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I rub her between her thighs, which alarms her. She picks up her struggles. I spank her again.
“Okay, okay, I learned my lesson,” she protests.
“What lesson?”
“Not to pick at my stitches.”
I push her dress up and slap a buttock. Without the extra fabric, the spank makes a sharper sound.
“Oh, damn,” she mumbles. “Darren! I won’t pick at my stitches anymore!”
“I’ve spanked you three times. That’s barely anything,” I reply, even though I know it’s not her ass that she’s worried about. It’s the horror of being seen splayed across my lap that’s the true deterrent.
“But I promise to be better.”
I grope an ass cheek. “That’s like saying you’ll try harder. I’m not interested in more effort. I want results.”
She whimpers. “I can’t guarantee I won’t unconsciously pick at my lip.”
I wallop her harder. She muffles a cry.
“Darren…”
“I think someone’s coming,” I tease.
She tries to scramble off me. Feeling her body wriggle against mine, heat collects in my groin.
“Never mind,” I say. “It was no one.”
“Ugh!” Bridget sighs with exasperation and relief. “Look, how about a bigger, better punishment if you catch me picking my lip again?”
“Bigger and better in what way?”
“I don’t know. You’re the one into this kind of stuff.”
I rub my jaw in thought. There are so many possibilities. I picture Bridget at my club—the other part of my club, for hardcore players of BDSM—tied to the St. Andrew’s cross, writhing beneath a single-tail. Next, I see a beautiful, naked woman going down on her. I imagine the woman sinking her hand into Bridget’s cunt.
Needing to adjust myself, I let Bridget up. Plus, I can see a flight attendant approaching. Bridget scrambles back into her seat. Her cheeks are bright red.
“Can I get you anything?” the female flight attendant asks with a Singaporean accent. “More tea? Another drink?”
I turn to Bridget, who quickly shakes her head, clearly wanting the attendant to be on her way.
I could be a total asshole and draw out the attendant’s stay by asking for a menu, discussing the wine list, etc., but I reply with a simple request for a Yebisu beer.
After the attendant leaves, I turn to Bridget. “Let’s talk hard limits.”
“What?”
“Before your first night at my club—the BDSM part—we should establish if you have any hard limits.”
“So we’re done with the spanking?” she asks.
“For now.”
She releases a breath of relief. “What are hard limits?”
“Something you won’t do under any circumstances. Soft limits are for things you’d rather not do but aren’t completely off the table.”
