere. I can’t trust you for a moment. You’re going to ruin me,” she spat out as she unhooked her bra and reached for her gown.

“Why would I ruin you? I adore you. I love everything about you. You mesmerize me, Lady Smithwyck. You haunt me. You make me want to do all kinds of wicked things.” He waggled suggestive eyebrows at her and grinned maddeningly.

“Well, you can forget about that. You can certainly forget about whatever it is that’s going through your sex-obsessed brain right now. You know we’ve never … well, I’ve certainly never … though who can say about you, you beast. But it has never crossed my mind to even consider …”

“Now, now, Lauren,” he cautioned, wagging a finger at her. “You’re very close to crossing a line here. I warn you. And you really should practice some basic intellectual honesty where your sexual preferences are concerned. I can read the signals. I know you’ve been waiting — hoping — wondering — what it would be like to go over my knee.”

“You have finally done it,” she stormed. “You have lost your mind. And you’ve lost something else as well, Smithwyck, because I’m not letting you anywhere near me after what you just did at dinner tonight. You’re going to be in your own personal sexual timeout for the next twenty years,” she threatened, wheeling around to face him with her gown still clenched in furious fists.

“Oh, Lauren. Now that’s a mistake. Yes, that is definitely a mistake on your part, but I won’t hold it against you this time. Just say you’re sorry and I’ll forgive you for not being nice to me,” he offered with his arms spread wide.

“Say I’m sorry? Dream on, my lord,” she spit out, thrusting her furious face upward toward his. “You’ll be sorry you ever …”

And that was the moment he moved with amazing speed to push her lacy little panties toward her knees, pull her against his chest and deliver a stinging smack to her bare bottom.

She sucked in her breath — partly in outrage, partly in surprise, partly in pain, partly in something else she didn’t have a name for.

And despite herself, she glanced back over her shoulder toward the mirror to see his big frame wrapped around her bared body just as he administered another tingling spank that gave her matching pink cheeks.

She instinctively reached to cover herself, but he caught her hands in one of his and with the other began tracing a soothing fingertip path across the imprint left by his palm.

“What a lovely little peach of a bottom you have, Lauren,” he whispered. “A lovely little blushing peach. Just waiting for me to taste it,” and he dropped to his knees, turned her slightly and brushed his soft lips in feather-light kisses across her smarting flesh.

And her last coherent thought — before she sank beside him on the floor with a sigh of surrender — was to wonder where she might discretely purchase a very suitable hairbrush.

Taking a Hand at Discipline

Somewhere in the air, over the Atlantic, I lost my breath. And I found a guiding principle.

It is one whose power I cannot explain and whose origin I can only imagine. It is, nevertheless, inviolate.

I will reveal it in time, but it seems important to detail, first, what preceded the revelation.

The plane was on a flight path from London to Atlanta. My senses were heightened already, as they always are after time spent abroad.

The sole male flight attendant approaching my seat, soon after the plane gained height, gave every appearance of being a strictly professional type as he saw to the needs of other passengers; yet, when he served me, he smiled warmly and even initiated some light and teasing banter.

I can never resist.

I return all smiles directed toward me.

I consistently rise to the invitation to charm. Effortlessly.

My attention, I confess, was diverted, but not so much that I could fail to take appreciative notice of his eyes, his lips, his voice. All passed muster with grace to spare, for a man mature enough to have raised young adults of his own, at least.

He passed on then. To engage others, for all I knew.

Sky miles later, he returned with my favorite drink in hand, unbidden. And he said a curious thing: He identified me with the town where I live.

Now, it is a small place. This was, then, no random conversational point that happened to include a well-known geographical location. This was, surely, no casual reference guilessly uttered to enhance polite conversation.

This was a signal. He had gone a step beyond and he was publishing the fact.

I was first surprised, then intrigued, and then set off-balance.

Did he anticipate a reaction? And, if so, what did he hope it might be?

Suddenly I was reduced to an emotional age much younger than my parents could have biologically credited.

I offer this information not so much because it has overwhelming relevance to my story — although I recognize it was not wasted in setting the scene — but, rather, as a second explanation for the fact I was still breathing normally.

For, once again, my attention had simply been diverted.

Others whose job was to see to my comfort came and went, politely and without connection, throughout the flight.

And then it was he who was moving toward me once more, at long last — a simple drinks cart, stacked high, obscuring most of my view as I tried in vain to search his face and read his expectations, so that I might fulfill them precisely as a good girl should.

Aware that he might glance my way and take note of my confusion and its resulting tension, I lowered my gaze hurriedly to the book whose theme I could no longer recall.

And suddenly he was beside me in the close confines of the cabin. Had I first turned my head and, then, leaned forward only inches beyond a hands-breadth, my face would have brushed against the fabric-draped, flesh-covered, boned ridge below his waist. As it was, when I had accomplished the first movement with grace, I began an upward sweep of my eyes instead.

His face, of course, was my ultimate sighted destination. It would tell me, surely, if I should be silent. If I should be haughty. If I should be innocent. If I should be appalled. If I should be amused. If I should be engaged.

The rich potential for communication died a quiet death, however.

Because as I raised my gaze, my eyes, my brain, my heart and every nerve ending in my body took full notice of the inch-wide, supple, buttery-leather black belt riding masterfully just above the subtle male curve of his hip.

And I literally could not breathe.

Had he pushed the fully-laden cart far away, slowly unbuckled the strap, drawn it with full authority from the wide black loops, doubled it over with a firm plan in mind, kissed it down across my thighs and then ordered me — in measured tones — to rise and stand in the plane’s aisle and offer my bottom cheeks to its stinging embrace, I could not physically have breathed a word — either of protest or acquiescence.

But he did none of those things.

He placed a drink on my tray and silently moved on instead.

And I never saw him again.

Except in my mind.

It is there that two images — blended — are a constant.

One is of his belt that took my breath away. And does, even yet.

But this is the revelation: the other is of his hand … and it is the truly enduring and powerful one.