Taken by Surprise

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"May I help you?" she finally asked.

"I'm David Duvane. I own the house next door."

She'd heard of him—the architect of several homes in the area. "Won't you come in?"

Duvane walked into the living room as if inspecting it for design flaws, sat down on the couch, and crossed one leg over the other. For once the roofers' nail guns were not silent as she perched on the edge of the leather chair under the skylight. With the house's owner on the site, they weren't about to slack off.

"Coffee?" she asked.

"No, I'm here on business. This shouldn't take long."

"Well, do you mind if I?—I just woke up, and could use a cup."

Without a word, he nodded his head slowly one time, as if he didn't really approve, but permitted her to go to the kitchen. What nerve! The guy may be good-looking, but he's an asshole, Bernie decided. That would explain why her hands shook as she spooned instant coffee into a cup.

She returned and sat down, only slightly more composed, her synapses firing a little better after a couple of noisy slurps from her cup.

"It's my understanding," he began, "that you and Jake enjoyed each other's company here yesterday afternoon."

She gulped down a mouthful of scalding coffee, her brain fairly humming now, and not because of the caffeine. "I doubt that's any of your business, Mr. Duvane."

"Call me David. And you're wrong. It is my business when he's boffing someone on my time."

"No one was 'boffing' anyone. And I would think who he does—I mean what he does on his lunch break is his own affair." She cringed inwardly at her poor choice of words, but continued to look Duvane in the eye. She would not be intimidated. Oh, all right, she was totally intimidated. But she would stand up to him anyway.

"When he's on my payroll, it becomes my 'affair.' And ten in the morning is a little early for lunch. That's why I fired him today."

"What? You fired him because of me?"

"He told me what happened. That he'd been watching you through your window, came over here to meet you, and the two of you had sex."

Bernie brought the cup to her lips, stalling for time. If Jake had already confessed, it would be foolish to deny it. But the poor kid had lost his job because her libido got out of control.

"Look, David, it was a harmless, one-time thing . . . we were just having fun."

"Well, I hope you both had plenty of it, because he lost his job over your fun."

"That's so unfair! He was saving for a car."

"Oh, that makes it all right then." As if she were too obtuse to appreciate his sarcasm, he added, "An immature argument, Bernie. And completely irrelevant."

"It wasn't his fault. He came over here out of kindness, to caution me about leaving my drapes open."

One dark eyebrow shot up over a piercing blue eye, and the corner of Duvane's mouth twitched in an amused grimace. It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure out how she'd been teasing the men with glimpses of her half-naked body.

She went on, hoping to exonerate Jake, who must surely be devastated at losing his job. "He did nothing wrong. I was the one who—I seduced him. Please don't make him pay the price, David."

"Were you aware that he's only eighteen? How old are you? Thirty?"

A zing shot down the muscles on either side of her spine, and she straightened involuntarily. The age difference hadn't seemed important yesterday. And Duvane had hit her age right on the nose. Most people guessed she was in her twenties.

And there was that twitch of a smile again. He knew he was getting to her, and she started to squirm. And she hated the fact that on some gut level, she was attracted to the power that he wielded so casually.

"You might be heartless enough to fire poor Jake, but you don't have any authority over me. You should leave."

She breathed an audible sigh of relief when he stood. But instead of going to the door, he strode to the window and snatched the drapes closed.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, rising.

Without answering, he moved to the next window and did the same.

Shutting out the rest of the world only intensified Duvane's presence in the suddenly shrinking room. Morning sunlight filtered in through the skylight, spotlighting her.

"Jake took his punishment. Now you'll take yours."

He returned to the sofa and sat, propping one ankle on the opposite knee and casually resting one arm on the sofa's back.

"You can't fire me, Mr. Duvane. I don't work for you."

"No, but you've cost me plenty, distracting the workers with your girlish games. Now get undressed."

Her breath caught. So, this was it. Jake had bragged about getting a blow job from the sexpot next door, and now Duvane wanted his share.

And she had to admit, the idea of sex with Duvane had its appeal. She'd never really intended to be intimate with Jake, but he'd shown up yesterday, so naïve. And she was so turned on by displaying her nudity, letting the men watch her play with herself until she came. It just happened. But with Duvane, she was sure that nothing "just happened." The man was obviously used to having everything under his control.

