The Sore Loser

Her clothing laid in a pile on the floor and her arms were crossed in front of her naked chest. She frowned at her opponent, standing on the opposite side of the pool table. He still held a cue stick in his hand, the butt resting on the toe of his polished black boot while he chalked the tip. She huffed indignation in his general direction. All things considered, she found his lack of interest rude.

“Don’t pout,” he said.

Her tongue pressed against the inside of her cheek for the briefest of seconds. “You cheated,” she said.

“We had a deal.” He laid the chalk cube on the edge of the table before focusing his gaze on her. “You lost.”

Her eyes flicked to the partially drawn shade and the afternoon sun glistening in through the window. Parked cars filled the street in front of the house, but there appeared to be no one in the immediate vicinity. “It wasn’t a fair bet.”

“You shouldn’t gamble,” he said, “if you’re not willing to accept the consequences of losing.”

She frowned at him. “I didn’t lose.”

He took carefully measured steps around the table, closing the distance between them until the table no longer hindered his view of her naked body. “Then why are you naked?”

She cocked her head at him. “You’re the one who told me to strip.”

His eyes laughed. “Do you always do everything you’re told?”

“Like you were going to just give me my car keys and let me leave if I refused,” she said.

“There are consequences to the choices we make,” he said.

She shook her head at him. “Just get it over with.”

“Alright,” he said and tapped the blue felt of the table with the tip of his cue stick, “lay flat.”

Her eyes rolled toward the ceiling and she sighed. She placed her palms flat on the table’s edge and pushed herself upward, kneeling on the edge of the table. A moment later she eased herself down on the blue felt, shepherding the majority of loose balls in front of her and out of the way.

He laid his cue stick on the felt next to her. His steady fingers unfastened his belt buckle and he pulled the wide leather free of his pant loops with a fast and firm tug. The leather folded easily in half and he took position beside the table in easy reach of her bare buttocks. He smiled to himself admiring the soft roundness rising up from his pool table like a pair of milky white hills.

“This will sting,” he said. “Try not to kick my table.”

She exaggerated a yawn. “Maybe I should take a nap while you prepare yourself.”

He flicked the belt through the air, zinging it down against her cheeks. The sound of the impact fell flat with more thud than snap. Her buttocks bounced in the aftermath and a single red stripe rose up to decorate their central peaks. He flicked the belt again and this time it impacted with a loud, satisfying snap. A second red stripe rose parallel to the first, only brighter.

She gasped and blinked back tears stinging at her eyes.

The belt flashed through the air and snapped against her buttocks ten more times before he stopped. Each lash of the folded leather bit sharper into her fleshy bottom and bounced it harder. The red stripes overlapped each other until the central whole of her buttocks appeared as one wide stripe of redness. She kept her legs still and stayed down on the blue felt. The tears remained dammed in her eyes.

He ran his fingers through her long hair and bent down to kiss her soft cheek. “You can take that nap now,” he said, “if you like.”

She kept her lips flat, but her eyes were full of happy mischief. “Maybe I will, though it seems no matter what I do on this pool table, you always beat me.”

He laughed. “I can’t help it,” he said, “you’re such a good sore loser.”

A Sore Loser

Was it
something she said
or
something she did
that got her in this position?

The Jade Runner, Part 11

The day past slowly. Kit and Quinn explored the ship without extra eyes looking over their shoulders and became familiar with the layout and controls. Once satisfied the ship was ready for a trip, they established a plan of action for Rex’s return. Neither trusted the man or his intentions. For Kit it was less about making money and more about having a legitimate reason, one that would not draw the wrong kind of attention, for leaving.

Rex arrived on scheduled. “Ready to go?” he asked walking up the ramp.

Kit met him halfway down the ramp. “Quinn’s up top,” she said. “The two of you will pick up the cargo.”

Confusion spread across his face. “Where are you going?”

