My life usually follows the course of eight "wisdoms" taught to me by my Great Aunt Trudy. They aren't your typical life lessons, but they've served me well, particularly in my current predicament. Dumped by the perfect boyfriend, stranded in North Dakota and scared out of my pants by the local village idiots, there appears to be no end to my troubles. Fortunately, I've got a guardian angel. Well, it's pushing the limits of credulity to call tall, tattooed and sexy-as-hell-in-a-pair-of-Levis Reuben Sloan any kind of angel, but he rescued me and now he's stuck with me. Any sane woman would be scurrying as fast as she could in the opposite direction, unless--like me--she has a penchant for spankings. I'm head over heels for Reuben, and I'm developing a Plan of Seduction. It better be a good one though, or I won't be sitting for a week of Sundays.
BDSM Category: Spanking, Paddling only
I'm sure the sound that wakes me is dragons roaring. I open my eyes in the dark of my tent and listen to them snarling at each other and revving their engines, at which point I realize that the dragons are only in my dreams, and the real noises are attached to modern vehicles. A wash of headlights illuminates my tent for a moment and bounces away again. A loud whooping and then a string of drunkenly bellowed swear words erupt from the night, along with raucous laughter and the sound of tires squealing on pavement.
Men. It takes a minute for my sleep-fogged brain to catch up to the reality at hand, but when it does, I realize that some of the local good-ol'-boys have apparently come to my isolated lake to party. I unzip the tent and peek out. Sure enough, there are two pickup trucks parked on the high side of the lake, half way between me and the opposite shore. A door opens, and loud music blasts over the water.
From out of nowhere, a Jeep roars past my tent. I duck inside as gravel flies off the wide tires and pelts the tent wall. An inebriated voice laughs and yells obscenities. I edge out of the tent again to see what he'll do next, tensed to run if I need to. The jeep tires squeal on the pavement and the driver jerks the wheel so that he hits the edge of the lake and zooms out again, sending a giant spray of water over the top of me and my little tent. Away he goes, squirreling across the hard packed ground toward his buddies, leaving me and everything I own sodden and dripping. Based on the fact that he's now howling to his friends--"Dudes, we got company! Party!"--I'm sure he'll be back any second with reinforcements. I try to calculate the risks. Maybe they're harmless. Maybe they're basically good guys who've just had a bit much. Maybe they're the happy go lucky sorts. Or maybe not. Drunken men in packs are an unpredictable commodity.
"Woohoo," one of the men yells. His voice sounds young and strong, way too loud, and very, very drunk. "Maybe there are women over there."
"Piece of ass!"
I tell myself they're just talking trash; they don't mean any real harm. But I amend my earlier assessment of drunken men in packs to a new danger zone: drunken, horny men in packs. It doesn't take too much imagination to figure out what might happen, and no imagination at all to realize that I don't want to be on the receiving end of that possibility. It's definitely time to leave.
I scramble completely out of my tent, wrenching down the poles as fast as I can in the half light of the moon, aware that I'm standing in the night in only a pair of tiny pink cotton bikini panties and the world's smallest tank top--which is sopping wet--with no bra and no shoes. But I can't find my clothes in my mad scramble to throw my things into the Bug and get myself out of what's rapidly becoming a nightmare, a fiasco to make my last one look like a mere annoyance. What was I thinking, camping here alone? Shit, shit, shit. If I get out of this, I swear to God I'm driving straight to Aunt Trudy's house without stopping or passing go, and I'll only stay in motels from now on. Stupid, stupid lake with its magic and its fat bees.
By the time I stuff the wadded tent and sleeping bag into the back seat and hoist the cooler into the passenger seat, the pickups and the jeep are well on their way around the lake. I race to the drivers seat, slide in, slam the door closed and realize that my car keys are in the pocket of my jeans, which are somewhere inside the tent, probably wrapped up in my sleeping bag. I'm swamped with panic. I start praying out loud while I lock all the doors. "Oh God, don't let this get ugly. Don't let them hurt me. I could use an angel here! Please send an angel to make them go away! Please, please send someone to help me."
Where the fuck are my keys?!!
Yes, I know; I'm starting to swear. It happens whenever I'm afraid. Or angry. Or seriously stressed out. Or distraught. Right this second, you can take your pick of unpleasant emotions; I'm feeling them all in huge waves of gut twisting terror as I root frantically though the tangled mess in the back seat. I'm half over the seat, bottom up. I finally find the zippered tent door, but the zipper's stuck. I'm cussing a blue streak when a third pickup roars into view from the highway behind me, its headlights shining fully on my upturned, pink-panty-clad bottom. I'm sure this is another truck full of drunken men, and I'm a dead woman.