Well, thought Bernie, we'll just see about that. Now we'll see whose brain gets a little rattled.

She peeled off her skimpy T-shirt, tossing it on the coffee table. She straightened up to her full five feet eight inches, thrusting out her full breasts. They weren't huge, but they were big enough, and firm. She didn't have to look down to know that her mauve nipples were puckering right before Duvane's eyes, for there was that hint of a smile again as he made no attempt to hide his visual feasting on her breasts.

He waggled his index finger in an up-down motion, directing her to pull down her slacks. Ever so slowly she wiggled out of the skin-tight spandex, rocking her hips more than necessary, gratified by the darkening of his blue eyes as he watched.

She stood before him, clad only in white cotton bikini panties that set off her golden tan. And she waited, allowing him to drink his fill of her. Other men would already be playing with themselves by now. Certainly Sam would—she hardly ever stripped for him. Jake would have already climaxed by now. But Duvane was a paragon of self-control. Not for long, thought Bernie. She hooked her thumbs into the waist of her panties, awaiting his instructions.

With his index finger, he motioned a circle, and she turned slowly, watching him over her shoulder as she gave him time to get a good look at her round ass, her curving hips, her slender thighs. She was proud of her body, because she worked hard to maintain the willowy curves that she'd been blessed with. And from the glaze in David Duvane's deep blue eyes, he appreciated her efforts.

When she faced him and he spoke again, she was gratified by the thickening of his voice. "Come here," he commanded, and patted his thigh.

She tried to control a confident smirk. He was hers now. Once she sat on his lap and let him sup at her succulent tits, he would be like clay, hers to mold and manipulate as she pleased.

She had lowered herself halfway to his lap when he said, "No, no, Bernadette. Not that way. Face down. Over my knee."

Her bottom brushed his thigh and she bounced up as if her precious ass had just come in contact with a cactus.

"What?" Taking two giant steps backward, she nearly fell over the coffee table.

"This is punishment. Not reward. You obviously have the two confused."

She snatched up her scanty T-shirt from the table, using it as an ineffectual shield for her naked breasts. "I'm not—you're not going to—"

"Spank you? That's exactly what I intend to do." Still he remained unruffled, as if he had all the time in the world while she sputtered unintelligible objections.

"I never—no one's ever—"

"Spanked you? I believe it. That explains why you're a spoiled brat."

"I'll have you charged with assault."

"I'll have you charged with indecent exposure," he shot back.

She breathed raggedly through her nose, rummaging through her addled mind for a logical argument to his ludicrous proposal. But even as she waited for inspiration to strike, a part of her that she didn't care to acknowledge imagined her lithe figure draped over David Duvane's hard denim-clad thighs, those mesmerizing, strong hands buffeting her back side with punitive strokes. She shook her head to clear it of that preposterous image.

"This is insane. You're insane."

"No, Bernadette, it's perfectly sane. You admit that you seduced my employee. You caused him to lose his job."

"You're the one who fired him!" She pointed at him accusingly, recognizing too late that she sounded like a five-year-old.

He smiled patiently and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, pressing his fingertips together. There were those hands again. She shivered at the thought of them lashing her bottom. Would he pull her panties down?

His voice, deep and calm, reached out to surround her. "We both know that what you did was wrong. I've no doubt that you're guilty of much more than merely luring Jake over here for a nooner."

She lowered her eyes to her cherry-red painted toenails, unable to meet his gaze.

"Your silence is an admission of guilt, Bernadette."

Each time he spoke her name, he branded her. Each indictment reached out like a silken thread to coil around her, pulling her into him. He never raised his voice, but spoke to her as if she were a child—and she felt like one, bumbling and helpless.

"I think you can see this is the best way to resolve this issue. Jake would never blame you for what you've done. But you and I both know that the responsibility rests squarely on your shoulders. Once you've paid your debt, the entire matter will be dropped."

"Oh, it's that easy?" Anger flared, and she lifted her eyes to meet his.

"I didn't say it was easy. But the sooner you get it over with, the sooner you can chalk it up to experience and put it behind you."