Kit contemplated telling him. Her intentions were not a secret and even if they were, it wasn’t the kind of secret she could keep for very long. The biggest reason for not telling him was simply he had no need to know. Kit decided on partial disclosure. “I’m meeting someone I hope will join my crew.”

Rex shook his head. “The three of us can handle the job.”

“I’m sure we can,” Kit said.

“Then why add another person into the mix?” Rex asked. He lifted his hat and wiped a thin sheen of sweat off his forehead. “Extra people usually just means extra trouble.”

Kit squared herself to Rex. “The Griffinscape is my ship now.”

He nodded though his eyes clearly disliked the reminder.

“That means I’ll run the ship anyway I like,” Kit said, “and I’m not going to debate it with you. If you don’t like my methods, nobody is making you stick around.”

She didn’t wait around for a response. Kit walked out of the hangar while the Griffinscape’s engines roared to life. The possibility that Quinn and Rex were playing her for a fool and leaving without her, tickled the back of her thoughts along with her sister’s voice taunting her with pearls of hard-learned wisdom. If only Jade had listened to her own advice, she might still be around.

Kit took her time arriving at the entertainment sector. She did not want to miss Tara’s release, but she equally didn’t want to arrive early enough to see her final swats delivered. On the way there, she stopped in a small clothing shop. Tara would need some clothes and there wasn’t going to be much time after her release before they needed to meet up with Quinn and Rex, provided of course that they showed up. Kit pushed aside her lingering doubts. Make a decision and see it through, she told herself.

Tara was still in the pillory when Kit entered the square. The Punisher stood near Tara’s buttocks, paddle held firm in his big hands. Kit suppressed the urge to interfere. Tara’s backside sported bruises and shined a polished red. The spectators were many and gathered to watch from every imaginable angle. Tara no longer bothered with protests or claims of innocence. She grunted at the impact of the paddle, but her body was limp. Tara had surrendered to the inevitable.

The realization evoked a memory in Kit. She had just entered the Academy and had failed her first test. The Academy designed things that way. It was expected for students to fail because someone had figured out that failure taught lessons success never could. Kit hadn’t understood at the time. She’d raged against the unfairness and if not for Jade, she might have quit right then. Jade had told her; You can’t fight a storm, you either ride it or get buried by it. Don’t get buried by it.

Tara was riding her storm. Kit was determined to ride it with her.

The Punisher laid on the last swat. The crack of the paddle boomed like thunder in the square. Its force rippled through Tara, shuddering her body from end to end. She moaned, undoubtedly unaware it was the last. The Punisher walked away with his paddle clapping against his leg. As soon as he was gone, the guards unlocked the restraints on Tara’s legs and then opened the pillory, freeing her. She collapsed to the ground, arms wrapping around her naked body. The guards turned and left.

Kit moved in next to Tara before anyone else could get close. The crowd always enjoyed adding humiliation to a recently freed prisoner as if their pathetic attempts could make the experience any worse than it had already been. Kit pulled her pistol out and waved it at the looming crowd. She said, “Get lost or get shot. It’s up to you.”

The crowd dispersed. Kit draped a long coat she’d bought over Tara’s shoulders and helped her to her feet. With Tara leaning heavily on Kit, they left the square and found a quiet alcove out of the immediate sight of the general public. Kit pulled a set of clothes out of her shopping bag and handed them to Tara.

Suspicion emanated from Tara’s eyes as she looked at Kit. “Who are you?”

“I’m Kit.”

“What do you want?” Tara asked, taking the clothes. She immediately went about the business of dressing.

“I want to help,” Kit said.

“Why?” Tara asked.

It was too early for the truth. Kit needed Tara to trust her enough to allow her to help. If Tara knew the truth right then, she’d probably want to get as far away as she could and that wasn’t going to help either of them.

Kit said, “Because I know the evil things LX does and I believed you when you said you were innocent.”

Tara wiped the remnants of tears from her eyes and laughed. It was the kind of laugh that said nothing was fun or funny. “Everyone ever stuck in one of those damned thing is innocent. What makes you think I’m any different?”

