Page 36 of Rockland

“Reach your hands down your panties and see how wet your little yoni is, just from hearing the word ‘spanking’ come from my mouth. See how slick and ready your sex is from me telling you you’re going to be spanked by me.”

His words make me wet. Covering me in shame. A false sense of anger raises in me at his lewd command. I say, “Now just a minute… I’ll do no such thing! How dare you ask me to commit such an act for your enjoyment and pleasure!”

His hand finds my upper thigh. Squeezing its warmth. He purrs, “Is it for mine, or yours, princess?”

“I… ah…” And in that moment, between my stuttered syllables he reaches out, grasps my t-shirt covered nipple between his forefinger and thumb, and squeezes—hard. “Ouch! What the hell are you doing!” Despite my pain, a gush of arousal leaks from between my legs.

He didn’t let go. “You know I don’t give warnings. Now, do as I say or you’ll pay the price.”

What do I do? Face the utter and total humiliation of touching myself in front of him? Pleasuring myself for his enjoyment? Or risk another tweak of my nipple?

I study his face. It’s nothing but angles and that beard that gives him a dangerous edge. And those golden eyes flashing at me—promises of ecstasy glittering in his irises.

My hand slides down my belly. A deep breath fills my chest as my fingertips slip past the loose waist of my sweats. I wear no panties—as he’s commanded—so at least that’s a barrier of shame I don’t have to cross. My fingertip slides between my folds, slick with moisture. I find my clit and press shamefully onto my swollen bud. Despite my best efforts to maintain my dignity, a soft moan escapes me.

“You like that, don’t you? Pleasuring yourself in front of me?”

I snap my hand from within my sweats, placing it on my lap. “Not really—you made me do it. Had it been my own choice I would never⁠—”

His smoky gaze locks on mine, sending shivers down my spine. “Do it again. But like you mean it this time.”

“I can’t. I just can’t take my hand and—Ow!” Between his fingers is my other nipple. He pinches and the pain mixes with a thrilling desire to feel pleasure. Any. Even if it’s my own hand rubbing out the tension between my legs. I break his gaze, my fingers sliding once more beneath the fabric of my pants.

This time, I close my eyes. I lean back in my chair. I block out the shame, the self-consciousness. And I allow myself to enjoy the pleasure. My finger slides down and up. My hips begin to rock with my movement. I’m slippery and wet and hot and bothered and my finger rubs harder at my clit. Up and down, back and forth. The pressure builds and just as I’m about to climax I hear those words.

“Good girl.”

I explode. No longer thoughts or feelings. I’m nothing but a bundle of sensation. Ecstasy. Freedom. An animal meeting a primal need. I moan. I freeze as the climax hits its maximum and then ebbs.

I whisper his name.

He takes me in his arms. Holding me tightly. Pressing me against his chest. Whispering in my ear, his beard tickling the skin of my cheek, over and over, “Good girl. Good girl. You don’t need to be naughty anymore.”

He takes my hand and leads me up to the living room. Tucks a blanket around me and puts on my favorite show, Romance in Rome. He likes to make fun of me for liking it, but tonight, he sits beside me and watches it.

When we go to bed that night, listening to his soft snores, I kick myself for putting up that stupid wall of pillows.

6

A FEW WEEKS LATER

Tess

It’s almost ten. I’ve changed into my soft flannel pajama pants and an oversized tee. Rockland’s only been here a few weeks and already, the pants are fitting better and no longer sliding down my hips. My hair is tangled on top of my head in a messy bun, damp from my post-workout shower.

He’s making me jog alongside him three days a week. I hate it. I get so sweaty and gross. I huff and puff next to him, him going as slowly as possible while my sneakers thud against the pavement. Beauties pass by and stare at me curiously as I try to smile and wave. He says soon I’ll look forward to these runs.

Don’t bet your billions on it, buddy.

Now I’m yawning. Stretching my sore muscles. Shuffling down the hallway in my fuzzy pink slippers.

But I don’t want to go to bed yet.

Not alone.

I hover in the doorway of the office, watching him.

He sits in the floral armchair, the blue and white slipcovered one, the least elegant piece in my home. It’s his favorite when he works nights, checking on the Parish and wrapping up his day. He sits, long legs propped up on the matching ottoman, computer in his lap.