Punish Me, Please Me Page 13

  She found her mark at the far end of the pool near by the waterfall. An athletic-looking man was openly eying her body. He was older than her, probably nearing forty, and quite bald. He was not handsome – his head was over large – but he had an air of self-assurance about him that suggested middle management. He was not wearing a wedding ring. That did not mean he was single but it did mean that he wasn’t planning to send an available woman away before considering his options.

  She smiled at him and he smiled back. Encouraged, she sauntered over and sat beside him, “Care for some company?”

  “Sure.” He raised an eyebrow.

  “My name’s Celine.”

  “I’m Pete Crofter.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Pete. Are you here on vacation?”

  “I’m just here until the weekend. I’m attending a conference on computer security.”

  “Oh. That must be interesting.”

  “I think so.” He smiled. “Not everyone agrees.”

  “Are you a computer programmer?”

  “No.” He laughed. “I’m a lieutenant colonel in the Canadian army.”

  “Oh.” She laughed back. “I guess that’s better than being a computer hacker.”

  “I think so.” He looked at her bikini. “How about you? Do you live in Las Vegas?”

  “No. I’m just here on vacation. I’m a middle school teacher from Los Angeles.”

  He looked more interested at this news. It was obvious that he was pleased to hear that she wasn’t a hooker looking for a client.

  “I was wondering if you’d mind helping me out. I’ve got myself into a bit of a problem.”

  “What kind of problem?” He looked instantly suspicious.

  “It’s kind of embarrassing. I met a guy here a couple of days ago and I’d like to get rid of him. I was wondering if you’d mind escorting me up to my room.”

  “Is he stalking you?”

  “No. He’s not dangerous or anything. I just have to make him understand that my circumstances have changed and I’m interested in someone else now.”

  “I guess that wouldn’t be a problem. Where is he?” Pete stood up. He was tall.

  “He’s back this way. You don’t have to do anything. I can handle him myself.”

  Pete smiled. “So I’m just a prop?”

  “Kind of. So you’re Canadian?”

  “That’s right. I’m stationed in Ottawa currently, though I’m going to be posted to Afghanistan for most of the winter.”

  They chatted a little about the Canadian effort in Afghanistan while she led him back to Paul. She had not realized that the Canadians were doing more of the fighting than the Americans there. Somehow the Canadian war effort was never discussed in the Los Angeles Times.

  Paul’s eyes grew wide when he saw his slave walking back toward him in the company of a tall, athletic-looking man who was old enough to be his father.

  She stopped out of earshot and told Pete, “If you don’t mind waiting here for a minute, I’d like to talk to Paul alone. I’ll be right back.”

  “No problem.”

  “And one other thing, if you don’t mind?”

  “What’s that?”

  “A kiss.” Without waiting for an answer, she stood on her toes, reached up to hold his face gently, and gave him a soft, dry kiss on the lips. When she released him, she smiled and said, “I’ll be right back.”

  She put a little extra swish into her hips as she approached Paul. She almost felt sorry for the poor guy sitting, watching his slave slip away from him. “Look, Paul, I found Master Exeter all on my own.”

  Paul’s eyes sprang wide open as they snapped back to look at the interloper standing alone watching him. “What?”

  “That’s right. I saw the way he was looking at me, like he owned me and I thought to myself that I’ll bet that’s Master Exeter so I walked up to him and asked him if he was Master Exeter and he said that sounded good. So I asked him if he would let me have an orgasm and he said that he would. I didn’t even have to get down on my knees and beg or anything. So if you’ll just give me my room key, I’m going to take him right up there and fuck the bejesus out of him the way you taught me.”

  “But...but...” Paul stuttered.

  “Hurry up. You’re his valet, aren’t you? You know better than to keep Master Exeter waiting. He’s not a patient man. Give me my room key, right now.”

  Paul handed her the key card.

  She tied her cover-up over her bikini and practically skipped back to Pete. She had Paul by the short and curlies now but he hadn’t figured that out yet. Right now he was too confused to understand his own predicament.

  When she and Pete were alone in the elevator, he said, “That other guy looked pretty surprised by whatever you told him.”

  “He sure was.” She looked at Pete with a wicked gleam in her eye. “I told him that I had asked you to give me an orgasm.”

  “Oh.” The man flushed.

  “I was just saying that to shock him.”

  “Oh.” He looked a little relieved.

  She reached out to hold his hand and looked him in the eye. “But I’m grateful for the help that you’ve given me so far and, if you want to do me that extra favor when we get to my room, I’d be ever so much more grateful.”

  “I think that I’d like to do you a favor, too.”

  She hugged him tightly. “I’m just a school teacher from Glendale. I’ve never tried anything like this before in my life, but it’s time I went a little wild, don’t you think?”

  “Yes.” He nodded vigorously to show his whole-hearted agreement.

  “We’re going to have some fun, you and me.” She could feel a bulge pressing against her mons through his pants. “As much fun as we can.”

