Surrender, Spanking Version

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Liza didn’t need to unlock the gallery; Evan was already there. Normally he didn’t come in until late afternoon on Monday, if at all. Should she explain her tardiness? No. She didn’t owe him an explanation.

“God, what’s wrong with you?” he exclaimed, seeing her flustered face.

“What do you mean?”

“You look horrid,” he said. Horrid was his word of the month. The new paintings were horrid, the customers were horrid; the Devon studio showing across town was horrid. He used the word as if he’d just invented it, and was demonstrating its usefulness.

Liza shoved her purse under her desk and looked up at him, employer, former lover, friend and genuine lout. His flashing eyes seemed incredibly bright for the time of day.

“You been in long?” she asked.

“It’s 11:00 my dear, where have you been?”

She didn’t want to answer him. He didn’t seem too terribly upset with her, but it was hard to tell; his persona depended on his mood, the season, the climate and probably the positions of the planets.

“You could have called,” he suggested civilly. He was posturing, waiting to pounce on something.

“I suppose I could have, but you’re not normally here at this hour.”

“My, are we playing b***h today, you having problems, with ah…what’s his name?

Liza would c**k her head at Evan when he annoyed her, look up through a fallen lock of blonde hair and eye him, her lips pursed to an irritated pout.

Evan Mills could be damned charming, gallant, effusive, expansive and shameless; though anymore to Liza, he was a dictatorial ass.

“Are you going to give me any credit for what I did until the wee hours Saturday?” she asked.

“He’s left you, hasn’t he?” He followed Liza to the back of the gallery as she carried a load of prints in her arms.

“You could help me,” she said.

“Oh no! This is your concoction, not mine,” Evan reminded her.

“And you’re going to make me regret it.” Liza had demanded he leave this one show to her genius alone. She was intent on proving that she could manage, design and coordinate the entire effort without his haughty ego leering over her every few minutes. He agreed to her demand because he was bored of shows, bored of the gallery, and more interested in looking for conquests between his legs, than conquests in the art world.

“And are you regretting it yet?” He looked at her sternly, swaggering toward her.

It was perverse the way he would flirt with her when they weren’t living together, and ignore her when they were. He put his hand on her ass, and smacked it hard so she nearly dropped the prints.

“Dammit, Evan. Stop it!”

“Ah, now you’re looking better, your eyes are snapping. You always respond so nicely when you’re being chastised. So when did he leave?”

He knew. She didn’t hide herself well, and Evan knew her moods, the changing light in her eyes, and the shallowness of her face when she was strained and angry and tight inside.

“We’ve been together too long,” she said. She put down the prints and began to shuffle through them for the one she needed. Black, lots of black and splashes of red orange, laced with turmoil, this could be a very strange show, if she didn’t watch herself. She noticed years ago that her choices in art were often the choices of her soul’s changing state responding to her s****l fulfillment, or lack thereof.

“When did he leave?” Evan repeated.

“Why do you care?”

“Cause I want to torment you. You’re my little experiment, Liza, I like knowing my predictions are accurate.”

At first, she wondered if it was because she walked out on him four years before. Although he told her then that he didn’t care; he only cared that she didn’t leave the gallery. She was indispensable. All Evan seemed to care about was having control of her. Whether it was in the bedroom or at work, it didn’t seem to matter.

To him, that she stayed clear of his bed for months, even years at a time wouldn’t matter, she’d return; and in the interim, he’d have some recklessly gleeful s*x, happy not to be fighting with her in middle of lust, waiting for her to be emotionally ready for the moment.

“He left Friday morning,” she said.

“For good?”

“Yes.”

He put his hands on her waist. She shook him off, even though his hands were large and warm, and so very masculine. They were controlling, just like his personality.

“No Evan, this does not mean you have license to do anything to me.”

She could have pummeled him on the spot, but he grinned so warmly with his winning wonderful sweet mouth, that she couldn’t be angry. This was always when he was the worst. She stared at him while he shrugged his shoulders, and gestured widely with his arms as if in a great exclamation, ‘Amen! I’ve won again.’