“Like I said, I know about LX,” Kit said.

“So they’ve done this before?” Tara asked. “To you? Or to someone you cared about?”

“We don’t have time to discuss my story right now,” Kit said.

“Seems I’ve got nothing but time,” Tara said. She stood up and leaned against the wall. Her hands reached behind her trying to massage the discomfort out of her buttocks beneath the skirt she’d just put on.

“I’ve got a ship,” Kit said, resting a supportive hand on Tara shoulder. “It’s picking up cargo and we’ve got to rendezvous with it in a few minutes.”

Tara said, “Look I appreciate the clothes and you getting me out of that square, but you’re barely more than a kid. You don’t need my troubles dragging you down.”

The Waiting Time

The clock on the wall ticked.

Lorraine deserved a spanking. Her office attire, a white blouse and black skirt, along with her unmentionables laid neatly folded in the seat of the armchair. Strands of her wavy hair tickled the top of the clothing pile while she avoided looking directly at the evidence of her embarrassing state. That she still wore her heels, that they in turn elevated her hips to the perfect height for bending over the armchair’s back, that conveniently positioned her bare buttocks for the spanking she deserved, only accentuated the absence of the clothing sitting in the chair.

The clock on the wall tocked.

This is the definition of irony, she thought. My clothes sit in a chair while I hang over its back.

The clock on the wall ticked.

An amused smile threatened to tweak her lips in the wrong direction. Lorraine suppressed the impulse with a quick glance in his direction. Brandon Cartwright sat across the room on the couch, leaning forward over the coffee table where a spread of papers and folders appeared to consume his attention. She knew better. Mr. Cartwright liked the view across his living room, the profile of a naked woman obediently waiting.

The clock on the wall tocked.

Lorraine closed her eyes, but the rustle of papers made it impossible to pretend she was alone. For the hundredth time, she wished for him to rise up and take care of the business between them. The strap laid on the coffee table awaiting the moment of its use. Mr. Cartwright pretended to ignore it as he pretended to ignore her.

The clock on the wall ticked.

She breathed and felt the exaggerated ripples of expansion and contraction travel through her naked body. A flicker of brown in the midst of white revealed Mr. Cartwright paying close attention to her every movement. She perceived his vision focused on the subtle swing of her free-hanging breasts and their pouting nipples. Hot-blooded embarrassment flushed her facial cheeks pink and then red.

The clock on the wall tocked.

In her daydreams, Mr. Cartwright had seen her naked many times. His expressive eyes had traced every contour of her bare flesh and his fingertips had caressed them all as well. In those dreams they were in his office, not his living room. And in those dreams, he had gently stripped away her clothing while her own fingers had ripped away at his. In his living room, he had ordered her to undress herself, while he stood safely out of reach and remained fully, professionally dressed.

The clock on the wall ticked.

Memory came toiling back.

The clock on the wall tocked.

Lorraine entered Mr. Cartwright’s office. The heavy wood door closed behind her with a muted thunk. She stepped to the center, between the two guest chairs parked in front of his desk. He leaned back in his black leather chair. His eyes were harsh, unblinking, as they scoured her body. She shuddered feeling naked despite the clothes covering her.

The clock on the wall ticked.

“I’m sorry,” she had said.

The clock on the wall tocked.

Mr. Cartwright had nodded. “So am I.”

The clock on the wall ticked.

“It won’t happen again,” she had said.

The clock on the wall tocked.

Mr. Cartwright had sat straight. He had pushed an envelope to the front edge of his desk. “You’re fired,” he had said.

The clock on the wall ticked.

Tears had spilled onto her cheeks. She had dropped to her knees, her chin barely rising above the desk. “Please give me another chance,” she had begged. “I’ll do anything.”

The clock on the wall tocked.