  When they got to her room door, she said, “It’s a little messy in there right now. Would you mind waiting her for just a minute while I straighten things out a bit?” Without waiting for an answer, she dashed inside, threw the handcuffs, collar, and rope into a drawer, and then threw Paul’s clothes into another drawer. When she handled Paul’s pants, she could feel his wallet in the pocket and hear his car keys jingling. She expected that, about now, Paul was beginning to realize what he was missing.

  She didn’t have to make the bed, it was already perfect. She had taken her lessons to heart.

  She was back in the hallway in a jiffy, “All ready. Come on in and let me show you a good time.”

  And she did. She had a very good time twice in the next three hours with a nap in between. Pete seemed to enjoy himself, too.

  While Pete had been napping, she had retrieved Paul’s wallet from his pocket and searched through his identification. His real name was Paul Jacobs and he lived in Tucson, Arizona. His student ID identified him as a first-year graduate student at the University of Arizona.

  It was almost suppertime when Paul knocked timidly on the door. He was still wearing his jams and tee shirt because she had the keys to the rest of his clothes.

  To avoid waking Pete, she stepped out into the hallway wearing only her bikini cover up and told him that Paul could have his clothes and wallet back when he returned her purse and suitcase.

  He quietly informed her that he needed his car keys to retrieve her things from the trunk of his car. She disappeared into the room, took the car key off his ring, and brought it out to him. Fifteen minutes later, there was another knock on the door and she had her possessions back. As soon as she had accounted for everything, she returned his clothes and wallet. “I think I’ve learned my lessons well enough, Paul. Pete, that’s the man napping on my bed, agrees. I won’t need any more education from you.”

  He turned to go, but before he took a step, she reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, it’s not a bad thing. I had fun with you and I think you had some fun with me, too, right? It just wasn’t meant to last as long as you thought.”

  He smiled sadly. “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble to get rid of me. I would hav
e honored the ‘red light’ safe word you know.”

  “I know. But I thought that it was a lot more fun this way. I’m still playing your game, you know. I’m using what you taught me and exercising the power that you said that I would have. I’m still playing by your rules, I’ve merely changed partners.”

  “You know that he’s not the real Master Exeter.”

  “I can make any man the real ‘Master Exeter’ any time I want. That’s the final lesson, you know.”

  “I guess this is goodbye.”

  “It is. But don’t look sad. You had some pretty good fun for a while, didn’t you?”

  He laughed. “I did.”

  “So did I. Thank-you.” After she closed the door, she returned to Pete, lay down beside him and said, shyly, “Have you ever had a women tied to a bed with her legs stretched wide open, unable to stop him from using her for as long as he wants?”

  He smiled back and said, “Not yet.”

  “Then I’m going to give you a new thrill before I send you back to Canada, Colonel. In fact, I’m going to give you a few new thrills.”

  Bless Me, Father, for I Have Sinned

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been two weeks since my last confession.”

  Mary proceeded to recite a list of mundane sins for the priest behind the carved wooden screen. Impure thoughts. Intemperate language. A couple of other venial sins. Nothing the least bit interesting. It wasn't even worth the effort to ask for salacious details about her impure thoughts. She was probably fantasizing about having an affair with the latest American Idol – and he was a man, it wouldn’t even be a lesbian fantasy.

  When the short, dull recitation was done, Father Luke gave her the obligatory Hail Marys and told her to go forth and sin no more.

  She did not go forth as instructed. Instead she replied, “That's not enough, Father.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The penance that you prescribed is not harsh enough to correct my behavior. My sins are minor but they are persistent. You've been our priest for more than a year, so surely you've noticed that I keep coming back here and confessing the same sins every time. I’ve been trying to change but I don't have the strength to do it on my own. I need you to assign a harsher penance. Something that will focus my thoughts entirely toward goodness and light. A penance that will remain vivid in my thoughts from one confession to the next.”

  “I could assign a reading from the Bible,” the priest suggested. “Something challenging.”

  “No. That's not at all what I need. I read the Bible already. I need a physical penance.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “How about flagellation?”

  There was a long, shocked silence from the screen. After almost a minute, the priest stuttered, “I...I...I couldn't do that. That...that's not prescribed. The church doesn't...wouldn't...would never permit a thing like that. There are guidelines...regulations...rules about penitence. It wouldn't be Catholic.”

  “We both know that's not true, Father. Christ himself was scourged for our sins. The church has a long history of self-flagellation and flagellating others. Look at all the saints who were flagellated. George, Jerome, Easmus–”

  The priest interrupted her. “You've done your homework, haven't you?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “But it doesn't matter. You're no saint, Mary.”

  “No, Father. I'm certainly no saint. Not with the kind of thoughts that I have. But I believe that I could be a better person if I were made to suffer a real penance. My point is that the saints were not made less saintly for their suffering. A little pain doesn't hurt.”

  “I think it's supposed to hurt,” the priest replied, dryly. “That's the definition of pain.”

  “I mean physical pain does not cause spiritual damage.”

  “So what are you proposing? That I tell you to flog yourself?” Mary could hear the smile in his voice. He was not taking her seriously.

