It Stings So Sweet (26 page)

“Miss O’Brien, once I commit to a course of action, I do so with uncompromising
certainty. And I am
thoroughly
committed to this enterprise. So, yes, I really am going to spank
you.”

My mouth goes dry. “You’re awfully wordy.”

He sits down on the chair, feet flat
on the floor. He pats his lap by way of invitation. “I’ll say it simply, then: Bend over my knee.”

There’s no mischief in his eyes now. His gaze is frank, direct, and filled with an expectation
I don’t want to disappoint. It’s bending over his knee that proves to be the chief difficulty because
I don’t know where to put my hands. To my immense relief, when I tilt over his legs, one of his
strong arms comes down over the small of my back and shoves me into position. The warm weight of his
hand settles over the curve of my backside and I realize again, with a sense of dread, just how big
his hands are. “I’m going to pull your drawers down, Miss O’Brien, because I believe you deserve a
bare-bottomed spanking.”

I didn’t think I could be more embarrassed, but that does it. That
and the cool rush of air on my most private parts when he lifts my skirts up and bunches them around
my waist. When he yanks my underpants halfway down my thighs, only the weight of his arm in the middle
of my back keeps me from bolting up in fear. Then he slaps his palm against my bottom for the first
time, and I jolt. It’s no playful swat. Nothing tentative about it. And I’m in no way prepared.
My back arches right up and I look over my shoulder at him in surprise. I stare at him, agape.

“You want a real spanking, don’t you, Miss O’Brien?”

My lower lip wobbles. “I’m starting
to think better of it.”

“Do you want me to stop, then?”

Dear god, no.
I don’t want him
to stop. So I shake my head.

“Count, if you wouldn’t mind,” he says, shifting his legs slightly
underneath me. When he does, I feel his hard erection press against my side. The urgency of his
sexual arousal coaxes an answering rush of heat between my legs. Or maybe it’s the outrageous excitement
I feel. “You can start at two . . .”

His big hand smacks my flesh again and the sound echoes
through the empty office.

“Two!” My voice cracks. It isn’t so much that the spanks are excruciatingly
painful. It’s that I have no way of knowing when or where they’ll fall. In addition to the
shame of being spanked is the wildly exciting realization that I have no control over it. The next
spank makes me cry out. And each one keeps getting harder and harder until the count of ten. Then I
can’t even gauge it anymore. The sting he’s leaving on my bottom spreads lower until my whole body
is enveloped in it. My heartbeat is racing, pounding at my wrists, my throat, and between my legs. Surely
he can feel the wetness of my sex. I’m so wet and needy now, the pain seems far away, replaced
by a sweet ache for satisfaction.

Shamelessly, I angle myself so that my hips can grind against
his body with each spank.

When I cry out fifteen, my voice is ragged with need. I clench my
thighs together, rocking in a way that urges me towards climax. My voice rises on the sixteenth stroke
and I know that I’m going to bring myself off. I squeal on the seventeenth, so close. Then moan
low on the eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth as orgasm overtakes me. I’m coming, and my climax is
like all those effervescent soda bubbles burst at once.

Squeezing my eyes shut and biting the
inside of my cheek, I force myself to stillness to hide it. But it feels so good that I could scream.
It’s sweet relief, but it leaves me damp and trembling in his arms.

All at once, he takes me
by the arms and drags me up, seating me in his lap. He wants me to look at him. But I can’t. I look
away until he catches me by the chin and forces me to meet his eyes. “Miss O’Brien, did you just take
your pleasure from me?”

With my bottom burning brighter than my face, there’s no denying it.
“Yes.”

His eyes twinkle with instant delight. “You might have warned me that spankings have
that effect on you.”

“How was I to know?”

“I’d forgotten what an innocent you are.”

“Besides,
you
enjoyed it, too,” I say, defensively, eying the rigid evidence in his trousers.

“Of course I did. The way you squirmed against me would excite a statue. Now here I am, hard
as marble and without your enviable talent for easy satisfaction.”

He says all this with perfect
amiability, as if he didn’t know it would awaken in me a profound curiosity and desire. “May I
touch you?”

Those warm hazel eyes of his crinkle at the corners. “You’re quite welcome to touch
me whenever you like; you don’t need to ask permission, Miss O’Brien.”

“I think it excites
me to ask.”

“Oh?” This clearly surprises him. For a few awkward and silent moments, he’s like
a man struggling to get his bearings. Eventually, he clears his throat and says, “In that case, I’d
like you to ask me again . . . and this time, with greater specificity.”

“Greater . . . specificity,
sir?”

“I want to know exactly what you’re asking permission to do.”

