I Am a Dominant Page 9

  The intent in my eye was clear; I was, absolutely, going to spank her, misbehavior or not, and I saw the telltale flush of understanding creep across her face.

  “I have to go to the ladies room,” she said abruptly, and jumping to her feet, almost spilling the coffee on the table, she hurried inside the cafe.

  Looking up and down the cobblestone street I could see there weren’t many people, but enough to make things interesting. It had been a couple of years since I’d delivered a public spanking, and the thought appealed to me immensely, but I wasn’t absolutely sure I’d go ahead until I saw him, the one person who could seal her fate; a flic was moving slowly up the hill. (A flic is a French policeman.)

  Placing enough money on the table to cover the check should it become necessary to make a hasty retreat (though my preference was that she remain sitting on her hot backside while I finish the pastries and a second cup of coffee) I intercepted him, and had a long, meaningful chat.

  He was a good-humored man, and wholeheartedly supported my decision, promising to intercede if some unknowing good Samaritan thought they should come to Rachel’s rescue. Moving quickly back to the table I’d just settled in when she returned.

  “I trust you’ve given my…PROMISE…some thought,” she said, in what was probably her most threatening voice.

  “I can’t say I’ve given your promise any thought, none, just the challenge.”

  “Then you are an idiot,” she spat, sitting down.

  That, my good reader, was the straw. She was staring at me, her chin out, daring me to debate her.

  “Do you know what I see when I look at you?” I began slowly.

  “I don’t know and I don’t really care,” she replied, clearly irritated that I hadn’t given her the answer she’d wanted.

  “You’re about to care, you’re about to care very much,” I said solemnly, raising my eyebrows. “I see a bored, overindulged, self-obsessed young woman who has no idea how lucky she is. Flying around on private jets, buying expensive new clothes because she can’t be bothered packing a suitcase-”

  “Hey, you can’t talk to me like that,” she interrupted, “just because-”

  “Be quiet,” I growled. “Your only problem is that you’re spoiled rotten. What you need is a serious attitude adjustment. I don’t give a toss about what you do back home, but I’m tired of your petulance, your lack of grace and manners, and I’m going to give you that attitude adjustment right now.”

  “What the fuck are you-?” but before she could finish the sentence I was up from the table and standing next to her chair. Grabbing her wrist I yanked her to her feet, and wrapping my arm tightly around her waist I almost lifted her off her feet as I bent her over.

  “You threw down the glove, and now I’m giving it back to you with a vengeance,” I declared, and began slapping her backside with some serious swats.

  “OW, stop it, stop it, you fucking bastard, stop it,” she wailed.

  “Swear like that again and I pull down your slacks.”

  “NOOOO!”

  “Then, shut up. I can’t think of anyone I’ve ever met who deserves a spanking more than you.”

  “I hate you!” she howled.

  I paid no attention to the people walking by, and safe in the knowledge that Louis, the policeman, had my back, I focused all my attention on walloping her behind. Her thin cotton slacks offered little protection and I didn’t hold back, landing my smacks with gusto, determined she’d not sit comfortably for a month (well, a day at least).

  I had to be quick, but a rapid spanking creates a keen sting, and though it was over in less than a minute I knew her ass was on fire, and her humiliation was complete.

  I made her sit back down at the table, and though she spent the entire time with her face buried in her hands, I finished some more of the pastries, and enjoyed my second cup of coffee.

  During my conversation with Louis, he had told me of a sex shoppe at the bottom of the hill that sold an implement called a gummy whip. He claimed it was small enough to secret away, and carried a bite that could be felt through jeans. On my way back down, the red-faced, red-bottomed, deathly silent Rachel beside me, I located the shop amongst the many in the area, found the whip, and gave it a test-run on her already scorched behind before leaving.

  I was careful, Louis told me it carried quite a zing, and based on her reaction I’m sure he was right, but I made it clear it would be with me at all times, and if she wasn’t a respectful, cooperative companion it would be landing on her backside regardless of where we were.

  Spanking Rachel at that cafe was the first time I’d punished a woman for whom I had no sexual feelings whatsoever. It was a different experience, but no less satisfying. Had Alistair not warned me about her suspected recreational drug use, I might not have gone the extra mile to check her bags, and I would have been in a hell of a jam when we’d landed in Paris. Her attitude was intolerable and something had to give; that something was her bottom.

  I can’t say she was a modicum of decorum during the remainder of our time in Paris. For the remainder of that day she barely said two words and I’m sure she positively loathed me, but the chill passed. The following morning she was surprisingly pleasant, remaining so for the duration of our stay, and on the train back to London she was actually flirting with me. Once home, she spent her last two days sight-seeing, and to my amazement she became delightful company.

  The morning of her departure, Alistair, feeling guilty about not having spent more time with her, insisted on driving her to the airport. He was waiting outside in the car, and as I was about to carry out her new suitcase (which had to be bought to carry all her shopping), she touched my arm.

  “James, wait, I feel weird,” she said softly.

  Her voice was shockingly demure, and she was looking up at me with a depth in her eyes I’d not seen from her.

  “Weird? Why, how do you mean?”

