Controlling Chrissy Read online

  Derek was unperturbed. "You will lay across my lap," he repeated. "You will accept the consequences of your actions."

  His palm was resting on his thigh. It was a large hand. Strong. Capable. How bad would it hurt? What would he be able to do to her small, vulnerable body when he had her down like that?

  "No," she said, sounding a bit more shrill and weak than she would have liked. "I won't do it. Do you hear me? I won't."

  Derek's face changed. Lifting his hand into the air, he snapped his fingers and pointed to his lap. The sound jarred her, like a gunshot. "Down," the man ordered. "Now."

  Chrissy moved to obey, something in his new tone and expression taking over her will. It wasn't fear exactly, or even a desire to please, just a reflex action, a pervasive sense that where she belonged right now was precisely where Derek Trace told her to be. And if that happened to be a place of imminent pain and degradation, than it was all the more proof that what this was really about was his power and authority overruling hers.

  She had to slide her belly over his right thigh, putting herself in place. Her breasts were immediately squashed against his left. Pressing her own thighs tightly together, she tried to not make this a sexual thing. The fact her pussy was so vulnerable under her skirt and panties was a reality she could not afford to entertain. Nor was the fact that he would soon be touching her. Hitting her. Intimately.

  "Palms on the floor," he told her.

  Chrissy did so, feeling the prickly sensations of her ash gray carpet against her skin as she formed a human bridge. She was so alive this way. Every little nerve fiber was screaming out, sending out signals to her brain, and in turn, her head wanted more. Information. Knowledge. Experience.

  "This will hurt," he told her, resting his hand on her skirted ass. "It is designed that way."

  "If it means anything," she croaked. "I'm sorry."

  "At this point? No, it doesn't." Derek pulled the elastic tie from her hair, freeing the long, silky mane. With a single brush of his hand, he pushed it forward, unceremoniously over her face so that it hung to the floor.

  Chrissy spit out strands of it, understanding instantly this was part of the punishment.

  "An apology can mean many things," he flipped up her skirt to expose her panties. "Not all of them positive and productive. Some can be entirely self-serving in the moment. What is far more desirable in the long run are genuine behavioral changes."

  Chrissy read between the lines. The man thought she was apologizing just to get out of a beating. Well maybe she was. Could you blame her?

  "The intensity will increase as we go along," he explained, sounding like some kind of scientist about to mount a demonstration. "This will allow for a slow and steady build up of the pain. It will allow you to take more. You should know that I am very experienced in disciplining females. I know your natural biological limits and how to work them. As a result, I have the luxury of ignoring your cries and pleas. We will keep going till I say we're done, no sooner."

  Chrissy's poor pussy flooded in response, though she kept her passion to herself. "You're just a bully," she said. "You'll never get anything from a woman but fear."

  "Fear is not all bad," he commented. "As it leads to obedience."

  She shuddered as he rubbed his palm across the surface of her cotton-covered ass. Oh, god, he was making her react already. This wasn't fair. She hadn't meant to be his obedient little, bottle-fucking slut yesterday. She'd intended to tell him where to get off, rejecting his kinky games, and his screwy date idea, too. What the hell did she have in common with him? She didn't even like him. He was arrogant, self-centered, misguided – you name it.

  Damn it, now he was trying to get her worked up by touching her crack.

  "I thought you said this wasn't about pleasure?" she protested.

  He continued his light caresses, intimate, and unsolicited. "I said this wasn't for my pleasure. Arousing you is part of yours."

  "Just get this over with," she braced herself as best she could, trying to keep her mind off pleasure and pain both.

  "What's the matter?" he mused pointedly. "Don't you like having your time wasted … or your affections trifled with?"

  Chrissy fumed silently. The bastard had an answer for everything.

  "It won't be fast," he assured her. "Nor will it be superficial."

  He gave her a few seconds to contemplate the possible meanings of that as he continued playing with her ass as if she were his lover. At a certain point, however, the teasing, pulsing little pressure disappeared.

  Oh, god, it was going to start.

  "One," he announced, delivering a sharp crack of his palm to the blank canvas of her posterior.

