"But
What Have I Done!” she Cried
by Lizbeth Dusseau
Copyright (c) 1998, Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved
Veronica crept stealthily into the
foyer of the house and quietly closed the door behind her. The
click was so subtle that even standing right there she hardly
heard the tiny noise.
“Where have you been!” her husband’s voice roared
from the living room.
Obviously, she’d not been as quiet as she thought.
Veronica’s face drew up into a terrified squint; then taking a
deep breath, she relaxed and straightened, pressing her hands to
the front of her short dress smoothing, the wrinkles in the
fabric.
“Now!” he boomed again.
“Oh, dear! It’s now or never,” she thought to
herself.
Sashaying her curvaceous hips, the ditsy redhead moved
with a slutty swagger beyond the open French doors. She
couldn’t see her husband’s face since his leather chair
faced into the room; but feeling the intensity of his anger, she
knew there’d be a battle she’d just as soon avoid.
The room was awash with the mellow light from the
fireplace. Her husband had been reading—probably profit
summaries or sales reports—how dull—his feet on the hassock
as though he’d been there a long time. The Robert Germans’
living room was a comfortable place—modern, functional and
warm. And for Veronica it was usually her sanctuary so opposite
the Old World extravagance of Rutledge House—the family
fortress on the hill. For a few moments, morning and evening she
could pretend that the other part of her life didn’t exist.
Though she now made her home in a Paris Cove condo, most of her
day was still spent cloistered in the stuffy rooms of her
Rutledge Vineyard office. Oh, of course they were quaint—too
damned quaint for her tastes. It was so much better for her
disposition to come home every night to the simplicity of her
own home. She should be loving it now, though she supposed that
wouldn’t happen until she found a way to pacify her pissed-off
husband.
Maybe she could honey-coat their way into bed. Sometimes
when he was furious, sex just sort of happened instead of the
more painful consequences he probably had planned well in
advance of his first booming command.
“Robert, sweetheart. It’s nearly midnight—” It
was actually just past eleven-thirty. “I thought you’d be in
bed by now,” she said coming around to his side and sidling in
against his shoulder, hoping she could plop right down on his
lap. “I bet you’re tired and could use a backrub, what do ya
say?”
Robert wasn’t interested—at least not yet.
Veronica’s brassy curls had an unnatural look as the
firelight reflected off the surface. Her face was seductive and
impish, her lips forming a kittenish pout while her blue eyes
steamed sensuously. A few drinks always loosened the last
vestiges of propriety in the lusty tart—and tonight was no
different.
“Why the hell would I be in bed when my wife’s not
home?”
“You knew I was going out with Leeza Little.”
“I did not.”
“Oh, you just forgot,” she purred, trying again to
get into his lap. A few playful strokes at his crotch, he’d be
putty in her hands. Robert was a sucker for late night
sex—probably why he was so pissed in the first place: he’d
been horny and she wasn’t there.
“You’ve been where, Veronica?” Robert snapped off
his next question.
“I told you, out with Leeza.”
“Drinking.” He smelled the liquor on her breath.
“Oh, not much,” she said. Ah, she should have rinsed
with mouthwash before she entered the house. Then, too, she was
tipsy and not thinking straight. Why did he always have to find
out?
“I think you’re drunk!” Robert caught his wife’s
wrist as he rose from his chair.
“No, please, darling!” Her voluptuous body still
oozed with an alluring charm, which normally delighted Robert
German. But since he’d been fuming for nearly two hours, he
was much too pissed to let sex get in the way of his plans.
“You’re driving drunk again after your license was
suspended,” he reminded her with a lethal glare in his bronze
eyes.
“No! I’m not drunk at all,” she swore pleadingly.
“Just a glass of wine. Honest.”
“You’ve had a half-dozen if you’ve had one.” He
pulled her toward the side of the room, opened one closet door
in a long line of whitewashed cabinets, and withdrew a ten-inch
paddle from its hook. Veronica immediately tried pulling away
from his firm grasp of her hand.
“Honey, I’m sorry. It really wasn’t much.” Her
worried eyes pleaded for mercy as she gazed at the dreadful
thing. There were ten identical holes drilled through the thick
surface making it the worst possible implement he could choose.
“Don’t even try. You’ve made me so angry, there’s
no way you’re getting out of this.”
“But, darling, really,” she tugged more without
results. Though Robert was a husky man, there was not an ounce
of fat on his six-foot frame. At forty-one he still lifted
weights and every muscle in his powerful arms and chest was as
firm as it had been at twenty-one. Being a passionate man about
everything in his life, he was passionate about what needed to
be done. Just five-foot two in her stocking feet, Veronica was
no match for his brawn when he was as determined as he was now.