  “Emotional. I don’t get emotional. I wish I could stay longer. Can I please have a hug?”

  “Of course,” I smiled, and when I put my arms around her I felt a closeness I’d not expected, and realized I’d come to care for her more than I’d thought.

  “Can we please stay in touch?” she asked, her voice cracking.

  “I’d like that, I would,” I replied. “Skype, email, call, whatever you want.”

  “I don’t know what to do about things,” she stammered.

  “What things?”

  “Life, I don’t know what to do.”

  “Are you asking me what I think you should do when you get home?”

  “Yes, please,” she murmured, “I…uh…I feel like what you say means something. Sorry, I’m not explaining myself very well.”

  “You’re explaining yourself just fine,” I said, breaking my hug and looking down at her. “You need to find something you really enjoy, then learn about it. Go back to school and become really good at it, and it will give you a reason to get up in morning. That’s my advice.”

  She had to wipe away tears as she left, and I’m happy to report that when she returned to New York she did go back to school, and I wasn’t surprised when she emailed me to tell me she was studying fashion.

  Here’s the P.S.

  About three months after Rachel left I received an email from a friend of mine, a fellow Dominant; it was short and to the point, the only sentence being, Hey, James, is this you? and underneath it a youtube link. I clicked, and watched, and felt my heart thump.

  Fortunately whoever was holding the camera phone was inside the cafe so the picture was jumpy and taken over heads and through a window. All that was captured was Rachel’s shapely curves and my hand spanking them. My head was down so my face was out of view, and it was a fuzzy recording.

  It has given me pause ever since. We live in a world where everything we do outside our front door, regardless of where we might do it, can be secretly recorded and shared with the world. I have spanked in public again, a couple of times, but
I was very aware of those around me. I thought it might take some of the fun out of it but it didn’t. I guess a public spanking is still…a public spanking.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Submissive Who Wasn’t

  It was a Thursday night, I was at the club by myself, and when I wandered into the playroom I saw a lone woman standing in the shadows. I watched for a few minutes, waiting to see if anyone joined her, but when no-one did I moved closer; she was certainly attractive, probably in her thirties, and wearing an apprehensive look. I could have simply walked up and introduced myself, but I thought it better to have Charles do the honors, then at least she would have some assurance I was known to the management of the club.

  When Charles walked me over she broke into a smile and it was clear she was grateful for the company. Her name was Helen Baker, and when I suggested we move downstairs and have a drink she readily agreed.

  As I had matured, my interest in engaging in activity with a woman just for the sake of it had waned. Physical attraction may draw me in, but not enough to immediately leap between the sheets. Had I met Mirren at this point in my life it is highly doubtful we would have ended up in a small, tacky hotel room, or even a nice one.

  Moving into the light of the staircase Helen’s full figure became evident, and I found it immensely attractive. She’d chosen her wardrobe well; it was provocative, but not excessively so, her bustier top showed just the right amount of cleavage, and her black pants offered a subtle view of her full, round, plump cheeks. Long honey-blonde hair fell around her shoulders and as we sat down her deep blue eyes stared back at me hopefully.

  “You looked a bit sad up there,” I began.

  “I was a bit. I’m never sure if it helps or hurts to come here,” she replied.

  “Because at home you feel at odds, but when you come here you wish you were with someone?”

  “Yes, exactly,” she sighed. “Sorry, I don’t mean to complain.”

  “Hey, no apology needed. It’s tough being like we are and having no-one to scratch the itch.”

  “Yes, that’s the perfect way to put it,” she nodded enthusiastically, “no-one to scratch the itch.”

  “Perhaps we can meet for coffee or lunch, get to know each other better, and see if there’s an interest in some mutual scratching.”

  She broke into a delightful laugh and that did it for me; I was definitely interested. It turned out she worked not far from my office, so we arranged to meet for lunch the following day at a small bistro convenient for us both.

  It was October, that magical time of the year when we have spotty showers, a mixture of clouds and sun, and some cold days thrown in to remind us that winter is just around the corner.

  When I left my building to meet her I was met with some sprinkles and quickened my step; sprinkles can evaporate or turn into rain, and I’d neglected to bring my umbrella. Much to my chagrin Mother Nature decided to turn on the tap, and I was grateful that at least I had my trench coat, but entering the bistro I discovered Helen had not been so fortunate.

  “I almost canceled,” she said as I sat down, “but I thought the shower would pass. I was wrong.”

  Her hair was drenched, long strands clinging to her face, and even though she’d been wearing a jacket, her olive green shirt had also been the victim of the rain, and several wet spots had plastered the silky fabric against her skin. As I stared at her I had a flash of being under a steaming shower, soaping what I guessed would be her very voluptuous breasts.

  “Always tough on days like this,” I remarked, “but we don’t want you to catch a chill. Do you have a jumper or something? You can’t go back to work like you are.”

  “I’m an idiot,” she grinned. “I do have a cardigan and it’s draped around the chair at my desk, but it’s warm in here, I’m sure I’ll be half-dry by the time I leave.”

  I stared out the window and shook my head.

  “It’s really starting to come down. If it’s like this after we’ve had our lunch I’m putting you in a taxi.”

