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“Damn it, get up,” he replies, “This isn’t a conversation. Get on your feet now.”
I blanch at his tone, but it also brooks no disobedience, so I step out of the car. This isn’t the first time my heart beats irregularly in Grant’s presence but it’s the first time the tone of his voice scares me. He takes hold of my upper arm and pulls me along. “That hurts!” I whine. It’s not entirely true. I mean, if he drags me another two hundred feet or so, his tight grip will hurt. For now, it stings me nowhere near my arm.
“Good,” he replies and continues to drag me along, “I probably ought to take you inside, bend you over my knee, and show you something that really hurts.”
“I didn’t ask you to jump in like I needed some… some… body to rescue me.” Wow. That’s the best I could come up with? It’s also irritating to start out with plenty of vitriol and irritation and just fall flat, embarrassed by blanking on the appropriate vocabulary. It’s like I start out heavy metal and end with some children’s song about baby animals.
He pulls me along and drags me up the stairs. Okay, he doesn’t actually drag but the point is, I have to scramble like crazy to keep from ending up flat on my face. He doesn’t let go of my arm as he fishes in his pocket for a key, and I just feel like an idiot. I mean, I’m in trouble. I’m in big trouble, especially if he tells my father.
But when Grant manhandles me, I feel like I can just float away.
He gets the door open and pulls me inside. He doesn’t bother turning on the light, but he knows where we’re going. We take some steps and then I gasp when he swings me almost violently and I hurtle forward, landing on something soft and turning around with a yelp. “What the hell?”
The light switches on and I see his eyes stare down at me with a fierce expression that sends a thrill through me from head to toe. “What were you thinking, Mack?” he says, “How could you put yourself in that situation? You think it’s cool to dress like some slut and parade around with strange boys? You could have gotten hurt! Hell, you could have gotten killed!”
Everything he’s saying is right, but my hurt and anger outweighs my guilt and I stand so I’m inches from his face and shout, “I’m not a slut! Fuck you!”
His eyes grow dark, and he sits down on the couch. The look in his eyes is so… God, I don’t know the word for it butterrifyingis a pretty good possibility. It’s impactful enough that I can’t react. I just stare at him. He says quietly—and speaking quietly is more frightening than if he screams—as he looks at me, “I didn’t say you’re a slut, Mack. I said you dressed like a slut. If you were a slut, dressing like one wouldn’t be a problem.”
I swallow hard. I don’t know what the hell is happening but I’m afraid of it. “Are you going to tell Dad?” I whisper.
“That’s up to you,” he says, “I can either tell your father or you can do what I tell you to do.” When he says those words, my nipples turn into bullets, the response involuntary. The idea that he might blackmail me into sex is arousing only in the crassest way. As I process his words, my body reacts with excitement, but my mind reacts with terrible disappointment.
If this man drives me to my house and then just takes my body without a word, I think I’ll love it. If he goes through a process of seducing me, I’ll love that, too. If he even says something about teaching me what happens to girls who dress like sluts whether or not they want it to happen, I definitely love it. I mean, sweet and beautiful with Grant is a breathtaking idea. Rough and demanding with Grant is an even more amazing idea.
But I can feel the horrible loss of Grant turning out to be someone other than the man I worship. I agree to his terms more out of a defeated sense of grief than because I don’t want my father to know about my stupid adventure. “Okay,” I say softly, “You can do whatever you want to me.” My hands shake as I take hold of my blouse and start to lift it up.
“Stop!” Grant says angrily. “I don’t want you to take your clothes off for God’s sake. Get over here!” I’m confused as heck now, but I walk closer. He grabs my arm, and his movements are so fast, I don’t really feel like he pulls me over his lap as much as I feel like I’m just, I don’t know, teleported there. “I’m not telling you to screw me, for God’s sake,” he says.
I don’t know what’s going on. He moves my body, and my butt kind of ends up over his leg. Maybe I’m just stupid but I’m further confused when he lifts my skirt up so my rear end is exposed. How is that not getting ready to screw me. “I’m going to do what I sure as hell hope Hank would do if I told him.” What my father would do? What in the world is going on? My father most certainly isn’t going to lift up my skirt and pull my panties off.
Pull my panties off.
Grant doesn’t do that. I think everything finally makes sense the instant before his hand impacts with my ass cheeks. I guess it makes me doubly dumb that I actually fantasize every now and then about Grant spanking me but still don’t realize that’s his intention until his arm swings down for the first spank. How do I not anticipate it when he tells me he should do it when he drags me into the house? I yelp when it impacts, suddenly knowing what’s going on is very small comfort.
Dear God, that spank hurts!
In all my fantasies about Grant spanking me, it’s sexy but it’s not like this, not like a real spanking, for Pete’s sake. The only reason I don’t immediately burst into tears and only let out a surprised yelp is because I’m so shocked by how absolutely painful it actually is.
This is so insane. I finally find myself alone with Grant and instead of getting my brains screwed out, I’m getting them spanked out. It’s so unbelievable that I don’t fully believe it until his hand falls a second time and another searing bolt of pain convinces me in no uncertain terms that this really is happening.
“Grant!” I cry when his hand falls a third time.
He shows no mercy, not even when the next spank brings the tears that my shock delays. When one of my hands moves instinctively to protect my ass, he grabs it with his other hand and forces it up behind my back and holds it there while he continues to spank me.
“It hurts!” I cry out, more out of instinct than an actual desire to complain.
“Not as much as it would hurt if I didn’t get to you before those boys did,” he growls.
That realization hits me hard. I don’t go silent, because each spank continues to send lightning bolts of pain up my spine, but other than the cries I release when his hand falls, I no longer speak or complain.
I guess my mind just kinda blocks out what would have happened if Grant hadn’t rescue me. At the time, I was afraid of course, but I didn’t think of the specifics of why I’m afraid. I only know those boys meant to use me even if they had to hurt me, but I don’t think of exactly what they planned on doing to me.
I think of that now and though my ass feels like someone presses a branding iron to it, I realize that Grant is right. This is nothing compared to what I would feel like if those boys managed to get away with what they wanted to do.
Finally, Grant says, “All right,” and lifts me off of his lap. He picks me up and gently sets me down on the couch, then adjusts me so I am comfortable. The contrast between his sternness and roughness only a moment ago and his tenderness now is powerful and though my ass still throbs like crazy, my tears subside.
“All right, McKenzie,” he says again. “I’m going to drop you off. I suggest you stay home the rest of the night and you better not let me catch you doing anything stupid like that again.”