“May I please, touch
you . . . your . . .” Several words for it echo in my mind. Some clinical. Some vulgar and pornographic.

“You want to touch my cock?”

His having said it first makes it easier. “Yes. May I please
touch your cock?”

Part of me regrets having asked at all but the other part of me squirms while
he weighs the matter in his mind. “As it happens, I don’t think I could bear another day of teasing,
Miss O’Brien. Today, I’d like you to stroke it. I want you to use your hand to
make me come
, and
I’m afraid that unless you’re willing to commit yourself to my pleasure, the answer must be no.”

“But I
am
willing,” I protest, almost offended.

He dimples me a smile, then unfastens his
trousers with an air of magnanimity. “Show me.”

I find him hot and hard. His manhood is silkier
than expected and my fingertips slide easily down the shaft. When I stroke him, he leans his head
back so that it touches the chair, then he closes his eyes.

I like that. It’s easier to experiment
when he’s not watching me. I squeeze tight, marveling at the size of him in my grip. He groans
when I do that and groans again when the flat of my palm smears some of the dew on the tip of his
shaft. He gets excited. Very excited. Then his big hand closes around mine, and he teaches me to do
it just as he likes.

I’m mesmerized by the way he trains me to his desires.

I like it.
I like it so very much. And it makes me feel strangely . . . powerful. He’s the one who cries out when
his cock throbs and spurts warm and sticky semen into my palm. But I’m the one who wants to shout
with victory because in this one moment, he is
mine
.

CHAPTER

Four

He takes the pocket square from his jacket and uses
it to gently wipe my fingers, but the cloth isn’t nearly absorbent enough to cl
ean up all the mess.
There seem to be rather copious amounts of the milky remnants of his ecstasy and he murmurs something
about having to change his pants.

I glance at the enormous grandfather clock in the corner,
almost dizzied by what I see. “I have to go!”

His golden head snaps up. “What? Why?”

“My lunch break is over. Mrs. Mortimer will skin me alive if I’m late.”

“What kind of ogre do
you think I am, Miss O’Brien? Surely you didn’t think I was going to let you return to work without
having lunch.”

“But Mrs. Mortimer—”

“Works for me,” he interrupts. “Mrs. Mortimer works
for me and for that matter, so do you. So, if I should require your services on the rooftop instead
of at the boutique, neither of you are in any position to complain.”

I feel my eyes widen.
“You’re abusing your power, Mr. Aster.”

He chuckles. “Perhaps you ought to bring it up at your
next organized labor meeting.”

He’s teasing; I know he is. But it doesn’t stop me from feeling
guilty. This is exactly the kind of thing we talk about. Predatory employers who take advantage
of their workers in every possible way. Except . . . except, I’m here of my own free will, aren’t I?
“Speaking of organized labor—”

“Let’s save that conversation for dessert, shall we?”

He produces a new pair of trousers from his cabinet, leaving me to wonder how often he finds the need
for new clothes in the middle of the day. He swiftly changes into them without any self-consciousness,
as if he were quite accustomed to women seeing him in various stages of undress. I watch him do
it, my eyes drinking in the powerful muscles of his bare legs underneath his sock garters. As soon as
he’s made himself presentable, he leads me from his office into the corridor, at the end of which
are two beautiful French doors that open into the rooftop garden.

The giant dome of glass and
steel overhead affords a perfect view of the city. It’s a popular spot for tourists and for the wealthy;
it’s usually filled with the noise of hundreds of guests clinking their glasses together, forks
and knives clashing over elegant meals, waiters hurriedly bustling in and out of the kitchen. But
this afternoon, the rooftop dining area is silent but for the bubbling water in the fountain.

I come to a halt beside a lattice all covered in vines. “What—what is this?”

“It’s lunch.
Won’t you please join me?” He takes several purposeful strides to a lone table in the middle of the
dining room, covered in white linen and gilded china plate. Then he pulls out one of the chairs for
me.

“Where is everyone?” I ask, bewildered.

“I closed the rooftop for us this afternoon.
I thought we might like some privacy. I hope you’re hungry. The menu is a Waldorf salad to be followed
by medallions of spring lamb served with asparagus au gratin and Venetian ice cream for dessert.”

My hands go to my cheeks. “Oh . . . I couldn’t.”

“Why not? Are you too sore to sit?”

The reminder of my spanking makes me flush. “No, it isn’t that. It’s just that I should be working
the counter in the boutique. Ethel and Irene will have to work twice as hard to make up for my
absence.”

“For a Marxist-Leninist, you have a remarkable work ethic. If it troubles you, I’ll
give them a bonus. Now, please sit down.”

“They aren’t the same,” I say, annoyed.

“I beg
your pardon?”