  Chrissy yelped, more from the shock than anything. She'd just been spanked. By a man. As punishment for standing him up.

  "Two." The second blow landed on top of the first. The sting lasted a split second longer.

  "Three," said Derek, and this time she cried out for real.

  She was still feeling the throb as he paused to chastise her. "Outbursts will only increase your sentence."

  Chrissy bit her tongue. So much for him ignoring her pleas. Apparently they were just an excuse to beat her ass even more.

  The fourth blow was like liquid fire. No longer on the surface, it was getting deep under her skin. Was this what he meant by the punishment not being superficial?

  "Lay still," he warned.

  "I can't help it," she whined.

  He hit her for the fifth time. "Yes, you can. And you will."

  Chrissy whimpered in reply, though if she'd had any idea how much further she had to go, she'd have saved such a sign of surrender for later on down the line.

  "Six," her tormentor said gravely, ratcheting up the intensity yet another notch. "And seven."

  By ten she was shedding tears. Nothing in her life had ever felt like this. It was the bee stings, splinters and skinned knees put together and multiplied. Yet she knew there was no broken skin here, no infections. Only the will of a man intent on making her suffer.

  By number twelve, she was so sorry she hadn't gone on the fucking date. She wailed this aloud, though the effect was hardly what she'd hoped.

  "That will be five more," Derek said coolly. "For improper language."

  "Please," she was reduced to panting after number fifteen. "Please … stop."

  He did, but only to torment her in a new way. "I couldn't help noticing your behavior with the young man in the car," Derek tugged her panties down over her screaming hot ass. "Have you fucked him?"

  Chrissy had neither the will nor the impetus to lie. "N – not yet."

  "But you will?" His index finger snaked over her throbbing flesh, like raw heat. With each motion, a fresh facet of her beating returned in living color.

  "I … oh, god … yes, I will…" She groaned.

  Derek dipped his finger into her warm, sopping cunt. "How long will you tease him first?"

  "I … I don't know."

  He struck her again, the hardest blow of all, this time on naked flesh. "How long?" he repeated, dismissing the first answer.

  Chrissy sobbed, the tears staining her cheeks and soaking her hair. Her ass was burning. It was flashlight red and she knew the ordeal was not over. He could and would do this all night if he felt like it. "A week," she cried, throwing herself on his mercy. "Maybe two."

  The finger slipped back into place, back inside her hole. In seconds he had her writhing. Confused. Needful. Desperate. "You sent him home with a hard dick, didn't you?"

  "Y – yes."

  "Lift yourself. Fuck my finger."

  Shamed, degraded, Chrissy sought the relief she needed from the hand of her punisher. Would he let her go to orgasm?

  "You like to play with men's affections." It wasn't a question, just a statement of fact. "You like to arouse them and make them want you, but you are afraid if they get their fill they will reject you, so you play games with them. Allocate your favors like a natural resource."

&
nbsp; What could she say? She was on the man's lap, bare assed, frigging herself on his index finger, covered in sweat, a punished, broken woman. "N – need to come," she exclaimed.

  The finger was promptly removed. "No. You didn't let your date come, so why should you? In fact, if you do come, at any point in our little session, I will spank you fifty more times."

  Chrissy tried to press herself down on his lap in order to free herself of the penetrating finger. She must not climax, at all costs.

  Derek retaliated by finding her clit. "What's the matter? You don't seem to enjoy being teased."

  Oh, god, she was going to go over the edge. She was shuddering already from his touch and hard domination. She had to hold back; there was no way she could endure that many more spanks. "I … I can't stop…"

  Derek spanked her, three times more in rapid succession. It was hot, bare skinned, low down, dirty punishment. Chrissy ground her crotch against him, gushing under the pressure. When his hand stopped, she was still moving, wanting.

  This time he pinched her, hard enough to break through her near trance, a hot cold world where pain and pleasure were merging.

  "You need to concentrate, Chrissy. We are attempting to teach you something from this."

  "F – forgive me," she panted.

  "We are endeavoring to show you what it is like to be used. We are trying to make it hurt enough so you will never want to do again it to anyone."