But miraculously, this pickup seems to hold my avenging angel. The minute the drivers in the other vehicles see it, they do everything in their power to get away. They race off in the opposite direction, except the Jeep, whose driver seems to be having some problems with charting a straight course. Finally! The magic has come in the wake of the fiasco!
My angel doesn't seem to care about the pickups, but he's determined to catch the Jeep. And whoever he is, he can out-maneuver the other driver like it's child's play. Before I can catch my breath, the pickup has cut the Jeep off between itself and the water, and is herding it steadily back towards me. The other trucks speed away around the lake and on up the distant highway.
I'm having no luck finding anything by sprawling over the seats with my rear in the air for all to see, so I squirm back into the driver's seat and wait. Maybe they'll just keep going and leave me in peace to sort out this mess.
No such luck. My angel leans his head out the window and yells to the Jeep, "That'll be far enough, Hugh!" Even in my little Bug with all the windows rolled safely up, I can hear the deep angry rumbling of his voice. It makes me shiver. If 'Hugh' hadn't scared the crap out of me less than five minutes ago, I'd feel sorry for him. The Jeep jerks to a sudden halt, and the pickup stops behind it, next to my driver's side window. There's only room enough between us to open a car door. I sit tight, keeping the Bug locked. No way am I getting out of this car.
When the pickup door opens, the man's features are suddenly illuminated in the dome light. He's older than me, maybe pushing forty. His face is deeply tanned and lined. He has shaggy hair, a trimmed beard starting to go gray, a nice mouth, a long nose; I see all of those things in that first instant of light. But it's the hard-set, chiseled anger that I mostly see. He's furious. Thank God, it's not at me.
He spares my little car one long glance as he stomps past, and I swivel in the seat to see what he's going to do to the driver of the Jeep. Somehow, I can't imagine it's going to be pleasant. But as he reaches the vehicle, the Jeep door opens, and a young man falls out. Pulling himself clumsily up again with the door handle, he stands on wobbly legs. This must be Hugh. He's barely eighteen if he's a day, more boy than man. He squints against the glare of the pickup's headlights. He looks ready to hurl all over his boots, but he smiles grimly up at my dark angel. I crack my window open to hear. Is this the angel's son? A nephew?
"Mr. Sloan," Hugh slurs. "This isn't how it looks."
"No?" My angel--Mr. Sloan--flips open a cell phone and dials while he talks to Hugh. "Looks to me like you're nearly drunk off your feet again, Hugh, driving your father's Jeep when you can barely stand up, scaring the heck out of some woman who's all alone out here. Am I missing something?" Whoever Mr. Sloan is calling must have answered on the first ring because he turns his attention to the phone and steps past Hugh to pull the Jeep keys from the ignition. "I found him, John," he says. "Out by my place, at the sinkhole. Yeah, he's drunk. Horsing around with that same lot of losers."
Hugh groans and leans wearily against the Jeep. I gather that Mr. Sloan is talking to the boy's father, and young Hugh is not looking forward to the repercussions of this night. Obviously, this isn't the first time the little shit has gotten plowed out of his mind and caused trouble.
"All right, see you in a couple of minutes." Mr. Sloan flips his phone closed. "Your parents have been worried sick," he tells Hugh. "Your mother's nearly frantic." The lecture goes on from there, with Hugh looking more and more dejected by the second. By the time his parents arrive in yet another pickup--doesn't anybody in North Dakota drive a sedan?--Hugh is all apologies and promises of better behavior. His father isn't buying it, though, and I get the feeling that this is the last straw for the older man. Although young Hugh is nearly grown, he isn't so big that his father can't strap the skin off his backside.
While Hugh's father gets his wasted son buckled into the passenger seat of the Jeep, the boy's mother is talking quietly with Mr. Sloan. She motions to my car, and he nods, says something more that I can't hear, and the woman begins to cry again, deep horrible sobs of grief. This must be the agony of having a son who's spinning out of control, a mother's worst nightmare. My heart aches for her. Her husband hurries to her and takes her in his arms, rocking her there for a moment until she calms and can drive the pickup while he climbs behind the wheel of the Jeep.
It's only when Hugh's parents drive away with him that I realize I've been left alone with Mr. Sloan. Although I did beg God to send an angel, Mr. Sloan is not what I had in mind. And I'm still sitting like an eejit in my underwear. I want to shout, "Wait, don't go!" But it's too late; Hugh's parents are already too far away, and they clearly have enough troubles of their own.
My dark angel turns back to my little car with the same severe look he'd worn when dealing with Hugh. What in the world did I do to make him mad? He leans down to peer in my window, and I automatically cross my arms over my breasts. He takes in the whole situation: the wadded tent in the back seat, me huddled behind the steering wheel wearing nothing but bikini panties and a wet tank top.
"Open the door," he says.
Who's he kidding? I shake my head emphatically, absolutely not.