“Marx and Lenin. They aren’t the same. Dr. Marx was a philosopher and an economist
who theorized about how to advance justice and prosperity. Lenin was a murderous, power-hungry
thug.” When Mr. Aster tilts his head as if I were a great curiosity, I quickly add in defense of myself,
“I like to read books.”

“Admirable. But what does any of this have to do with why you won’t
join me for lunch?”

It’s only the rooftop garden, but at the moment it feels like a foreign
world. “This must have cost you
quite a bit
of money . . .”

“As I have rather
a great deal
of money, that isn’t a concern for me.”

My insides are topsy-turvy. “I can’t afford a meal
like this.”

“Miss O’Brien, I intend to treat you to lunch.”

“I like to pay my own way.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I said I was trying to be less of a gentleman, not that I intended to
forsake all notion of civilized behavior.”

Somehow, it seems wrong. I don’t know how it can
seem so much
more
wrong than bending over his knee in his office, but it does. “Here you are, spending
all this money on me when you could use it to pay better wages to your staff. How am I to enjoy
an extravagant lunch when thinking about that?”

Mr. Aster crosses his arms. “Has it occurred
to you that none of the people in this hotel would have any jobs at all if it weren’t for people willing
to spend money on extravagant lunches? Moreover, if today were just like any other day, the wait
staff would be working themselves into a lather to serve the crowd. Instead, everyone in the kitchen
is having a bit of a lazy afternoon because they only have to prepare a meal for the two of us.
Besides, when we come to dessert, you can tell me one of your grievances and consider it your good
deed to your fellow workers and oppressed peoples of the world.”

When he puts it like that,
it makes me feel rather foolish. “I wish you wouldn’t ridicule me.”

“I only meant to poke fun—nothing
whatsoever so disrespectful as
ridicule
. You have my apologies. The whole purpose in my arranging
this lunch was to make sure that you didn’t feel mistreated. I shouldn’t spoil it with jokes.”

He means it. He’s so earnest that I take the seat that he’s offered and resolve to be grateful.
Still, I worry that I’m too disheveled for a place like this. Trying to smooth my hair back and
straighten my clothes, I become aware of every loose thread and wrinkle in my dress. The women he’s
brought to dine here before have, no doubt, been of a different class altogether, so I try to use my
best manners, remember to keep my elbows off the table, and watch him for a clue as to which fork to
use.

When the first course is served, he tells me, “I was terribly anxious that you wouldn’t
come back to my office today.”

To be the cause of anxiety for an otherwise carefree playboy
is unexpectedly flattering. “Were you?” I ask, as unsure of the man as I am of the apple, grape, and
celery salad served with a mayonnaise dressing. “What would you have done? If I didn’t come back,
I mean?”

He gives a wry grin. “I’d have gulped down enough liquor to put myself into a stumbling
oblivion. Which is how I spend most of my evenings, come to think about it, but in this case,
I wouldn’t have waited for the evening to do it.”

“Oh,” I murmur, thoughtful. “Why do you drink
so much?”

He stops, salad fork poised midbite. “Oh, for pity’s sake, don’t tell me that you’re
one of the dries, too. Miss O’Brien, is there
any
cause of social reform to which you do not subscribe?”

His exaggerated look of horror at the idea I might be in favor of Prohibition is so terribly
funny that I laugh into my napkin. “So you don’t mind Communists but the temperance movement is beyond
the pale?”

He smirks at me. “And yet, you told me not to tease you . . .”

“I told you
that I wished you wouldn’t
ridicule
me. But I can stand being teased a little bit. And you’re very
good at it.”

His gaze narrows provocatively. “It’s not the only thing I’m very good at . . .”

As I’m not brave enough to ask about the rest of his talents, I work on eating my salad, the
unusual combination of flavors and textures more pleasing than I would have guessed. “To answer your
question, when it comes to alcohol, I’m in favor of
temperance
, not abstinence.”

“How very
dull.”

“I can think of more exciting things to do than get drunk.”

“Your journal certainly
attests to that.” The mention of the journal is a sharp reminder that this isn’t just a pleasant
lunch with a pleasant fellow, but a meal that comes on the heels of utter debauchery with my boss.
And at the memory of his big hand crashing down on my bottom, I squirm in my chair. “Have you ever
been drunk before, Miss O’Brien?”

“Well, no . . .”

“Have you ever even tasted liquor?”

I press my lips together. “Does the sacrament count or is that the blood of Christ?”

That
earns me a belly laugh. “So you’ve never gone into a speakeasy and asked for a cocktail?”

“I’ve been to a speakeasy, but . . . no, I haven’t had a cocktail.”