“Don’t fight me,” he said with a steely twist in
his delivery. Returning to his chair, he sat at the edge of the
seat and upended his wife over his lap. Her pale blue dress was
short enough for the hem to ride up high on her fleshy thighs,
nearly uncovering his target without any effort on his part. But
holding her with a firm left hand at her waist, Robert
completely bared her ass with one swipe of his right hand. Once
her dress was over her hips, he had only to pull down her tiny
black panties. “What a little slut,” he thought to
himself seeing her underwear. If he’d been paying attention at
all—and with his more than healthy libido he usually did—he
would have seen the black outline of her underwear through the
nearly colorless fabric of her dress. Of course, she dressed
that way purposely. Rutledge women, whether by birth or
marriage, were all alike—steamy, sexual temptresses with few
morals, and lacking the restraints that made other women dress
more modestly. Maybe it had something to do with Rutledge men
that made their wives and girlfriends so risqué. Not only did
Rutledge men openly appreciate the attributes of libidinous
women; they knew how to handle them when they went too
far—just as Robert was handling his Rutledge woman now.
Veronica might be the most prurient of the lot—since she was a
Rutledge by birth.
“Out attracting a new boyfriend, are we?” he managed
to say as he teasingly pulled the slip of black fabric off her
ass. Letting the silly thong slide down her thighs, it rested at
her knees, left to dangle there until he finished.
Veronica’s behind was the palest of pinks, just a
slight hue on the skin where she wasn’t tan. That untanned
sliver of skin had been getting smaller and smaller as the years
went by. Veronica loved to sunbathe, and if Robert hadn’t
forbid it, she would have done so in the nude. Actually, he
might like the look of her backside with no tan lines, but
loved, even more, denying his wife those things she wanted so
passionately—kept the sparks flying. If there was ever a
couple who lit up the sky with fireworks, it was Robert and
Veronica German.
“Oh, please, darling,” she could sound so terribly
desperate.
“It’s useless, babe, your bum’s gonna pay
tonight.” He loved that term for the female derriere, just as
he loved the look of a bright red behind once it had been
vigorously punished. Veronica had a fine ass: round, dimpled at
the top, its two broad and fleshy cheeks spread out nicely when
she was lying over his lap. Often he could glimpse the sex pouch
between her thighs. But now her legs were pressed together
tightly as though they were locked in position. He chuckled
under his breath knowing that would soon change.
With the paddle gripped tightly in his large palm, Robert
raised it to shoulder height. “No!” she cried as the first
strike smacked her naked rear. He kept on. “Ouch, no, no.”
He was peppering her determinedly, with some strikes brisk and
others slow. Some were hard, some harder still, and others
deliberately lighter as though he were about to quit. By the
time he reached the second round of ten, she was flailing, and
crying, and gyrating so madly that he had to pause. “I can’t
stand it, please.” Her desperate wail sounded so pitiful.
Veronica hated this paddle—no, hated was not a strong
enough word. She loathed it, despised it, wished it off the face
of the planet every time she was spanked with the damnable
thing. Once she tried swiping it from the closet and disposing
of it in the trash. When Robert discovered it there—as though
he had some sixth sense clueing him in to her scheme (he never
fooled with anything once it was in the dumpster), she got the
paddling of her life. He could forgive a lot of things and
others he let slide; but this overt rebellion was too deliberate
a crime not to punish with a most befitting taste of that
drilled wood.
“You can stand a lot more than you think,” Robert
scolded. “I’m just getting started and we’re in for a long
ride tonight.”
“But what have I done!” she cried. She could only
hope that by engaging him in a discussion of the merits of this
punishment, she’d be able to sway him. It was her only
hope—but a very futile one. As often as she tried talking her
husband out of a spanking, she’d never managed to change his
mind. “What have I done?” she implored him again. Asking
that question, she might as well have added lighter fluid to an
already blazing fire. The paddle came down on her behind with
such a resounding smack that she seemed to jump a foot off his
lap.
“The list I have is so long I don’t know where to
begin,” he charged. He just kept on, delivering smacks so mean
she thought she might pass out.
“Yeeeeouch! My gawd, Ouch! Please! Robert, please!”
She kept on squealing through her tears. “What have I done! Ow,
ow, ouch, stop!” Her entire body bucked like a stubborn mule.
“Oh, you’ve earned every bit of what you’re
getting, my dear brat!”
Veronica had no idea all the things that sparked this
session; the drinking was just one of many in a long list of
offenses. Yet, it wasn’t the time to begin the litany of her
crimes. He wanted to let off steam, get his point across, and
have a compliant wife before he finished the session with a
lecture she wouldn’t forget. He wasn’t in the mood for her
finagling and seductive schemes. This would be discipline, short
and sweet.