“No problem precious Liza, hands off,” he said. He should have added, “until later,” for that was certainly what he was thinking. Instead, he turned around and sashayed toward the front of the shop, Liza knowing that if he had the talent to whistle, it would certainly have been the perfect moment.

Would that he wasn’t so incredibly gorgeous. She couldn’t remember how many thousands of times she thought that when she was about to give in to him again. His beautiful dark brown hair, his charming bright smile, and dashing bright eyes, and of course, his perfectly conditioned, always well tanned body.

That evening, as it was about time for their select patrons to arrive, she watched him. It usually began that way, looking at Evan as something other than her tormentor. She imagined herself with him again, what it would be like to be at his side, in his bed, fixing his breakfast, and doing all the other things that being his lover would require. Would it be so bad? Wouldn’t it be easier to have him and be done with it, to forget about other men? He knew her better than anyone else; he didn’t balk at all her obsessive needs; he didn’t even scowl or judge the crazy stops and starts when it came to s*x.

Most of all, Evan enjoyed the really deviant side of herself, the one that thrived on old-fashioned over the lap justice, corporal punishment, complete with tongue lashings—that healthy dose of scolding that made her tremble.

Breaking in another lover would be so very difficult. So few men understood these curious needs in her, and had the creative inspiration to play her games with as much pizzazz as she required. Evan did. He had the capacity to be a breathtaking dominant, to hold her grasped in his authoritative presence, so that she’d shiver right down to her panties.

The gallery was glowing, the incandescent light flickered just enough to make the artwork glimmer. It was a small, but perfect showing, and it was hers.

“Mr. Hawke, may I take your coat?” Liza asked. The burly bearded fortyish man was Evan’s most precious client. He looked typically “Hawke” that night, brusque, in scruffy blue jeans, cowboy boots and a black suede shirt.

He handed her the coat and eyed her carefully with his cold eyes, a penetrating stare that went right through her, as if he could see every detail of her soul. “You look remarkable this evening,” he said, and walked away.

For three years Nathan Hawke had been coming to the gallery and never had he so much as spoken one personal word to her. Whatever possessed him now? Liza wondered. He always did business with Evan alone, always ignoring her. She had long considered that he was a throwback to the Neanderthal notion of women in their place, and their place was not in the business world—even an art gallery. Once, but just once, he’d eyed her while he waited in the reception area for Evan, and posing such an ominous picture, his stare so unnerving, she quickly found a reason to excuse herself to another part of the building.

What did he mean by “remarkable?” she wondered from the safety of her assigned place at the front door. He was sitting with his back to her, waiting for the auction to begin. His rudeness fascinated her. He’d make a fine character in one of her novels.

She stood with eyes glued to him, when he suddenly turned around and looked at her with a severe stare, then smiled lightly. He’d caught her.

He should have politely turned back around, but he didn’t. Instead, he continued to stare, watching her squirm uncomfortably. She didn’t want to blush, but she did anyway. Evan’s appearance at the front of the room ended the peculiar encounter, as Nathan turned his attentions to the auction.

When Liza figured the accounting the next morning, Nathan Hawke had purchased $30,000.00 in art, an impressive sum.

“Good God, he spent a fortune!” she announced.

“I love it!” Evan exclaimed.

“What does this guy do?” Liza inquired.

“Everything.”

“Everything?”

“I really don’t know, stocks I think, but lots of rumors surface when you’re as rich as he is. All I care about is that he loves my art, and he loves to pay for it,” Evan said flippantly.

“Well, he must have loved my art last night,” Liza reminded him.

“Oh, you want to take credit for this?” he said.

“And why not? I did a damned good job on the showing.”

“It’ll do,” Evan said absently, going back to his books.

“Maybe if your Mr. Hawke wants more, I could show him some things personally,” Liza suggested, trying to rouse Evan’s interest.

“I don’t think so, my dear.”

“And why not?” she replied, baiting him.

“Don’t set your sights on him,” Evan said in a typical warning tone.

“Why not?”

“He’s a nasty ass with women.” Evan didn’t even bother to look at her as he continued to pour over his accounts.

“Not married?” Liza inquired.

“I have no idea; I’d be surprised if he was.” He looked up at her. “I can’t imagine your sweet sensitive self in biker bars, and going to boxing matches, and the race track every Thursday.”

