Spanking Tails I

Graham Becker was her-best-friend's-brother's-friend-of-a-cousin-twice-removed, so it wasn't as though he were a stranger, Julie told herself. And, quite frankly, she needed the money that renting out the extra room of last summer's inheritance--her grandmother's old town house--would bring her. College wasn't cheap at the best of times, but with the economy in a slump and part-time employment at an all time low, it had come down to a choice between getting a tenant or start developing a long-lasting relationship with starvation.

So when she heard the polite, three-rap knock on her front door, she brushed her blonde hair back, wiped her dishwater hands on the seat of her black skirt, prayed, "Please, dear God, no drums," and went to open the door.

"Holy cow!" she blurted aloud, abruptly losing the cool-composure she'd worked hard all morning to perfect.

At the sound of her voice, the golden-haired Adonis turned away from the street and grinned back at her. "Close." He stuck out his hand. "Name's Graham."

You're staring, her brain told her.

You're also drooling.

She snapped her mouth shut, reached out to grasp his hand, and her knees lost all solidity. She grabbed onto the door frame to keep from sagging. He had a firm, warm, solid grip that just seemed to leech the strength from her legs. "I'm Julie."

She wished she'd worn a dress.

She also wished she didn't have wet hand prints on the seat of her butt.

"Pretty name." His smile widened when she only stood there, moving nothing but his arm, which she pumped slowly up and down. Then he leaned into her, bracing his strong shoulder against the threshold as he lowered himself to meet her eye-to-eye. "May I come in, Julie?"

She snatched her hand from his, tucking her whole arm behind her back as she stepped quickly out of his way. Her face burning hot, she ducked her head and hastily cleared her throat. "Yeah, sure," she squeaked. "By all means. Please. Come on in. Living room's through that door. Take a seat. Need a drink?"

Stop babbling.

He chuckled, a full, rich sound. "No, thanks. I'm good."

Lord help her if those words didn't settle right into the pit of her stomach, warming her from the inside out.

She followed him into the living room so he wouldn't see the wet hand prints, and as they walked the short distance across the old hard wood flooring, she admired the way his Budweiser t-shirt stretched taut across his back and shoulders. He wore it neatly tucked into his jeans, too, providing a wonderful view of his narrow waist, lean hips, and a butt perfect enough to frame and hang on the wall. He'd brought a duffel bag with him, but that was it for luggage.

"So you need a room," Julie said.

He smiled back at her, his blue eyes sparkling. "It's preferable to a cardboard box, yes."

"Are you an axe murderer?"

His smile split into a grin, showing twin rows of straight, white teeth. "Part-time grease monkey at the Oil Can Henry's. My major's in physiology and I've got another year to go before I get my Master of Science degree. Environmental health. I like looking at diseases."

He sat down on one end of the couch and because it was the only sitting surface in the room, she took the opposite end, crossing her legs beneath her as she faced him. She half-raised her hand and confessed, "Archeology."

"Indiana Jones."

"I prefer Laura Croft. More money, less chin hair."

He laughed, warm and bright. She liked the sound.

"The room's two-hundred-and-fifty a month. It's the master and has its own bathroom. I'd like you to pay half of the electric and water bills and for all long distance phone calls you make. The back porch is screened in, and that's where the washer and dryer are. The kitchen's through there," she pointed to a door on their right. "Label anything you don't want me to eat, and if you use the last of it, please replace it."

"Simple common courtesy stuff," he said.

"Pretty much."

"You don't want any references or my past renting history?"

"You said you weren't an axe murderer. I trust you. And so long as you don't sit around in your underwear and scratch, we should get along all right."

The Adonis half-laughed, looking down at his lap as he shook his head, but he became her roommate and life got pretty interesting. Particularly the next morning. Mostly because the first thing in the morning, before the coffee started perking, wasn't Julie's most functional time of the day. Having slept since he moved in, she'd forgotten all about Graham.