  Hurt enough … there was an oxymoron. How could one not want more of this torture when it came hand in hand with sexual stimulation? Or even more peculiarly, when there was something in the very torture itself to whet the appetite?

  Derek released the harsh press of his fingers, opting instead to rest the tips of his fingers against her pussy lips. "You use men, Chrissy, every time you solicit a compliment, arrange a false date or actually go on one only to shatter expectations of intimacy. So, too, when you give them too much, overwhelming them with your sexual being, this is a kind of exploitation."

  Chrissy dared not move. The fingers were a deadly trap, trying to trick her into stealing a climax in violation of the rule. So, too, was his voice, hypnotically melodic, a harbinger of ecstasy, even as his hard body delivered agony.

  Who was this man and where did he come from? He wasn't like her or her friends. They had their age in common, and the color of their skin, but little else. Wherever he'd been, he'd learned from life and not books. She was sure of this. He'd learned a way of relating to women that was radically different from what she'd ever seen.

  "This will be the hard part," he said to her now. "The real punishment."

  Chrissy had no clue if he was spanking her harder or softer, if there were ten blows in all or a hundred. He was no longer counting and she was no longer registering the specifics. She could hear cracks of flesh on flesh, hard on soft, but what she felt was only a rising tide, molten lava, sloshing over the edges of her existence.

  Her rational mind tried to tell her it could not be that bad. No skin was being broken. No harm was coming to her bones, nor were there any other permanent injuries of any kind. But her body and emotions knew a different reality. It wasn't just the pain, it was what it represented. The fact that a man was doing this to her and she was letting him. It was deeply personal, gender based, and sexual, too.

  That was part of it. Her own arousal and frustration to teach her a lesson. As if it were his fucking business what she did with other men. Was he jealous or something? Well, he'd rot in hell before he'd ever get anywhere with her. She'd stay as she was. She'd survive this. The sun would rise on another day. Everything the same – exactly the same.

  At a certain point the rain of fire and thunder stopped. The sky cleared. The air raid siren sounded the all clear. "You've paid the penalty," Derek Trace announced.

  And that was it. He told her to get up, then he got up himself. She was left there, scrambling to pull her own panties back over her flame blistered flanks.

  "You think you can just walk out?" she demanded, though she had no clue what she would do if he actually stayed.

  "There is nothing further between us, Miss Newland."

  Chrissy … she wanted him to call her Chrissy.

  Fresh tears dotted her eyes. She was contradicting her own logic. She hated the man. She couldn't be rid of him soon enough. And yet … to be alone now … she didn't know if she could face it.

  "Get the fuck out, then!" she screamed. "Do you hear me?"

  He paid no attention, his hand on the doorknob. As he had all along, he was doing precisely what he wanted, one step ahead of her, maybe even five.

  "I never want to see you again!" Chrissy hurled the ceramic vase against the wall beside the jamb. He never turned back. Quietly, decisively, he closed the door behind him.

  The click of the knob mechanism was like a knife through her chest. He couldn't leave her hanging like this. What was she supposed to make of this experience? Didn't he owe her a de-briefing or something? Shouldn't she have a chance to talk, to yell … something?

  Then again, it was just punishment. A sentence delivered for a crime. She'd paid her price, she was exonerated and he was satisfied. He was also, coincidentally, quite gone.

  So he wasn't going to ask her out again. Who gave a fuck? She'd have only said no anyway.

  Chrissy tore off her skirt and yanked down the panties. Her ravaged skin needed to breath. Did she dare look in the mirror? Maybe a nice bath? Shit, how would she even sit in the tub?

  That fucking bastard, Derek Trace. How would he like to have his ass beaten every time he made a mistake? What gave him the right, just because he was a man and she was a woman? Chrissy felt a fresh pulse between her legs as it occurred to her it was all about her gender. As a man, he was taking it upon himself to do something, on behalf of other men whose lives she played with.

  There was an old saying, cruisin' for a bruisin'. Had Chrissy been looking at some level for a man who would fight back? No, that was crazy. She liked her life just fine, and she'd be damned if she'd spend another minute thinking about the cruel, arrogant Derek Trace.

