Middle of Nowhere
My GPS prompts me to turn onto a dirt road and I second-guess myself for the how-manyeth time as I ease through the bumps. At least it’s not quite dark yet. I’d thought that agreeing to meet in the daytime would provide some semblance of safety. But the address he gave me is so remote that he could ambush me at my car with an axe at high noon and not be worried about being spotted. Is weekly coffee for a month really sufficient basis to inspire the confidence to agree to this - to showing up for my first appointment at his Workshop? This whole thing had started as nothing more than a joke, something I could throw in Martina’s face to show her that I was browsing the lonely hearts market the East Texas way. I’ve strayed far from that goal. Now I’m too invested with anticipation and I’m dying to know for myself: what’s around the next corner?
Destination on the right.
I pull into the driveway and rumble through the stand of tall pine. And there it is. Tiny, single-story log cabin nestled in the shade of the pines. And just behind it, at the bottom of a little rise, a glimmering pond. He hadn’t given me any description. Just handed me the address burned into a wood chip and said, “Seven o’clock on Wednesday. Pull in beside my truck and wait on the bench next to the front door. Wear a skirt and a button-down top.”
I’d taken the chip from him and run my finger along the splintered edge. “I’m on the pill, you know.”
He’d cocked his head slightly. “If I needed to know, I would have asked you.”
Parked. Deep breath. Open the car and walk across the gravel to the bench by the front door, feeling simultaneously petrified and ready to burst into hysterical laughter. I perch primly on the bench, holding my purse in my lap, feeling ridiculous. This is so silly. I look like an idiot. And he’s probably in there preparing a redneck sex encounter. Pouring a few Buds into matching pint-sized canning jars, finishing laying out venison ribs from last year’s deer. Maybe he stopped on the way home from work and picked up a bouquet of carnations for the middle of the table -
I jump as the door swings open and he steps into the waning light. I let my eyes take their time wandering up to his face. Gone are the jeans, the V-neck; in their place are perfectly pressed chinos, a white oxford shirt with the top two buttons open, tucked snuggly under a wide leather belt that matches the shade of his shoes.
In a word: understated perfection.
I guess that’s two words.
I’m so flustered I can’t even count. He looks me over with critical eyes and I think there’s a spark of appreciation for the fitted button-down and the flirty circle skirt. He holds out a hand to me, a hint of that kind smile on his face.
“Are you ready?”
I stand. “Ready…” I mull the word over. “I suppose so, since I’m here. Although, I’m not really sure what I’m ready for.”
“For whatever I decide that you need.”
My eyebrows flicker up. He puts a finger against my lips.
“Remember the rules that we went over last week: when you step through that door, you will not speak without my permission. You will respond to my directions respectfully - ‘Yes, sir. No, sir.’ - You will remember the word ‘chisel’. If you use this word, I will immediately stop what I’m doing and we will reassess the situation. Are my instructions perfectly clear?”
“Mmhmm.” I nod once.
“Excuse me?” He narrows his eyes.
“Oh. We’re not inside yet, so I didn’t think the rules applied.”
He puts his hands on his hips and his serious face gives way to a soft grin. “I see that I’ve got my work cut out for me.” He ticks his head. “Inside.”
My eyes adjust to the dim light and - I can’t help it - I suck in my breath. There’s no cold beer in mason jars, no venison ribs, no carnations, no clue that I’m deep in the heart of rural Texas. There’s only a cozy room arranged with sex furniture that can only be hand-crafted - the smell of genuine leather and sanded wood. I’m in awe. There’s everything you’d expect in such a place - spanking bench, a Saint Andrew’s cross, a queen-size four-poster bed - and maybe some things you wouldn’t expect: a retired church kneeler, an old saddle, a wooden sawhorse, but all arranged so tastefully that it doesn’t feel like walking into an adult store. “Did you make all this stuff?”
He looks down at me sharply and I squeal when he pinches my butt. “Consider that a warning. And, yes, I made it.”
I’m blushing already. It took all of five seconds for me to make my first mistake. He takes my purse and sets it on a table right inside the door, the puts a hand under my elbow and leads me to an armchair near a fluffy sheepskin.
“Get down on your knees.” He presses lightly on my shoulder.
I swallow and kneel, facing the chair. When I’m in place, he sinks into the chair, arms on the armrests, like a king on his castle throne. When I glance up, he has his hand on his mouth, studying me.
“Eyes down.” His voice is quiet.
I comply, but I’m feeling antsy. Where is this going? I feel the need to step in, make a suggestion, offer some kind of contribution.
I feel the weight on his hand on my head. “This is your place until I tell you otherwise.”
“Excuse me?” The voice has a hard edge now.
I smirk. “Yes, sir.” The words feel so unnatural, artificial, silly.
A finger jerks my chin up to look at his stern face. “You think I’m playing? Let me show you how serious I am.” And before I know what’s happening, he’s pulled me over his lap, flipped my skirt up, yanked my panties down and he’s slapping fiercely at my bare ass. It’s over before I can react and I’m back on my knees with my heels pressed into my lightly stung rear. I don’t know whether to be indignant or afraid or ecstatic. I feel a little bit of all of that. He reaches forward with both elbows resting on his knees and puts a hand on either side of my face, forcing eye-contact.
“Would you like to try that again?”
It’s easier to muster a bit more gravity in my voice this time. “Yes, sir.”
“Thank you.” He releases me again and my eyes drop to my lap. My hands are shaking.
Did that just happen? Did he...spank me?