Standing in the narrow kitchen, she was in the act of pouring water into the Mister Coffee when she heard a small bumping noise coming from the master room. She didn't really even think about it. One minute she had a dishtowel in her hand; in the next, she was standing in the open bedroom door, staring into the bathroom at Graham, who stood combing his thick blonde hair in front of the medicine cabinet mirror.

He was partially naked, a form-fitting pair of jeans the only thing he wore. The broad expanse of his torso was as bare as his feet and, as he raised his arm to utilize his comb, the muscles jumped and played across his shoulders and back in vivid masculine display. Then his eyes found her in the reflective glass of the mirror and he stopped. His expression never changed, but the comb lowered a fraction of an inch and he turned his head to look at her.

By all accounts, he should have been angry. After all, she'd just invaded the privacy of his bedroom. But despite the 'move, move, move!' orders her brain was screaming to her feet, unaccustomed to seeing a man so intimately attired, Julie found her stockinged feet rooted to the floor.

"Is something wrong?" Graham asked, and Julie came sharply back to herself.

Her face turned a hot, slow shade of pink. "Um..."

She blushed even hotter and her hands began a rapid series of embarrassed half gestures. Silently opening and shutting her mouth, she pointed back at the kitchen over her shoulder, then at herself and then seemingly everywhere at once.

"I, uh ... was just ... um..." She stopped, mortified that her usually witty tongue would choose this exact moment to give up on her.

"Just what?" Graham smiled, now turning to fully face her.

Oh, God. His pants weren't even buttoned at the top. She tried not to look.

She looked.

He was a living, breathing, Bow Flex commercial. He had Popeye arms and six-pack abs, smooth, chiseled muscles that were fashioned washboard-hard all the way down his stomach. A thin line of dark hair captured her eyes and drew them inescapably down into the waistband of his jeans, straight to the heavy bulge beneath, which grew slightly as her gaze settled upon it.

Suddenly what she wanted didn't seem to matter. Julie didn't bother trying to finish her sentence. She stumbled backwards out of the room, grabbing frantically for the doorknob as she collapsed against the wall. She pressed herself flat against it. It was a mercy when the door shut softly between them. She closed her eyes, feeling strangely shaky, excited, confused and frightened most of all. Jesus, what had she gotten herself into?

The smell of percolating coffee was beginning to wind its way through the house and Julie staggered back to her bedroom where, if there was a God, she would die peacefully and without further embarrassment.

All theology-versus-science debates were abruptly and single handedly solved when Julie shut her bedroom door and gazed into the full-length mirror that hung on the back. She had forgotten she was dressed in a short pink t-shirt with straw huts strategically located over each breast and the words, 'Tittie Tikki' underneath. The bottom of the t-shirt ended at her abdomen, which had not seen a Bow Flex, or even a sit-up, in quite some time, leaving her panties fully exposed. Was she wearing the lacy, sexy, black french-cut panties? Oh, no. White cotton with little pink hearts. Mismatched socks that came from trying to dress with her eyes closed were the crowning achievement of the morning, and proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that there was no God.

She fell face-first back into her unmade bed and lay there, waiting for Death by Embarrassment to afflict her. That was the problem with strong constitutions; a body rallies just too quickly and instead of a merciful end to all her suffering, she was forced to continue living out the day.

She faced Graham at the breakfast table over twin bowls of cold cereal and the newspaper. While he read the sports section, she stared blindly at the comics, holding them up to cover her still fiercely blushing face. There was absolutely no conversation and he got up to leave first. She listened to him rummage in his bedroom to pack his books into his duffel bag, then come back to the kitchen.

His warm hand settled on Julie's arm, forcing her to lower the comics. He then leaned over and kissed her on her bangs. "Don't worry about it," he said, then headed for the door, calling back. "See you later."

The Adonis left the house and his kiss on her skin leeched what little self-composure she had left. She slid off her chair and landed in a heap on the kitchen floor. Just a puddle of denim jeans, cotton shirt and flopping limbs under the table. She whined, covering her face with her hands and kicking her sneaker-clad feet against the floor. She had to get over this. She checked her watch. Ugh. She had to go to school. She was running late again.