She chewed on her lower lip. She let the T-shirt drop to the floor again, walked towards David, and stood in front of him. Something primal drew her there, an instinct that told her to trust him, to give control over to him—he obviously possessed it already anyway. And how bad could it be? It might even be pleasant, being so accessible while he ministered to her sexy bottom. She usually preferred attention to her breasts; having her soft, silky ass attended to might be a nice change. And for some inexplicable reason, she wanted to please him.

"That's right," he coaxed, as she placed two hands on his thigh and gingerly lowered herself onto his lap. "Very good," he murmured when she inched forward to balance and settle herself.

His voice was gentle, like a soothing lullaby, when he said, "Now I want you to place your hands flat on the floor. Good."

She hoped he would reach out with his left hand and caress her exposed breasts that dangled there, brushing against the coarse fabric of his jeans. But David didn't seem interested in toying with her sexually. He was all business, and the business was spanking.

"Now, straighten your legs, and keep them straight."

Her long golden legs went rigid. "Like this?" she asked, wanting to hear the approval in his voice.

"Yes, very good, Bernadette." Her own name falling from his lips caressed her. "Now, one last step, and then you're ready for your twenty swats."

"Twenty?" she shrilled, and her head shot up, her back arching. His strong hand on the back of her head pushed her back down again.

"Twenty." He expected no argument, and she gave none. "If you flinch and stiffen, it will only make the spanking hurt worse." A small tingle of fear trembled through her, and for the first time she realized there would be pain.

"David, I—"

"Hush. It's going to hurt, but it won't be more than you can stand. Do you understand that?"

"Yes," she squeaked.

"Good. Now spread your legs."

She could see nothing but the floor and her own hands braced there. She had only sound and tactile sensation to guide her. So when David's hand patted the inside of her bare thighs to part her legs, every sensory nerve focused on that touch.

Now she felt more vulnerable than ever, much more exposed in the presence of this one man than when she had allowed several men to watch her sexual pantomimes.

His hard left hand snaked across her back and gripped her waist firmly. Then the first blow struck.

Not so bad, was her first thought when her mind overcame the initial shock of his hand making such harsh contact with her bottom. I can handle this.

Then his fingers carefully slid inside the waistband of her panties, peeling them down to expose her bare bottom.

"What are you--?"

Again his hand cupped the back of her head, more firmly this time, pushing her back into position when she tried to twist her torso around to see what he was doing. Anyway, she didn't need to see. It was obvious that he had pulled her panties down below her buttocks until they stretched taut between her spread thighs.

"Hold still, Bernadette." Now his tone was severe. The sarcastic smile was gone, she knew, even though she couldn't see his face. Fear and something else—anticipation?—shimmied down her spine to the place between her thighs where his flesh had touched hers.

She relaxed and awaited the next swat. It descended with a crack of thunder on her right butt cheek. This one stung, and she hissed a curse between clenched teeth. Apparently he'd cupped his hand on the first smack. The second one, with his flattened hand on her bare skin, was more stinging.

The next swat, placed in exactly the same position, drew sparks to her bottom, and she cried out, "Son of a bitch!" But her hands and legs remained firmly planted.

She thought she heard a low, rumbling chuckle from him just before he swung his hand down for the fourth spank, which landed high on her flank. Her body jerked involuntarily. "You bastard," she growled. He had to know that striking her bottom up high would hurt more, since there was less flesh to absorb the blow. But still she would not budge.

The next three swats were delivered in rapid succession to her left cheek, and all she could do was wail "Owwww!" after each one.

"The pain is cumulative," he intoned calmly.

"What are you talking about, you asshole?" His poise infuriated her.

"Each spank hurts a little more than the previous one," he explained.

"Well, duh! Just shut up and get on with it," she barked, angry and ashamed at the tears that stung her eyes.

With that, he struck three more rapid, sharp blows to the underside of one cheek, where it curved into her thigh. With her jaw tightly clenched, the cries she tried to suppress sounded like the snarls of a caged animal.

Her stiffened legs trembled now, but she vowed not to relax them. Even though she longed to reach back with one hand and rub her burning bottom, she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing that her aching butt needed soothing.