His eyes narrow. "I'm here to help you. Open the door."
"I'm fine," I tell him through the cracked window, although actually I'm beginning to tremble, and I can't seem to stop it. "They didn't hurt me. I just need to find my keys."
He makes a visible effort to get his temper into check. "You've obviously been through a frightening experience," he says, like he's explaining something to a child. "You need more than keys, you need clothes. You're wet and half naked. You're shivering. You're about to cry. You're not 'fine'!" He leans into the open door of his pickup and pulls out a blanket, holding it between his two big hands like a peace offering.
I'm shaking my head 'no' again, but his voice only gets more soothing. "Come on, open the door. I've seen women in their underwear before; I can't imagine you've got anything that's going to shock me. I'll close my eyes. Come on, girly, before you catch your death of pneumonia."
There's no chance of me freezing in this steaming July weather, but I can feel myself crumbling inside, and the shaking is getting worse. Shock, I realize; that's what the angel's worried about. "I'll be okay," I tell him. "Really. You can go home." My voice breaks. It's been a lousy month and a terrifying night, and I'm still a thousand miles from home. I want to drive away. I want to find a motel and take a hot shower. Except I can't drive, if I can't stop this damned trembling, and I don't want to cry, but I know I'm going to, and then I won't be able to stop that either. I turn my head away so Mr. Sloan won't see.
I hear him swear softly, and he closes his pickup door with a kick of his boot, so the light stops glaring. "I'm not leaving," he announces. "There's not a chance in hell that you're getting rid of me. Open up and let me help you!"
He's nothing like the perfect man. He's rough, and rumpled, and shaggy, and scarred, his jeans are stained at the knees, and he wears dusty biker boots. I can see big tattoos snaking out from beneath both his tee-shirt sleeves onto the hard muscles of his arms. I thought North Dakota was full of cowboys and ranchers, but my dark knight looks more like a Hell's Angel than John Wayne-although he's just as bossy and belligerent as the Duke ever was. He's exactly what I would've dated pre-Eric. And now he's telling me everything's going to be all right, and he can see how scared I am, all he wants to do is help me. He won't leave until he's sure I'm okay. Although his voice is stern, I think he's telling the truth. God, I hope so.
I don't know what else to do; I unlock the door.
He opens it before I can change my mind and squats beside my little car to take my face in his callused hands. "Did they hurt you?"
I can't talk because I'm desperately trying to stop the blubbering that's about to overtake me. I just shake my head.
"Did they touch you?"
I shake my head again.
"Did Hugh scare you?"
Mr. Sloan carefully pushes my wet hair from my forehead, as if he's trying not to make any sudden movements. "The boy's an alcoholic," he says gently. "His dad's sending him to a drug and alcohol program in Minot, first thing tomorrow morning." While he's telling me this, he's easing me out of the car and wrapping the blanket around my shoulders. I'm shaking like the proverbial leaf. "Did Hugh get you wet?"
I nod again. "Splashed me ... with his Jeep," I muster, and I lean into him; I can't help it.
He seems unsure where to put his hands, but finally settles on rubbing my back. His hands are big and solid, drawing me closer to his warmth.
"Why are you in your underwear?" he asks.
"I was sleeping," I stammer. "In my tent."
"In nothing but your underwear?" There's a touch of irritation in his voice, as if he can't quite fathom how an intelligent woman such as myself would think that sleeping out here alone, in nothing but a tank top and panties, was a good plan. He leaves all the implications unspoken, but I know what he's thinking: I was alone, as good as naked, and pretty much helpless. "Why are you out here by yourself?" he demands.
I shrug. What can I say but the truth? "It was stupid," I finally admit. My voice is muffled in his chest. "I didn't know it would be dangerous. I thought the road was abandoned."
He stops rubbing my back. I feel the tension in his muscles. "Which part didn't you know was dangerous?" he asks softly. "The part where you decided to camp by yourself instead of getting a motel? Or the part where you didn't stop to think that maybe this road was abandoned for a reason?" He sweeps his hand across the landscape. "This is a sink hole. It swallowed the road last year. It's still growing. The ground around it is unstable. If you see something like this, you've got to know it's not normal. What in the world would make you decide to camp here?"
I look up at him miserably.
With a sigh of exasperation, he sets me gently but firmly away from him. "Never mind, we'll deal with that later. Let's get you some dry clothes."
"I've got to find my keys," I mumble. "They're in my jeans in the tent. I'll get a motel on the interstate." This is all I can think about; I've got to find the keys and drive away.
Mr. Sloan scowls. "Of all the hare brained ideas." With no warning whatsoever, he picks me up, cradling me against his chest. I want to object, but I'm so surprised that I can't quite pull together my righteous indignation before he strides around his pickup, somehow opens the passenger door and heaves me inside. "You're not going anywhere on your own tonight," he tells me. "Stay here, I'll find your keys."