A bad morning turned into a Let's Get Julie day. It wasn't helped along any by the fact that she got to her first class of the day twelve minutes late. The instructor gave her a hairy look while she made her way as unobtrusively as possible to the only empty chair in the room. Naturally it would be right up front.

As often as she was late, she would have thought he'd be used to her tardy tendencies by now. Apparently, however, that was an incorrect assumption as the note she found in her mailbox later that afternoon clearly stated. One more late arrival, the letter read on its no-nonsense university stationary, and she would be awarded an incomplete grade for the semester.

Perfect. The day couldn't possibly get any worse.

She dropped the letter on the couch, along with her books, and went to take a shower. She changed into a fresh pair of comfy coveralls, blow dried her hair into a shaggy mane of unbrushed lazy waves, and painted her toe nails pink in an attempt to assuage her anxiety over the thought of what an incomplete grade would do to her scholastically.

By the time she was ready to leave the bathroom, her new roommate was home, standing behind the couch, his duffel bag of books leaning against his leg while he read her note. When she came into the living room, he looked at her over the top of the letter.

Ooo, nosy. Strike one against the Adonis.

"This isn't good news," Graham said.

A lecturer, too. Big ol' huge honkin' strike two.

She took the letter from him. "This is personal, and none of your business."

"No, that's a threat of expulsion," he said evenly. "Have you changed your mind about becoming an archeologist?"

"No, of course not!" she protested. "It was just ... an accident."

"An accident," he echoed. "What kind of accident could prevent you from getting to class on time?"

Well, the kind of accident that had dissolved her into a puddle of goo on the floor, naturally. And it had been his fault entirely, since he'd been the one to kiss her and leave her like that.

But it'd be a cold day in Hell before she 'fessed up to any of that. Instead she grumbled, "Never mind."

Boy, the hairy eyeball Graham gave her was even better than her instructor's.

Julie drew herself upright. "You've lived here less than one day. You don't get to lecture me yet."

She snatched the letter from his hand and walked into the kitchen with it. Unfortunately, he followed her. And he didn't let it drop, either.

"Are you trying to get yourself expelled?"

Slapping the letter down on the counter, she pulled a glass from the cupboard. "I can't believe I'm getting lectured by my tenant. This is my house, remember? Do you know what that makes me?" She tapped her chest with one finger. "The boss. Me. Which, by process of elimination, makes you the grunt. So start grunting and quit telling me what to do. Hey, I don't make the rules. That's just life on the social ladder. Get used to it."

He folded his arms across his chest. "Are you going to school on a scholarship?"

She pulled a jar of orange juice from the fridge, shutting the door a little harder than she intended in her annoyance. Glass in one hand, juice in the other, she shrugged at him. "Yes. So what?"

"So you get an incomplete and you don't get to continue your schooling next year. No school equals no degree, and your student loans will come due. You'll probably have to sell your house to cover the debt, and that does make it my business. I'd rather not be homeless."

She thunked her glass down on the kitchen table, but she couldn't think of a single rejoinder to that. She finally said, "I promise I won't be late again."

He leaned closer and softly asked, "How many times have you said that before?"

Julie cringed a little. "You don't know, I might really mean it this time."

Graham looked at her.

Groaning, she flopped down on one of the four dining chairs. Then she sighed. "I really do want to be an archeologist."

After a moment, Graham took the letter, pulled out a chair and sat down across from her. She watched him surreptitiously through her lashes as he reached over to take the juice from her hand and set it and the glass aside. He lay the letter before her and tapped the top with his finger. "This is serious business, Julie. One more tardy mark and the last three years of your life are wasted. You won't be permitted to enroll next year. If you continue your education at all, it won't be at this school. All your studying and hard work will have been for nothing. Good bye Laura Croft."

"Ugh! I know!" she groaned in exasperation. She flopped her head back, rubbing her face with both hands. Then said again, a bit more subdued, "I know. You're right. I'm sorry."

"There's no need to be sorry, Julie. Just don't be late."