His eyes had fluttered closed only to snap open at the sound of her final word. A spark of interest flashed across his face. “Anything?” he had asked.

The clock on the wall ticked.

She had nodded. “Anything, just please don’t fire me.”

The clock on the wall tocked.

He had withdrawn the envelope and pushed it away inside a drawer. “Alright,” he had said. He had scribbled onto a small piece of paper and pushed it forward to the edge near her chin. “Meet me there at six,” he had said, “and don’t be late.”

The clock on the wall ticked.

She had arrived on time. Stood on his doorstep, nervously wondering why he would invite her to his home. He had opened the door, ushered her inside with a wave of his arm. She had walked with him to the living room. The only sound had been the clack of her heels on the tile floor of his entry and hallway. He had smiled. She had thought to wrap her arms around him and kiss him.

The clock on the wall tocked.

He had stepped away from her. “Undress,” he had said.

The clock on the wall ticked.

She had blinked. “What?” she had asked. Her voice had been soft and free of objection.

The clock on the wall tocked.

“Undress,” he had said. His tone had suggested a severe dislike for repeating himself.

The clock on the wall ticked.

Her fingers had gone to work, unbuttoning her blouse. When it feel open revealing her flesh and bra-encased breast she had asked, “Why?” Her eyes had flickered toward his face while her fingers moved onward to the clasp holding her skirt in place.

The clock on the wall tocked.

His finger had pointed to the leather strap laying on the nearby coffee table. “I’m going to punish you,” he had said.

The clock on the wall ticked.

Her skirt had fell to the floor around her feet. She had stared at the coffee table and the brown leather strap waiting on it. “I’m not a schoolgirl,” she had said.

The clock on the wall tocked.

He had nodded. “All the more reason you should have known better.”

The clock on the wall ticked.

His footsteps had taken him behind her. He had gathered her long hair away from her left ear and whispered into it. “You can leave your shoes on,” he had said, “but I want the rest of it neatly folded and resting in the seat of that chair.”

The clock on the wall tocked.

Her heart had pounded in her chest. She had trembled harder with each piece of clothing stripped away and her blood had pumped hotter and hotter until her entire naked body had been blushing. The clothes had seemingly folded themselves in her hands and when it had all been laid to rest in the seat of the prescribed armchair, she had stood staring at them and wondering how they had moved from the floor where she had originally dropped them.

The clock on the wall ticked.

He had nodded approvingly while looking over her nakedness. His hands had guided her to stand behind the armchair and then he had stepped away. “Bend over the back of the chair,” he had said. “You can wait like that until I’m ready to begin.”

The clock on the wall tocked.

She had complied. Her body had felt stretched and exposed. He had sat on the couch. She had wanted to ask for how long he expected her to wait, but the question seemed irrelevant and so she kept it inside.

The clock on the wall ticked.

And the moment arrived.

The clock on the wall tocked.

He rose from his seat and took the strap in hand.

The clock on the wall ticked.

She felt the leather tickling her buttocks with a light touch. He took aim. Her wait was almost over.

The clock on the wall tocked.

Silently Saying

I bet you think I’m sorry. Well, I’m not. I’m laughing at your serious pose and self-righteous stance. Not that you can tell, because I’m only laughing on the inside. You’re distracted by my ruined mascara and the glow of my sorely spanked buttocks. I bet you don’t see the smile on my lips. It’s not because it didn’t hurt. It’s just because you amuse me with your self-congratulatory tone and pointless lecturing.

You think because I cried that you’ve won. That’s not the case, it’s just an illusion I want you to believe. You were right and I was wrong, isn’t that the way it goes in your head? Well, I wasn’t wrong, or if I was, I don’t care. Next time, and yes, there will be a next time, I’ll just have to do a better job of not getting caught. So, enjoy your short-lived victory and I’ll just take a nap. Tomorrow is another day and I’ll be smarter and sneakier. Mark my words cause you won’t be marking my bottom again. At least not too soon, cause I’m not that dumb.