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What’s galling is that he’s clearly getting on with his day like nothing happened at all.
I want to knock, get him angry, see what he might do. I can hear him on the call, not giving a shit while my mind whirls.
I want to talk to him. I want to tell him that was he did was wrong. I was vulnerable. I was still recovering from nearly freezing to death.
How dare he take me into his lap, pull down my panties to expose my bare bottom, spank me with such force that I swear I’ve got bruises growing back there?
From the moment he left me alone, I felt shame bubbling up inside me. He spanked me. Worse than that, he stripped me naked when I was barely conscious.
The man is a deviant, a monster. Barely a man at all.
A man wouldn’t do things like that. A man would respect me, would leave me alone, let me get on with me life.
You were drowning, remember. He saved you.
I don’t know where that voice comes from but I’m not going to listen to it. It’s the same voice that, while he was spanking me, was telling me that I was enjoying myself.
How is that even possible? Okay, so there was a time in my life when I dreamed about being spanked, being put in my place by a dominant man with oodles of confidence and the power to make me want to submit.
But the reality is very different to the fantasy. He exposed my bare ass while I fought to get free from his arms. I want to tell him that can never happen again.
Barb is curled up at the foot of the study door. “Shut you out too?” I ask, leaning down and scratching her head. She glances up at me, thumps her tail, then closes her eyes, settling down to sleep.
I walk away from his study, trying other doors. Most of them are locked. The few that open revealed shuttered rooms in the dark, furniture covered with dust sheets. Like him, the feel is oppressive.
This isn’t the house I remember. That was filled with light and life. Not anymore.
How long has he been living like this? Like a hermit estranged from the world? Ever since the crash? No, it can’t have been that long, can it?
I make my way outside. The fresh air feels good and it’s warm enough for the time of day. I’ll go see if I can get some food from the kitchen soon but for now there’s something I want to see.
I make my way slowly back to the beach, my head throbbing a little, my feet feeling weak. I tell myself it’s just because I’m still recovering and that is mostly true. But it’s also because the memory of being in his lap keeps coming back to me.
I don’t know what passed between us in that moment but something did and it was intense enough to scare the hell out of me.
I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to think that this is what being married to him will entail, regular spankings on his lap whenever he decides I’ve broken one of his rules.
I also don’t want to think about how I felt during the spanking, how the inside of me heated up, how my pussy got wet when it had no right to.
I’m guessing it’s been so long since I last had sex that the touch of a man’s hand, even slapping down like that, was enough to wake up some long dormant part of me.
Doesn’t matter. He’s said he’s never going to fuck me and I’m glad. I don’t want him to even attempt it. The feelings we’ve shared are already too intense. There is no way that sex could improve that. It would make me obsessive. I’ve always had that side to my personality. The last thing I need is for it to be brought out in a situation like this, with the man I once had a crush on, the man who’s turned into a monster.
I will not think about his hand on my ass. Easier said than done with the pain there a constant reminder of what happened between us.
He spanked me. He’s done it twice. I can’t let him do it again. I must fight him next time. If there is a next time.
Maybe I can work up the courage to try again with another boat. Can I do it? Just the thought of being in the water again terrifies me but what choice have I got?
I’m disappointed when I go looking.
I get to the beach but the jetty is empty. All I find is Sergio, gathering driftwood from the tideline and piling it together near the path. “Feeling better?” he asks when he spots me. He looks where I’m looking and smiles. “Away in the boathouse, I’m afraid. Looks like you’re stuck here for a while.”
“Please, I need to go home. Won’t you help me?”
“I’d love to but he’d kill me.”
“Have you got a phone I can use?”