Julie snorted. "Easier said than done. I've been trying for three years. I'm--" she sighed. "I'm just not a morning person."

"I'm going to help you," Graham told her.

She blinked at him twice. "You are?"

He nodded once, his eyes locked steadily on hers. "Will you accept my help?"

There was something strange about the way he was looking at her. Something strange about the way he suddenly sounded, his words oddly weighted and his question with an almost ominous feel to it.

She blinked twice more, then cleared her throat. "Okay."

"I want you to say it, Julie. Will you accept my help?"

"Yes, I'll accept your help," she parroted back, feeling a bit foolish as she did so.

"I need you to trust me not to hurt you. You aren't going to like my methods, but I can guarantee you'll hustle yourself on out the door on time tomorrow morning, so the results of what I do will be well worth it. Do you agree?"

What, was he going to turn her alarm up full blast? Walk into her room in the morning, banging on pots and pans? Pick her up and dump her, sound asleep, into a tub of ice water?

She shifted on her chair, then cleared her throat again. "Um ... yes, I agree ... I guess."

"Do you think you can trust me?" the golden haired Adonis, her-best-friend's-brother's-friend-of-a-cousin-twice-removed, that she'd only just met for the first time yesterday, asked.

The corners of her mouth turned up in the slightest of smiles. "Sure," she said weakly.

He looked at her for the longest time. Then he leaned back in his chair, one hand on the table, his thumb slowly, methodically, rubbing back and forth along the side of his index finger. Finally, he sighed and stood up. He went to the stove and, after several minutes silent, hands-on-hips contemplation, he selected a wooden spoon from the blue jar on the counter.

Question answered. He was a pot and pan banger.

Graham came back to the table, lay the wooden spoon down between them and pulled his chair a good two feet out into the middle of the floor. He sat down and looked at her. "Come here, Julie."

That odd, warm, melting feeling suffused her stomach again. It reached up to warm her cheeks, it flowed down to create a pulsing ache between her thighs. There was something so very intimate in the way he looked at her. As she slowly pushed back her chair, it made her legs shaky and reduced her normally confident, long-legged stride to small, timid steps that took forever to bring her around the table.

When she drew close enough, he reached out to take her hands in his. The intensity in his eyes had Julie catching her breath. Nervous energy made her stomach flutter wildly. She felt almost giddy, as if she wanted to laugh, but the tightness in her throat refused to let her.

"I need you to trust me," he said again. "Remember, I'm not going to hurt you."

"Right. Okay." His blue eyes pierced all the way to her soul. If she weren't trembling before, of a certainty she was now. "You won't hurt me."

Graham reached up and began to unfasten the breast clips of her coveralls, and Julie stopped thinking entirely. Her breath whooshed out of her as he lifted the first denim strap over her shoulder and let it dangle down her back. He did the same to the other, and her bib flap sagged down around her hips. His hand settled on her waist. His bare skin felt warm where he touched her between the bottom hem of her tank top and the elastic band of her panties. White cotton with yellow flowers this time. Still no lace. Damn it.

Without taking his eyes from hers, he stroked her skin lightly, sliding his hand between her coveralls and herself and the heavy denim fell off her hips and slid straight down her legs to the floor. Julie almost closed her eyes without being able to help it and the next thing she knew, she was lying face down over his lap, staring at the kitchen linoleum. It needed mopping.

Julie froze for a heartbeat in shock. She had the most absurd urge to cover her bottom with her hands. But no, he did that for her. And as his broad hand settled over her panty-clad rump, it didn't feel anywhere near as comforting as it might have had she done it herself.

"G-Graham?"

"I'm going to impress on you the importance of being on time," he told her. "You can't afford not to be. Have you invested the last three years of your life in a career you've decided you don't want to pursue?"

"N-no," she quavered. Her mind was screaming for her to flee, or at least to struggle, but her body had an entirely different agenda, and she simply lay across his knees, unmoving, staring at the floor.

"I think by now you realize how I'm going to deal with you, don't you?"