  “James, you’re such a gentleman, that’s so generous.”

  “I appreciate the compliment, but it’s the least I can do. Look at you, you poor thing, all wet because of me.”

  We both realized what I’d said, and as she giggled and turned red I found myself almost embarrassed by what could be construed as a crude comment.

  “Maybe one day you’ll say that and mean it,” she winked.

  “You’re a naughty girl, Helen,” I chuckled shaking my head.

  “So I’ve been told, more than once I must confess.”

  “I might have to do something about that,” I grinned.

  The sparkling banter continued throughout our meal, and I found her to not only have a fun sense of humor, but I loved her laugh; it was full, spontaneous, and came from her heart.

  We were sharing a gooey, decadent chocolate dessert when she gently placed her spoon on her plate and stared out the window for a minute, then looked back at me.

  “Yes?” I smiled.

  “I don’t want to be forward,” she said quietly.

  “Sometimes being coy is good, sometimes being forward is good, it’s all about the mood at the moment, and the mood right now suggests forward could be good. Does that help?”

  “It does, and it was well said, thank you.”

  “So…?”

  “So,” she sighed, “I was thinking how amazing it would be if I was sitting in front of a fire, it was raining just like it is now, there was a fireplace burning close by, and you were feeding me this incredible…whatever it is,” she finished, pointing to the rich dessert.

  She’d delivered her fantasy slowly and softly, drawing me in, and when she finished I felt an overwhelming desire to make it real.

  “Did I say something wrong? You’ve got a funny look on your face.”

  “No, not at all, I just think that’s a very compelling vision,” I replied. “Now it’s my turn to say I hope I’m not being too forward, but…”

  “But…?”

  “But would you like to come to my house for dinner tomorrow night? I realize it’s Saturday and you may have plans already, so if it’s not possible-”

  “It’s entirely possible,” she smiled. “I’d love it.”

  I’d surprised myself asking her over so soon, and had she not outlined the scene so vividly, sitting there with her wet hair and magnificent bosom so abundantly apparent, I would have waited, but I am as vulnerable to temptation as the next person; the perfect storm had swirled around me and I was swept up in the erotic promise of its winds.

  With a peck on her cheek I placed her in a taxi, and with a bounce in my step and a stirring in my cock I returned to my office, greatly looking forward to the next evening, and of course, praying for more rain.

  By no means am I great cook, but I can prepare a few things very well indeed. One of those is a baked pasta dish, a creation of a dear friend who also happens to be a chef. It’s a bit involved but it never fails to impress, and served with a smooth red wine it’s a sensual meal made to share, especially as a prelude to a romantic evening.

  Helen arrived on time, wearing a shiny black dress that buttoned up the front; it was both sexy and elegant, showing once again she had excellent taste. The food was devoured and the wine imbibed, and as if ordained by the D/s Gods, just as we were clearing the table the rain started. It’s splattering against the windows was like signal, and taking the plates from her hand I returned them to the table, moved her hands to the back of her waist, and kissed her neck.

  “So, Helen, it’s raining, and it’s time for dessert,” I whispered.

  “What do you have?” she breathed.

  “A surprise; I have that chocolate something we had yesterday, it’s waiting in the kitchen.”

  “Really?”

  “If you’re a good girl I might let you have some.”

  “Oh, James, I’ll be a very good girl. What should I do?”

  “Exactly what I tell you,
can you do that?”

  “Definitely, James,” she sighed.

  “Close your eyes. I’m going to guide you.”

  She leaned into me, and I knew she was being swept away by a wave of weakness. Her body was all curves, luscious, round, womanly curves, and her breasts pressing against my chest were having a profound affect.

  Releasing her wrists I placed my arm around her and moved her slowly into the living room. The fire was already burning, the waiting couch as soft and welcoming as any bed. She sank into the enveloping goose down and let out a heavy, happy sigh.

  “Feel good?” I softly asked.

  “Amazing, I feel amazing.”

  “I’m going to fetch the dessert, and when I return I’ll tell you how you can earn each spoonful.”

  “Oh, James, this is heaven,” she whispered.

  “You can open your eyes in a few minutes, but for now keep then closed. Understand?”

  “Yes, I understand,” she murmured.

  On my way out I dimmed the lights, allowing the fire to fill the room with its flickering amber glow, and looking back I was delighted that the scene was just as she’d described it in the restaurant…but at that precise moment I felt a vague, unsettling, something.

  It was odd, and I paused, hoping for enlightenment, but none was forthcoming, and though it was fleeting it had left the tiniest shadow of doubt in its wake. I wasn’t sure what the doubt was, I just felt it, but I wasn’t going to allow it interfere with our evening, and continuing to the kitchen I fetched the dessert.

  As I carried it back to the living room I found her exactly as I’d left her, but the rain had become a downpour, and like a serenade it enhanced our cozy intimacy.

  “Have you been a good girl?” I asked, placing the dessert on the side table at the end of the couch.

  “Of course,” she smiled.

  “No peeking?” I pressed, knowing that sometimes the second question gets the truth.

  “Uh, maybe a tiny bit.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I just wanted to see the fire, just for a minute,” she squeaked.