Page 34 of Carter

His arms are crossed, accentuating his muscles. His jeans hang from his trim waist, just low enough I can see the tops of his hipbones. The sight of them has my pussy dampening my panties despite my nerves.

“Shall we get down to business?” he asks.

“Carter, I—” I begin to back away from him, shaking my head. My hands go before me, forming two stop signals.

He gazes over me, sizing me up. He seems to be laughing at an inside joke. I’m quivering inside, hoping he’s going to call the whole thing off. Instead, he gives himself a decisive nod. He says, “I thought so.”

“Thought what?” I ask, still inching away.

“I knew I’d have to do this⁠—”

In the blur of one expert movement he’s suddenly seated on the bed.

And I’m pinned over his lap.

My shirt has ridden up and the bare skin of his stomach is hot against my exposed side. His arm locks around my waist as he pulls me harder against him. Further into him. Our skin pressing together. Heat and angst rush through me as I squirm against him. I’m pushing my chest up from the bed. Kicking my legs in protest. Crying out no, and trying to get away.

He’s a human vise.

He parts his thighs and my kicking legs lose their support. The back half of my body is sliding off him, toward the floor. His position shifts beneath me. Rapidly, I’m bent over his muscular left thigh. His right leg has come behind me and locked in both of my legs. I’m no longer able to kick or move from the waist down.

I’m trapped.

My breath comes quicker—I’m panicking. Next mode of defense if I can’t kick—my right arm. I’m shouting that I’m not ready for this. I’m waving it behind me as best I can to prevent the spanking I know I have coming.

Unexpectedly, and with what feels like only his thumb and index finger, he has my weapon pinned to my back. My left arm is useless in my defense and I put in under my head, burying my face into it.

I’ve given up the fight.

Because I know what’s next. Him spanking my bottom like a naughty little girl. My face is already flushed from shame.

All through my fight, he remained silent. Now, with my body held securely against his, he says, “You done fighting me long enough to listen, baby girl? I know you’re strong. I love that you’re strong. But right now, trust me to hold the line.” My face burns. All those hours of pumps, planks, and kickboxing have made me powerful—but this is one place where I am choosing not to use strength as a weapon against him.

His fingers tighten around my wrist. “Feisty. I like it. Let’s see how feisty you are after you’ve been thoroughly punished. First, I will spank you⁠—”

The first spank lands. Hard. I suck a breath in between my teeth, taking in the sting. We’ve barely begun and already I feel my pussy getting wet. I try to squirm. I want to get away. To get closer. To alleviate the pressure, the tension his is putting into my body. Another spank lands. He continues, saying, “Then I will paddle you.”

My pussy stops misbehaving, my hips stop wiggling. I lie on the bed, frozen in fear. My stomach turns—being paddled? The new implement on the dresser—it looked so much more wicked than the strap. I squeak, “You never said anything about the paddle!”

“You not only have a leather strap, now, but also a personalized wooden paddle. Which I think you need a taste of, tonight.” His hand brushes over my skin. He says, “Then you will give me the corner time you owe me.”

Standing in the window for all to see. The thought makes me cringe. Makes my core throb. His hand stroking my ass feels delightful but all I can think about is the humiliation he’s outlined. I say, “Carter, I don’t think we need to do all that⁠—”

He laughs. His hand comes down on my right cheek, my left cheek. I wince as each spank falls. My bottom is already starting to hurt. I beg, “Can we maybe ease into the lifestyle? You know… take it slow. Shouldn’t we take it slow?”

He spanks me. Harder than before. Punishing me for asking such a question. He speaks with total domination. “We took it slow. For the whole year we were engaged. Time to fast track this baby.” He’s pulling at my skirt. My face burns as I feel my ass exposed in my thong. I’ve got to start wearing more protective underwear. I feel him tugging at the fabric of my skirt at my waist.

I try to peer over my shoulder to see what he’s doing but his arm and shoulder are blocking my view. “What are you doing back there?” I ask.

He says, “I’m tucking your skirt into your waistband.”

“So it doesn’t get in your way?” I mumble miserably, dropping my head back down onto my arm.

He says, “No. So the Village can see your punished bottom from the front window.” He gives my bare ass a hearty slap.

My breath stops. The blush in my face drains. My skin feels all prickly, ice forms in my stomach.

We’ve all seen Tess Bachman, Brett’s wife, standing in the window with her red ass on display. But I thought it was because she got off on it. A sex thing. The idea is making me nauseous, but underneath that roil is my overactive pussy, traitorously melting and confusing the hell out of me.