He narrows his eyes. “What
an earnest little do-gooder . . . you’re quite charming, really.”

“Only accidentally, whereas
you seem practiced at it. So much so that you avoided my question completely.”

He takes a swallow
of lemonade and makes a face. “Which question?”

“Why do you drink so much liquor?”

“I
don’t have a good answer. Didn’t take a drop during the war, but when I came back, I acquired a taste
for it.”

This takes me unawares. “You served in the war? But you look too young . . .”

A white-gloved waiter takes our salad plates and replaces them with a steaming entree of lamb and asparagus.
It seems rich fare for lunch, but my mouth waters at the scent of rosemary, garlic, and roasted
meat. Mr. Aster waits for me to begin eating. “I joined up the day I turned eighteen. It was near
the end of the fighting, though most people didn’t know that at the time. The ambassador had a pretty
good idea that the action was nearly over and he didn’t want his youngest to miss out on an opportunity
to bring glory to the family name. He saw to it that I was made an officer and military aviator.”

“You can fly planes?” I ask, decidedly impressed.

“Fly them? Yes. It’s shooting them down
that proved the difficulty. I’m fairly certain I was the worst aerial gunner in the U.S. Army Signal
Corps.”

It’s strange to imagine him as a soldier and even stranger to hear the tone of self-deprecation
in his usually confident voice. “What is the U.S. Army Signal Corps?”

“They call it the U.S.
Army Air Corps now.”

“So you were a fighter pilot, like the Red Baron.”

“
No one
was like
the Red Baron. I wasn’t entirely useless, though. I was always good in a brawl and had a talent at
getting the supplies our pilots needed that the Army couldn’t provide. Guns, mounts, mechanical parts,
gas masks, and food . . .”

It’s the sort of organizing one expects from a workingman, not from
an officer. “How did you manage that?”

“I knew whom to ask. Whom to bribe, to trade with, and
to steal from. It became a fun challenge, really. But they don’t give out medals for that sort of
thing, do they?”

“Maybe they should.”

He takes a moment to cut his lamb into neat pieces.
“In any case, I came home from the war with shell shock but none of the glory my father hoped for.
Those first few months I spent stateside, liquor was the only thing that helped with the insomnia
and occasional bout of shaking hands.”

He seems so cool, pale, and aloof. A remote Nordic god.
It’s difficult for me to imagine such a flaw . . . “Your hands shake?”

“Not for years now,”
he says, holding one out steady. “I’ve got liquor to thank for that.”

“And the insomnia?”

He looks down at his plate. “You shouldn’t let your lunch get cold, Miss O’Brien. It’s splendid.”

I take a bite of the lamb and the way it nearly melts in my mouth is so distracting that I almost
let him get away with the evasion. “Do you still have trouble sleeping, Mr. Aster?”

“You can
call me Robert when we’re alone,” he says.

“Do you still have trouble sleeping, Robert?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a girl of remarkable persistence?”

“Not usually in
such a flattering or approving way.”

He laughs. “Yes, I still have trouble sleeping. Especially
last night. I’ve never spanked a woman before and I was fretting about it into the wee hours. I
couldn’t decide if I should worry more that you’d go through with it or that you wouldn’t.”

I’m glad he waited to confess these doubts. If he’d let his anxiety show when he had me over his knee,
I’d have fled. However, his confession now is so unexpected and endearing that I can’t stop staring
at him. “You said your experience in such matters is considerable, so out of all the fantasies in
my journal, why didn’t you choose something you’d done before?”

“I wanted to learn something
about women . . . this was the fantasy that I wanted most to understand.”

His thirst for knowledge
is admirable but I don’t know whether or not to believe him. “And here you made it seem as if
you already knew everything there was to know about women.”

“You’ve certainly caused me to
reevaluate.” This cheers me quite a bit—to think that I’ve surprised a man like him, or confounded him
in any way. “Besides, I never said I was an expert on women. Merely that I have considerable experience
bedding them.”

I let that idea settle for a while. “Only bedding them? Haven’t you ever been
in love?”

The question seems to amuse him. “I’ve been in love precisely one and a half times.”

And his answer definitely amuses me. “One and a half? You can’t be half in love with someone.”

“Trust me, you can. And sometimes it’s a lot more pleasant than being all the way in love, as
I was with Nora, my former fiancée. Though, I must admit, you’re helping me to feel quite a bit more
charitable towards her.”

“Am I?” I ask, not entirely pleased. I chase my asparagus round my
plate with my fork until I see him lift a spear with his fingers. “So is there a reunion with Nora
on the horizon?”

He coughs. “No. Certainly not. I said you’ve helped me feel more charitable
towards her, not that I’ve turned into a sap.”