The Naughty List (12 page)

“Put it inside you.”

My body instinctively responded to his voice. I moved the spatula toward me when he commandeered the handle and gently inserted it into me. He moved it back and forth, back and forth, putting my senses into overdrive. Ben’s rhythm and technique made my muscles tighten around the spatula until my body could no longer constrict. My back arched, my thighs stiffened and my hands gripped the armrests of the airplane seat, my fingernails digging into the fake leather. Ben increased the speed until I clamped down on the spatula in a spasm that ricocheted throughout my body. The orgasm rippled across me like a hot arrow that couldn’t find its mark. So instead it nailed me everywhere. My skin was sensitive to the touch and shuddered for more.

Ben gently withdrew my new favorite kitchen tool. “Are you one of those chefs that don’t let people lick the spatula?”

I smiled, raised an eyebrow and shook my head. “Not at all.”

With darkness out our window and a splattering of stars, I felt like I had reached heaven. I leaned my head on his shoulder, closed my eyes and dreamed about the New Year that waited for me in Wyoming.

* * *

Ben stepped out of his truck and I felt my heart skip a beat. His black cowboy hat shielded his face but I knew his dark eyes were smoldering as I stood on the front porch of my rented cabin in a white tank top and black leggings.
Just like he wanted.

I rubbed my arms to keep them warm, and waited for him to approach me.

His jeans were cuffed and the tips of his black cowboy boots were scuffed. He looked like Johnny Cash and when he smiled it had the same effect as a Cash lyric—soulful liberation.

“You don’t need to keep checking in on me,” I said and crossed my arms over my chest, purposefully raising my breasts toward him. “It’s been a month since I moved in. You don’t need to come here night-after-night. Job’s great. My home’s great. I’m doing fine.”

“Promises are promises.”

I shrugged. “I suppose.”

Ben wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me toward him. He bit my neck.

I grinned. I loved to be embraced by his inner beast.

“What’d you make us for dinner?” he asked.

“Better idea—let’s go make dessert,” I said.

“Step-by-step?” Ben asked rather than stated.

I smiled. “Oh, yeah, step-by-step.”

* * *

Pumpkin Spice
is the published author of adult romantic fiction. Her naughty fairy tale line “Scarlett Hood & The Hunter” and “Goldlie Locks & The Brothers Bear” is published by Evernight Publishing along with her Cupid Conquest romance, “The Hart Moment.” Pumpkin’s favorite time of year is fall when the leaves are turning, the weather is crisper and the nights are a whole lot longer. Write to her at: [email protected] Follow her on Twitter: @PumpkinSpiceU2.

In The Doghouse

Elizabeth Black

I sipped my wassail and cranked up “Angels We Have Heard On High.” I should have been on top of the world—two days ago, my outdoor Christmas display made the short list to win the Sandy Bay Community Holiday Display Contest and the $1,000 check that came with it—but I wasn’t. For the last four years I’d lost out to Angela, my neighbor across the street, and I had always been a good loser, but this year was different. Angela and I had started dating around this time last year but now she was pissed at me. For good reason.

I’d long admired Angela’s shapely legs and first class derriere from my living room window. When I’d go outside to get the mail—a move I always timed for when she went out to do the same—she’d wave at me and I, drawn like a fish to a sexy, wiggling worm, would cross the street and talk about her cats, her job, and her love for classical jazz. Her voice was as smooth as a smoky shot of whiskey. My heart soared every time I heard it, and her name slid off my tongue like warm honey.

Admiration turned into fondness that turned into a burning urge to get to know her better. It took me over a year to gather up the courage to ask her out, but to my surprise she said yes.

We ate baked ziti at a forgettable Italian restaurant on our first date. November 22nd. I will never forget that date again for the rest of my life. By her birthday on December 5th we were making love every night; sometimes in my bed, sometimes in hers, but I soon fell back into my old routine.

I saw less of Angela, spending too much time playing computer games with my buddies instead of spending it with her. And I forgot our first anniversary. Then I forgot her birthday. The arctic chill emanating from her every time she looked at me gave me hypothermia.

I’d lost my sweetheart but I was determined to get her back. I was a changed man, but she was so badly hurt she couldn’t forgive me. Not that I blamed her, I had screwed up. When I called her to apologize, she hung up on me. When I sent her a dozen long-stemmed red roses, she sent them back with all the blooms cut off. I was beside myself with shame. What could I possibly do to regain her trust?

To take my mind off the situation, I added extra strings of blue twinkling lights to the bayberry bushes in front of my house. I was very proud of my display. I had all the typical Christmas trappings—icicles, snowmen, Santa Claus—but they all paled in comparison to my pride and joy—the zombie nativity scene that sat front and center on the lawn. I’d spent the better part of six months creating it out of plaster and wood. It had even made the local papers, most notably in the form of letters to the editor from offended townspeople who wanted me to take it down.

I refused.

Tonight, the judges were scheduled to make their final round and select a winner and I was confident I could beat Angela this year. She had foil, lights, wreathes and even dancing mechanical snowmen—it was impressive, but I thought I’d win because my zombie nativity scene was unique.

It was snowing again, and it had covered the lights on the lawn illuminating my zombie nativity scene. I brushed the snow off them, and gazed in admiration at my zombies. Then my heart sank to my shoes.

My undead baby Jesus had been stolen and replaced with a cracked, painted garden gnome.