“That’s what he does for fun?” she asked.

“That’s what I hear, that and shelling out a lot of money for a print that should have only gone for about half the price.” Evan smiled deviously.

“You’re kidding. I thought that was a fair price for that piece.”

“I made a killing. He wanted that print. I don’t know why, but I made certain he paid exactly what I wanted him to.”

“Maybe he doesn’t have to care about money?” Liza speculated.

Evan shrugged. “I suppose he doesn’t, but what do I care?”

Liza stared at her boss. To her dismay, her loins began to respond. Why when he was being such an ass did she fantasize about his prick, and all those other things?

He looked up, catching her expression. “You look as if you’d like an interlude in the stockroom, maybe play our little games again, now that you’re free of who was it? Aubrey?”

She couldn’t stop staring.

“Yes, Aubrey,” he repeated. The memory of her latest love amused him. “How about some rope, care to be tied up?” he asked.

“No,” she replied determined. That had been years ago, why did he think of it now? She was surprised he even suggested s*x with her; he was supposed to be embroiled in a hot relationship with a little nineteen year old ‘friend of the family.’

“I think you’re lying, Liza,” Evan said, rising from his desk, and moving around to put his hand gently on her chin. While she tried to keep from looking at him, he lifted her head, so that her eyes couldn’t help but look into his.

“I don’t think this is a good idea, Evan,” she replied, though she was already beginning to lose her resolve.

“Oh, but that doesn’t matter does it? You can’t help yourself.”

“I can,” she countered.

“Perhaps, but you won’t.” He dropped her chin, and took her hand, leading her into the stockroom.

“See,” he said, pulling out a leather strap from the closet. “It’s still here, right where we left it.”

Liza shuddered looking at it, remembering how many times she’d had the thing peppering her bottom with one mean stroke after another, while she gasped in excited, panting, throbbing need.

“How long has it been?” he said, while his eyes gleamed.

She didn’t want to give herself away, but she was certain that he knew her mind and loins anyway, no matter how indignant she acted, or how she might protest. She didn’t know how long it had been since the last time he’d strapped her ass, except that it had been too long. At least two years, and the feeble attempts she’d made to get her bottom royally spanked since then had failed miserably. The other participants just hadn’t had the knack required for a really good session. Unfortunately, Evan did.

“How apropos. You wore a skirt,” he observed looking directly at her groin.

“We can’t do this,” she whispered. Though even as she said it, it was as if she was moving down a path from which she could not veer, not even for an instant. She responded as if a compulsion had taken over and she was no longer in control of herself.

Evan smiled, because he knew she would do exactly what he said. With his foot, he kicked an old antique metal stool into the center of the room. He’d used it before, for just such a session. They both remembered it well.

“Kneel down and bend over,” he ordered.

She hesitated.

“Don’t try to control this, my love. I know you much too well. You get your ass over that stool or I’ll cane you too.”

Caning she couldn’t stand, but this she could. And he was right, why try to avoid it?

She knelt as she often had before. The floor was always too hard on her knees, but she would forget halfway through the episode when all she cared about was the way her ass burned and the rising heat between her legs.

When she was bent over the stool, she could lay her stomach on the flat part; the rest of her, her breasts, arms and head, dangled over the edge. Her back side remained open and vulnerable to whatever punishment Evan devised. The strap might be one of the worst, but it was certainly one of her favorites.

Evan briskly tugged at her skirt, so it was quickly bunched at her waist.

“My, how lovely your rear is,” he commented, admiring the flesh he hadn’t seen in some time, but remembered well. “But panties? Really Liza, that’s hardly appropriate for a good submissive,” he taunted her.

“I’ve had no recent training,” she reminded him meekly. Something about the position always made her turn so very humble. She’d likely call him “sir” in a moment, if she wasn’t careful.

“Well, I’ll have to take care of that, won’t I?”

Liza didn’t reply.

Evan tore at her panties. The tiny bikini ripped away easily, leaving her bottom completely naked, her ass thrust out lewdly and her legs parted just as Evan liked them. Her bottom cleft was wide open, her s*x available for his view.