She steeled herself for the next blow, not knowing when it would come or where it would land, but he surprised her by kneading the fleshy mounds of her bottom firmly.

"You're taking your punishment very well, Bernadette. I'm impressed."

"I don't give a damn if you're impressed," she lied through clenched teeth, "you barbaric—"

A resounding slap interrupted her tirade, lifting her butt from below and bouncing her toes on the floor.

"—motherfucker!" she screamed, and a deep chortle resonated in his chest.

He delivered two more swats to her left cheek, up high where it hurt the most, and she cried out, "Cocksucker!" in anguish, wishing she knew more curse words to fling at him.

Tears blinded her, and she wanted only to beg him to stop. But she would not give him that satisfaction. She could not hide the fact that her bottom was on fire—it must be bright red by now, and covered with his handprints—but she would beg him for nothing. Besides, the pressure of his hard thigh under her mound was sending sweet tingles to her clit every time he swatted her—sensations that conflicted mightily with the flames shooting across her ass cheeks.

She felt the movement of his body as he drew his hand back, and with the stinging smack that followed over the lower part of her crack, his hand caught the outer lips of her tender sex, and she screamed out in shock and wretchedness.

"You fucking bastard!" she wailed, and instinctively raised her right hand to cover her bottom protectively. But as soon as her hand came off the floor, he nailed her with a resounding wallop that pitched her forward so that she had to brace herself with both hands to keep from falling off of his lap and flat on her face.

Another resonant chuckle assaulted her ears, and she shook the tears from her face and growled in fury at his insouciance.

"Five more, Bernadette, and then it will all be over." He caressed her flaming buttocks. The tenderness of that gesture melted her, and she whimpered incoherently. But just as she relaxed under those comforting strokes, he let fly two more hard jolts that rocked her forward so that he had to tighten his grip around her waist. With each impact, she wailed, "Please, oh please!" Dammit, where had those words come from? She never wanted to beg.

"Please what, Bernadette?" Was it just wishful thinking or was David's breathing labored, too? She hoped his hand was as sore as her ass.

"Please go fuck yourself!" she railed, and he let her have it with two more biting slaps over the delicate pouting lips between her thighs.

Suddenly, he thrust two stiffened fingers easily into the velvet channel of her wet cunt. Without a nanosecond of rational thought, she lunged backward against his hand. A guttural groan escaped her lips. Her eyes closed and her inward focus went straight to her hungry cunt where he swirled his fingers, once, twice, three times.

Then just as suddenly he withdrew his fingers, and she let go a yearning wail.

"This is where the law of diminishing returns comes into effect," said David smugly.

"What the hell does that mean?" she grumbled.

"It means when you start to enjoy the punishment, it ceases to have any effect."

She turned her head to look up at him over her shoulder with a cold eye. "Fuck you," she snarled.

He landed one final smack on the fleshy underside of one cheek, and her knees buckled. Then he gently pulled her panties back up over her burning bottom.

She scrambled to her feet, shaking off his hands when he tried to assist her, and rammed her feet into the legs of her slacks, swearing when the tight spandex scraped her blazing ass. While she jerked the T-shirt over her head, David rose from the sofa. Only a slight rise and fall of his chest signaled that he was winded from the exertion. Otherwise, he was even more composed than when he'd arrived, while she was breathing raggedly, a bundle of confused energy, mortification, and —dammit— unfulfilled lust.

She wiped at the tears that burned her eyes. "Well, what are you standing there for? You've evened the score. Now get out." Her voice cracked. Her face was as hot as her bottom.

"You've got quite a mouth on you, Bernadette. Next time you'll find that the punishment increases when you use foul language."

"Next time? Are you out of your fuck—your frigging mind?" she shrieked.

He looked her over one last time from head to toe, his smoky blue eyes lingering on her trembling breasts and her apropos T-shirt. He shook his head ruefully, and curled his lip in that sneer of a smile that showed perfect white teeth. "I think you've learned your lesson. I doubt you'll be flashing your tits to the men next door again . . . but you're still a spoiled brat."

And while she worked her mouth open and closed wordlessly, groping for a response to his audacious arrogance, David Duvane walked out the door.

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