  “No, Father. I would not have the courage to administer a decent flogging on myself. I'm asking you to flog me.”

  “Good Lord, no!” the priest sputtered. “No way! No! No! Put that idea right out of your mind! God. I could be defrocked for such a thing. I can't even suggest that you flagellate yourself, much less be an active participant in the...the scene.”

  “You won't be defrocked, Father. No one will ever know but you and me and God. As far as I'm concerned, the seal of the confessional works in both directions. I would never, ever discuss my confession or penance with another mortal soul. I never have never broken the seal of the confessional before and will never break my silence in the future. Not with anyone. Not even with my husband. You've heard my confessions for a year, Father and you know that I've never had to confess to gossip. That's one sin that I never commit.”

  Actually he did not know that. He could hardly be expected to remember every boring venial sin confessed by every member of his congregation. They all ran together in his mind. A tapestry of triviality. “It doesn't matter,” he replied. “I won't do this to you.”

  “You must do it to save my immortal soul. My soul is your responsibility. Saving it is your calling and you must do what you have to do to keep me from burning in Hell for eternity. I'm going to bring an instrument of chastisement to your office after your mass tomorrow night and I'll wait until you come and mortify my flesh. I'll wait all night if I have to, but I'm not leaving until you administer the penance that I require.”

  “Don't do anything–” the priest began to say but she had already dashed out, leaving him protesting to an empty confessional.

  * * *

  Throughout the evening mass, Father Luke was in turmoil. For two days he had been thinking about almost nothing but Mary White's penance. Would she be waiting in his office to be flagellated like she had said?

  Surely not. The idea was absurd.

  But he had left his office unlocked and dismissed his alter boys as quickly as was practical against the possibility that the woman had meant it. He dared not let her make a scene in front of them if she was as crazy as she sounded.

  The idea was utter nonsense, but he could not help but dwell on the details. Exactly what did she have in mind? Flagellation could mean a whip or cane or some other specialized implement like a cat 'o nine tales. It could be performed on the upper back, buttocks, thighs or calves. Self-flagellation normally consisted of a person striking his own upper back by lashing knotted cords over their shoulders. Was that what Mary had in mind? That he strike her back with knotted cords?

  Any form of flagellation would require that she expose her bare skin to some extent. No one was ever flogged through their clothing. Did she intend to bare her back or buttocks to him? He was a priest, for God's sake. And she was a married woman. A fine, fair woman of about thirty years of age with a nicely rounded, slightly plump body.

  Lord save him, he was lusting after a married woman.

  As he walked from the sacristy to his office, he could not help but to fantasize how it would feel to lay into that womanly flesh with a whip or switch and feel it yield to his strength. It would quiver with anticipation of each stroke and twitch reflexively to the pain that he delivered. He would hear her moan in fear and suffering.

  Lord help him, he was getting hard thinking about it.

  What kind of God would expose a man of the cloth to such lascivious fantasies?

  When he pushed his office door open, his question was answered: a cruel, merciless God because, Lord save him, Mary was sitting, waiting for him, as promised, with bowed head and downcast eyes.

  She was wearing a white blouse and full, calf-length flower-print cotton skirt. Her legs were bare above her white ankle socks and shoes.

  A wide brown leather strap was laying across her knees, held in place by her folded hands.

  He realized that she was praying softly, asking God for forgiveness for her many sins.

  Trite, venial sins as he recalled from her confe
ssion. Sins that barely mattered a whit in God's grand scheme of the universe.

  “Mary, you cannot mean to–”

  She interrupted his protest by standing, holding out the strap, and saying, clearly, “I am ready to suffer for my sins, Father.”

  She pushed the strap into his hands.

  Lord help him, he accepted it. He could tell from its weight and length that it was a standard men's leather belt with the buckle and tongue cut off square. He had a similar belt, intact, at home for casual wear.

  While he stood there, dumbfounded, she walked to the door, pushed it closed and twisted the latch to lock it. He knew that he should be protesting, telling her to go home to her husband, vowing that he would never strike her. But he did none of that. He watched with sick fascination while she bent over his desk and hiked her skirt to her waist, presenting her naked buttocks to him.

  Damn her, she was not even wearing panties under her skirt.

  That alone made him want to punish her. The slut.

  He raised the strap and snapped it sharply across her rump. She squealed like a little girl.

  He delivered a second and third blow in quick succession, then stopped to watch the red bloom across her white flesh in three distinct bands.

  In for a penny, in for a pound. A hundred pounds of quivering female flesh, in this instance. He began strapping the woman's ass with a slow, steady rhythm, appreciating the way her soft buttocks twitched and quaked.

  She squawked and yelped a lovely tune.

  After a dozen firm blows, he stopped and appraised his work.

  Her ass was painted a bright red across both cheeks. It was quivering constantly from the pain that she was suffering. She was weeping freely now, her tears soaking his notes for Sunday's sermon that lay on his desk.

  “Enough?” he asked.

  “More,” she whimpered.

  He gave her twitching ass another dozen lashes with the strap.

  “Do you regret your sins?” he asked when he was finished.