Page 32 of Wanted
He’d made her come up with four more on her own.
“I used to like my hair” hadn’t counted, but the last one that she’d come up with had. “I’m a great service submissive,” she’d told him, her ass stinging every bit as fiercely as her eyes as she held his stare, daring him to disagree. He hadn’t. He hadn’t disagreed with any of the silly things she claimed to like about herself. Her eyes... okay, they really were kind of pretty and she liked that he’d noticed. Her hair... okay, that probably really hadn’t counted, since she wasn’t saying she liked it, but that she used to like it. The others... that she made good coffee, that she had nice feet, that she liked her ponytail... those were just bullshit. The coffee maker made good coffee, feet were ugly no matter who they were on, and the only thing she really liked about her ponytail was Marcus’s propensity to grab hold of it when he wanted to make sure he one-hundred-percent had her undivided attention. And he did, every time. Her body came alive when he did this—lectured her, pinned her in the ferocity of his authoritative stare, and especially when he spanked her, the flat of his hand measuring swats like a baker measured teaspoons of spice and flavor extracts.
“I’m a great service submissive,” she’d said, and he hadn’t disagreed. For a moment, he didn’t swat her either. He’d held her stare in the mirror, holding her yanked up onto her tiptoes by her ponytail, and he didn’t say anything at all, but she didn’t need him to. She was too mesmerized by all the things he wasn’t saying. The darkness in his stare grew subtly darker still. He’d tipped his head. And then, instead of swatting her, he’d smacked his hand down between her legs, grabbing hold of her pussy to yank her hips back from the sink, and the next thing she knew, she was bent flat over it.
He’d spanked her then, hard, swift swats that had continued to fall until the sting turned to smart, the smart to hurt, the hurt to fire and she lost all ability to hold still or take it quietly.
She did take it, though. Whether she liked spankings or not hadn’t mattered, it was what she could get and she accepted it for what it was—a good substitute for what she’d wanted from the moment he’d grabbed her pussy. As if he’d owned it.
And he kept right on spanking her, long after the point needed to be made. She could tell by the way he held her stare in the mirror, he did it not because spanking her was what he wanted to do, but because it was what he could trust himself to do.
“Are you even listening to me?” Marcus asked, snapping her back to where she was, eyes closed in the passenger side of his car.
“On a beach,” she said, heat flushing her every bit as hot as if she were baking in the sun. She squirmed, the warmth of embarrassment nothing compared to the wicked burn thumping and throbbing between her legs. She clenched her thighs, but her clit would not be muted.
“Uh huh.” He didn’t sound convinced, but he didn’t rub her nose in it either. “You’re comfortable, relaxed. Walking along the water’s edge, the wet sand warm beneath your bare feet.”
“Am I naked?” She relaxed, liking the image he was conjuring. She hadn’t been to a beach since she was a kid. It had been a fun day, right up until she got stung by a jellyfish.
Clearing his throat, Marcus said, “You are not.” His normally calm and soothing tone had changed. It was now terse, almost abrupt. “You’re wearing a bathing suit. A one-piece,” he decided. “With a sarong. So no one can see your red, welted ass except me.”
“You’re there?” she asked, a little surprised. He’d never put himself in one of these meditative relaxation scenarios before.
“No,” he said, hints of annoyance creeping into his tone. “Yes, maybe. But no one else. You’re supposed to be walking on the beach alone.”
“I don’t mind if you’re there.” She’d have preferred it, in fact. “I hate being alone. Where are you?”
“Walking right behind you.”
She’d have much preferred to have him walking ahead of her, so she could follow submissively in his footsteps. Then it hit her. “So you can see my ass and no one else can?”
“You know what—get out of the car, go in that store, and buy some damn clothes.”
His minor distraction worked or at least, she didn’t feel sick to her stomach as she shouldered open the door and got out. He got out too.
“Money,” he reminded.
She’d left it in the car. She had to go back, digging between the cupholders and the seat until she found the envelope with the three crisp twenties that Marcus had given her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d handled money with the intent of spending it on herself, when she didn’t have an outlined plan given to her by her Dom.
“Just two outfits,” Marcus said, waiting at the hood of the car for her to come back to him. He continued waiting too, his knowing eyes locked on her until, shoulders slumping, she took the uncomfortable lead and walked into the store ahead of him.
Two outfits. That was all she had to do, but the second-hand store was huge. From the front doors, there were three checkout registers to her left, and from the right all the way into the back of the store where the furniture was being displayed, were row after row after row of overflowing clothing racks. Children’s were in the middle of the store, just behind a display of higher quality purses and costume jewelry. Men’s were past the registers, on the far left.
Overwhelmingly, most of the clothing was women’s, starting with pants, then skirts, then shirts and dresses. They even had nightgowns.
“You can do this,” Marcus told her. “One step in front of the other. Just imagine you can feel that warm, wet sand between your toes.”
There was no sand. There was no beach. She really was going to be sick.
He nudged her back, trying to get her walking, but there was a woman in the shirt aisle looking her up and down, her expression screwed up in that same look she’d received so often, especially in those last months at Black Light when everyone hated her.
She’d have turned and walked right back out of the store but for Marcus, and the warm clap of his hand on the back of her neck. He didn’t care who was looking their way, he marched her into the pants aisle, turned her to face the clothes, gave an extra squeeze of warning to the back of her neck and then let go.
Pony closed her eyes, struggled to take a breath, and then knowing it would send her spiraling harder—maybe even because she knew it would spiral her—she glanced at the woman again. The woman had gone back to her shopping.
Pony stole quick glances around, her gaze flitting from shopper to shopper, but no one was looking at her anymore. No one cared that she was in the store.
Her silent shadow, Marcus folded his arms across his chest and waited for her to do something.