The spanking continued in a rhythm that seemed to be
manageable for them both. Yes, she could turn frantic and he’d
back off, but once she’d revived a bit, he only started again
a little more forcefully than before. After several dozen
smacks, her broad bottom was red from the top of her thighs to
the top her ass. Finally, he began to slow. Once stopping
altogether, he laid the paddle on the table beside him and gave
her a subtle shove.
Having no desire to stay for more, Veronica was off his
lap in seconds, standing in front of her husband, her panties at
her feet; her skirt still bunched at her waist. She’d been
sobbing softly, and was now wiping her eyes with the back of her
hand.
She snuffed. “I didn’t deserve that much.”
“No?”
“Well,” she sighed looking petulant. “It was only a
couple drinks, I swear.”
“You swear a lot, my dear. The fact is, you were
drinking and driving. That alone should be enough to warrant
exactly what you got. You can be glad that I’m not going to
repeat this treatment everyday for a week.”
“You wouldn’t!” She looked shocked—and
beautifully disheveled. Mascara smudged her cheeks, and her
bright hair was a sexy mass of wild curls.
“I’ve done it before.”
“Yes, but in five years you’ve only done that
twice.”
“All for good reason—and probably not as much as I
have right now,” he added.
Robert wished he didn’t have so much territory to cover
with her tonight. He would have preferred diving into the lovely
snatch of pink blonde curls between her thighs, dining with both
mouth and cock at her delicious doors of pleasure. Yes, he’d
rather screw this trampy vixen as carry out his nasty deed, but
in this matter, he had no choice.
“There’s something else, isn’t there?” she
thought to ask.
“Good guess,” he returned, as a wry smirk appeared on
his face. “Too bad you didn’t use your powers of intuition
on S&E Foods.”
“Oh?” Suddenly, she quit thinking about the fire on
her bottom, or the pain when she moved, or the deliciously
erotic warmth that was now quite present in her ass and
everywhere that sexual sensation moved.
“You fucked up, Veronica. Sales directors are supposed
to coddle their clients. They’re supposed to take their phone
calls. They’re supposed to make it to their luncheon meetings.
And when there’s a problem, it is the Sales Director’s job
to solve it. Using your secretary for sensitive matters just
won’t do. While you were out drinking with Leeza Little, we
lost over half their business. You were indisposed for the
rest of the evening, so Laurie said. And while you were indisposed
they decided to make their largest order of the year with a more
reputable winery.”
Veronica—who’d been drunk, steamy, turned on, livid
and in dire pain, all during the last half hour—was now stone,
cold sober and nearly frozen to the core—despite how hot her
bare ass remained.
“Looks as though you’ll be indisposed for
quite a while. I’m replacing you with Rick Gentry.”
“What?”
“You’re fired, babe.”
“You can’t do that.”
“And why not?”
“I-I…” she stammered. “I’m a Rutledge, that’s
why.”
“But I’m your boss.”
“You can’t, you just can’t!” She sounded like a
whiney child.
“I can and I have.”
Her eyes shot darts his way as the truth hit its mark.
“I’ll talk to James about this,” she vowed.
“Go right ahead. I already have.”
“And what did he say?”
“He agreed with me.”
“He couldn’t have!”
“Ask him yourself, darling.”
“You, you ….” She might have added bastard,
or prick, or miserable lout, but suddenly seeing
Robert’s hand fingering the paddle, she had no desire to
tangle with that again. I’m a damned good sales director,”
she finally blurted out.
“Yes. When you’re there. But recently—for about six
months, you’ve been screwing up. The business world doesn’t
revolve around your schedule, Veronica.” He sat back
comfortably in his chair. “I figure you need a little R&R,
and that’s exactly what you’re going to get.”
“You can’t,” she was reduced to tears.
“You’d better get to bed, you’re tired. We’ll
talk more in the morning.”
“Never!” she blared as she stamped her right foot.
Finally remembering that her ass was bare and cold, she tugged
angrily on her dress until she’d covered her behind. Starting
toward the door, she shot off one last barb. “Don’t you dare
try to get in bed with me!”
He almost laughed. She was so predictable.
The door slammed behind her and he was left alone in a
room that became more tranquil the longer he lingered there.
Watching the fire in the grate slowly diminish to no more than a
glowing speck of ash, he then stood up and made his way out the
door. He ambled up the stairs to the loft where he’d spend the
night. His bed was already turned down. He had this one figured
out long before their showdown began.
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