Drawing his arm back a good distance, Evan brought the strap down on her bottom with a good measure of zeal. It had been some time since Evan had had this kind of satisfaction, and he was going to enjoy it.

“Oh, gawd,” Liza gasped aloud, as she remembered how wonderful and how horrible this would feel, all at the same time.

Each successive blow landed, jerking her body, and creating a sudden and vivid pain that made her bottom feel as if it were on fire.

The spanking continued with blow after blow raining down on her in rapid succession. Evan was not a slow methodical spanker. Liza always wished he would be. Instead, he let his fury be spent in quick blasts that sometimes lasted only a minute, and on other occasions as long as ten.

“Oh, gawd, pleeese,” she began to cry, even as she wanted more. Her loins wiggled lewdly for him, revealing the extent of her arousal and her need.

“Such a little spanking slut you are,” Evan observed, as he watched the lusty display. “You’ve really been deprived.” Evan was never content just to administer a paddling; the taunting was half the fun.

He figured she had at least this one good punishment in her, and he would give it his best; although it was not in the least, as hard and thorough as it might have been. After all, he was still seducing her back to him. He didn’t want to cause her too much distress. It was a very precarious line he walked; his ephemeral “girl friend” had to be handled delicately. Although he was quite certain that he’d win her into captivity once more. He had not only the strap, but his charm as well, to dazzle her into his bed.

“My gawd, Evan please, not that,” she squealed, as he landed one particularly nasty blow, right at the top of her thighs. How she hated that!

“Oh, you’ll take that too, I’m just getting started.”

Evan watched her bottom turn a vibrant crimson, as a wild rush of feeling surged through him. He saw the nasty slap at the top of her thighs turn pink, and with another snap of the strap, it turned red, like the rest of her ass.

“Yeeeeaw,” she cried.

He backed off and stared at her.

Her cries dwindling away, it was so quiet, Liza could hear her own heart beating; and Evan could hear his own elevated breathing. As her bottom swayed in the cool breeze of the storeroom, the warmth spread throughout her thighs and belly and back, seeming to move everywhere throughout her.

“Please,” she murmured as she teased him with an almost unconscious gesture. She wanted more.

He brought the strap down on her bottom again, another round of fury unleashed, until she was protesting and fighting away her tears.

“I told you, little b***h, didn’t I?” he taunted her.

Why the hell did he have to be so right? Liza thought to herself.

Though she was ready for a ruthless punishment, she worried that she wouldn’t be able to tolerate the painful strapping that he’d give her. It had been such a long time, she could imagine that he’d have lots of pent-up rage at her to expel. But thankfully, he was not without mercy.

Dropping the strap, he pulled her to her feet, though he was hardly finished with her. He pushed her over the back of a chair, so that her punished bottom was as exposed as it had been over the stool—the perfect height for a meaningful violation.

Unzipping his pants, he pulled out his c**k and thrust it between her legs, into the warm succulent womanhood that could hardly wait to be filled by a stiff erection. He pounded her eagerly while she moved lewdly against his thighs. With each thrust he spanked her bottom with his hand, reminding her how much her bottom hurt; though by then, it was all s****l arousal, even the pain.

When she heard him cry out as he climaxed, she pressed her red bottom against his groin. Then, his hand reached around her thighs to find her swollen throbbing s*x, where just a few tender soft strokes brought her to an exuberant edge. He stayed with her until she peaked and thereafter, while she was catching her breath from the reckless f**k.

When Evan withdrew from her, she remained poised over the chair, listening to the sound of him zipping his pants.

He dealt a spirited smack to her rear.

“Refreshing, Liza, refreshing,” he said jauntily. Winning a battle for him was something to gloat about. Winning it in Liza’s presence, winning it over her in particular, there was just nothing that quite compared with it. “Don’t bother with the panties; they don’t become a good submissive. Since you’re back in that role again my love, I’d suggest you behave yourself, or you’ll be spending more time back here bent over the stool than you will in the gallery.”

With that, Liza stood. Back in the role? The phrase was daunting to say the least. Was she captured again, reduced to being Evan’s submissive one more time?

Being abused by Evan was exquisite torture; why she craved it was her private torment; that she craved it was a fact that had been with her for so long, perhaps it was time to quit denying it.