I slump against the seat and wipe my face while he strides off to rummage through my backseat. I hear him grousing about the messy state of my automobile and complaining about modern women who have more pride than common sense. He, of course, finds the damn keys right away. He pockets them and locks my car. He slides behind the pickup wheel and starts up the engine as if he's about to take me away in nothing but wet undies and a blanket that's not long enough to cover my behind. "Wait! I can't go with you," I sputter. "I need clothes. Give me my keys!"
But he just puts the truck in gear and accelerates onto the highway. "If you've got dry clothes," he says calmly, "then they're somewhere underneath that wet mess in your car. I'm not taking the time to find them right now. I live just up the road. I've got a spare room, and you're going to use it. I'll come back tonight and get your car."
"No," I protest. "I can't go to your house; I'm nearly naked."
"Girly, I'm not going to argue with you about this."
We argue all the way to his house. Or rather I argue, wheedle and protest while he answers me in monosyllables and otherwise ignores me. He turns up a long driveway not ten minutes from my lake and follows its meandering course over a hill. He parks in front of a farmhouse that's tucked between rolling fields. I'm still explaining in a heated fashion that, while I appreciate his assistance earlier, he has no business telling me how to run my life. He says nothing, although I have the feeling that he's gritting his teeth. His whole silent-simmering-male thing is starting to get on my nerves. He gets out and unceremoniously pulls me out behind him. This is the last straw. I've been scared out of my wits, and I'll be damned if I'm now going to put up with being yarded around like a six-year-old. I yank free of his grip. "Damn it, you son of a bitch, let go of my arm and give me my keys!"
Aunt Trudy has always said that someday my temper's going to get me in trouble. The look on Mr. Sloan's face makes me think that day has arrived. I take a step back.
"That'll be enough of that," he growls. And right there in his front yard, fully illuminated by the porch light, he snatches my arm, spins me around, yanks up the blanket and lands a resounding slap on my butt, hard enough to lift my heels from the ground. I squeal in shock and lose my grip on the blanket in my fumbling effort to cover my buttocks with both hands. Before I can manage it, he pushes my hands out of the way and spanks me again on the other bottom cheek. "Keep a civil tongue in your head," he snaps. "Understand?"
"Yes!" I gasp. "Yes! I'm sorry!"
"Walk," he demands. "Up the porch, girly, in the house, move it!" This is punctuated by yet another powerful wallop to my panty-clad buns.
When I open my mouth to protest, he pulls back his arm like he means to let my poor rear have it again. "You're obviously in no condition to make decisions for yourself. You'll do as I say right now, or so help me..."
I shut my mouth and scurry over the fallen blanket toward the house, trying to stay clear of his hand. I can't believe this is happening! My butt burns. My chest is heaving. I'm intensely aware of my breasts bouncing heavily as I hurry onto the porch. Mr. Sloan opens the door and bustles me inside. We turn and march up a flight of stairs so fast that I'm nearly running, and my breasts are now bounding beneath the clinging tank top. On the second floor, he points to a door standing open down the hall. I hustle into the bedroom, and he flips on the light switch. The room's painted soft yellow and white, with eyelet curtains and a big antique dresser. A white iron bed sits near the one window.
We look at each other, me shamelessly rubbing my butt and glaring at him as I try to catch my breath, him looking disgruntled and put upon as he surveys me in my wet underwear. "There's a bathroom across the hall," he says matter-of-factly, "Take a shower and get some sleep. I'll check on you in the night. We'll talk in the morning." With that, he turns and leaves the room. He closes the bedroom door behind him, and I hear his boots clomping down the stairs. A few moments later, his pickup starts in the yard and drives away. I suppose he's gone to get my car, just as he promised, although how he'll manage it by himself is beyond me.
Left alone in his house, I can't figure out what, exactly, I'm feeling. I should be appalled and offended. But, of course, there are other emotions squirming beneath my skin, quivering desires that absolutely can not rise to the surface now, when I'm in a complete stranger's house. The whole situation is too embarrassing to contemplate. So, of course, I can't stop thinking about it. He spanked me! In my fantasies, there's always been an erotic component to spankings, but Mr. Sloan was no more turned on by spanking my butt than he would be by spanking a recalcitrant child. The way he did it, I felt silly and indignant, a grown woman being spanked into the house. Now, though ... now I'm feeling a lot of other things, not the least of which is old fashioned, raw lust. How messed up is that? Why can't my feelings be tidy and easy to arrange? Why can't they fit into a neat little vanilla package? I'm too confused and exhausted to sort any of this out. A shower is what I need, and then sleep.
I let the heavy spray run for a long time on my rear. When I crawl, naked and clean, between the sheets of the iron bed, my bottom is tingling.