  Chrissy went straight to bed, collapsing wearily. The pressure of the mattress against her tenderized behind was a sudden, stark reminder. This wasn't just an abstract internal dialogue about domination. She'd just been spanked, like a child; much worse than a child, because he'd molested her as well.

  Fuck Derek Trace. He ought to thank his lucky stars I'm not calling the police on his sorry ass. Chrissy rolled to her stomach, cheek to the pillow. Ass facing up, she tried to quiet her breathing, her thoughts.

  Never again. Never again, she whispered, making it an anti-Trace mantra. A cold day in hell, that's when she'd see him again … a cold day in hell.

  Screw him. Screw him. Screw him.

  Chrissy matched the words to the rhythm of her body as she began to push against her own bed. Still hurting, still furious, she gave in to her urge to masturbate. It meant nothing, of course, just pent up tension.

  Too late she tried to banish the images of the man mounting her from behind, slapping her ass till she put herself in proper position to be fucked.

  "Yield," he growled, forcing her to open herself.

  He had his hand in her hair, controlling, while the other slapped and pinched, making her move to specifications, making her squeal and squirm and confess.

  Yes, I need it bad. Yes, sir, treat me like a slut. Show me what a little bitch I am, ride my punished ass, pinch my nipples, make me come in pain, make me beg for a sweaty, humiliating climax, under total and complete control. Take me, sir, take me.

  The first of the orgasms came a few minutes later. She had to bite her own knuckles to keep from screaming loud enough to be heard through the walls.

  Oh…fuck. Fucking fuck. This wasn't it, not by a long shot.

  This was going to be one long night, she lamented. One long, fuck ass night.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Over the next week, Chrissy tried a million times to throw a
way his business card. One time she got as far as tearing it in half and throwing it in the trash by the water cooler. It sat there for four hours while she went about her business, printing the day's letters for her boss to sign, and completing the monthly utilization review charts. Finally, at half past two, she scrambled through the pile of discarded papers and wrappers.

  Erica asked what she was doing.

  "Nothing," she snapped.

  Her friend let her alone. Chrissy took the pieces to her desk and taped them together. This wasn't good and she knew it. It was unhealthy. She'd stopped wanting to go out, she was even losing interest in sex. Instead of stringing Bobby along, she let him off the hook, setting up a date for him with Misty, a cute young thing from human resources.

  "You are acting way strange," Mandy told her point blank after she refused to go out to Craig's for the third straight day. "Either you are on drugs or you should be."

  Chrissy promised to see a counselor, but she knew full well what the problem was. It was the stupid business card. If she could just get rid of it somehow, there'd be no way to contact him, no temptation to ever open that very bad door again. Sure, she might meet him by accident, but the odds were pretty small. She'd avoid Craig's and that would probably be the end of it. Even if she did see him in public, it wouldn't mean anything, anyway. He'd be a stranger by then, just an awkward, better off forgotten moment from her past resurfacing like a dandelion in a patch of lovely grass.

  Dandelions could be mowed down indefinitely. But this card – it was like a lit crack pipe sitting there next to an addict, waiting to be inhaled. She knew Derek was no good for her, that nothing but trouble would come from another attempt at contact, but she was so damned curious, so totally drawn to him, so totally … smitten.

  No one had done things to her like he had. With one finger, with one punishing hand, he'd awaken her to passions no amount of conventional sex ever had. It was as if all the other men she'd known were boys in comparison. Not even real boys, they were like cardboard cutouts of masculinity, with Derek being the real thing.

  And yet she didn't like him. He was completely offensive to her and disrespectful. Well, maybe not disrespectful, but he never let her get away with things. He called her bluff. He contained her. Would he be able to keep that up? Over and over she'd played out the conversations they'd had, trying to read into every word. More than that, she'd masturbated, thinking of how he'd made her go over his lap and take a bare ass beating for being such an inconsiderate little cunt. He'd neither knuckled under nor blown her off on that one, had he? Nope, he'd met her head on.