I marched to Angela’s house and punched the doorbell. When she failed to answer the door my need for vengeance increased so, I re-positioned two of her dancing snowmen to make it look as if they were being naughty right there on her lawn. Satisfied, I returned to my house and waited for her to come home.

Twenty minutes later, her Toyota pulled up and I marched over to confront her in her driveway.

“Where’s my baby Jesus?”

“Go home, Nicky,” Angela said, her face as hard as ice.

“I need that statue! The judges will be by any minute.”

“I don’t have it.” She never could lie very well.

“Of course you do.”

“What if I did? Why should I return it to you?”

“Because it’s mine. Look, Angela, I know you’re mad at me but this is ridiculous. Will you ever forgive me? What can I do to make things better?”

She stared past me at her display, lips curling into a smile she tried to control to no avail. “Nicky, what have you done to my snowmen?” My heart leaped. This was the first time I had seen her smile at me in weeks.

I smiled. “I was inspired.” I turned and watched the snowmen twerk against each other. There was something rather hypnotic in their obscene movements.

She put a gloved hand to her mouth to stifle her laughter.

Hope rose in my chest. I took her free hand in both of mine and got down on one knee. “Please, Angela, will you ever forgive me? I was an idiot and a selfish twit. How can I ever make it up to you?”

“Get up. You’re embarrassing me.”

I stood but didn’t release her hand. “If I were any more contrite I’d self-flagellate.”

“That’s something I’d like to see.” She curled her lips in a contemplative frown. “There may be a way you can make up for it.”

“Anything. As long as we can be together again.”

“Go home. I’ll let you know what you can do in about an hour.”

“Okay.” I squeezed her hand and—taking a chance—raised it to my lips and kissed her gloved fingers. She didn’t pull away. I took that as a good sign.

It wasn’t until I was back home helping myself to my fifth glass of wassail that I realized I hadn’t gotten my zombie Jesus back from her.

* * *

An hour later my phone rang and I answered. “Go to your crèche and look inside. There’s a surprise for you.” She hung up.

I braved the winter storm wailing outside and made my way to my crèche. The lawn gnome was still in the cradle, but a large box wrapped in red foil sat atop it. There was a note attached.

Don’t open this box until you enter my home.

I was curious but the last thing I wanted was to get on her bad side again when I was this close to being forgiven. I crossed the street carefully in the falling snow. The twerking snowmen still danced on the lawn. Angela had not rearranged them so maybe she liked them that way, but I wondered what the judges would think.

She answered the door wearing a kimono with the belt wrapped tightly around her waist.

“Come in and sit on the couch,” she said.

“I brought wassail.” I held up the thermos I’d brought as a peace offering. Her eyes widened with interest, but instead of thanking me, she sat the thermos on the coffee table unopened.

“I said sit on the couch.” This time her tone left no question. This was an order.

I’d never heard that smoky voice of hers, the one I loved so well, speak with that much conviction before and a tremor of anticipation moved up my spine. I sat, holding the wrapped package in my hands.

“Place the box on the table.”

That was not a request. I did as she commanded.

“Remember back in October when we went to that fetish party?”

“Yes…” A wave of hope washed over me. We had gone to a very risqué party where a dom named Lady Tyrana took a liking to us and gave us an intense beginner’s lesson in the proper use of a feather and paddle. Angela had tied me face-down to a four-poster bed, and then with Lady Tyrana’s guidance she tickled my arms with a feather. My heart beat so hard with excitement and my skin jumped at her touch—being restrained made the experience all the more excruciating. As I struggled against my restraints, she ran the feather over my inner thighs and when she stopped I groaned with disappointment.

The tang of cinnamon floated to my nose when she opened a bottle of lube. Her palms massaged my butt cheeks until they warmed. Her talented hands kneaded my flesh until it softened and relaxed. She swatted me lightly with her palm, and I jumped, eager for the promise of exquisite agony at her hand.

Then Lady Tyrana put a paddle in Angela’s hand. It had a hole in it to let it pass through the air quickly and the word “BRAT” written on it in big, bold red letters.

When the paddle struck my ass for the first time, I entered into a world of sensation I’d never dreamed existed. Pain and pleasure were inexorably intertwined and I craved each strike with an intensity I had not known I was capable of.

I bought a paddle, plush cuffs, and a bottle of massage oil at the party, but then I forgot our anniversary and her birthday and the delight of a stinging behind became a thing of the past.

Back in the present, Angela ordered me to get undressed. I pulled off my clothing slowly, stretching out the thrill of being commanded for as long as I could, but eventually I shivered, naked, and waiting for her next move.

“You are not to touch. You are only to look. Our safe word is krampus, because you’ve been naughty.” I liked the authority in her voice; at that moment if she’d ordered me to run outside naked and twerk with her snowmen I would have done it.

“I’m going to take you on an adventure tonight that will make you think twice about making your friends and your games a priority over me in the future. I have several presents for you.” She patted the delicate silk that covered her slim body. “The first one is beneath this.” A wicked smile crossed her lovely face. “Now untie my kimono.”

The slick silk belt slid across my fingers and her sweet floral perfume made my heart race. My mouth had become dry in my want of her, but no mere glass of water could quench this thirst. What on earth had I been thinking to neglect her the way I had? No video game could compete with this.

The kimono slid to the floor, a waterfall of ivory silk that pooled at her feet and my eyes opened wide with delight. Angela was wearing a leather and steel corset, leather gauntlets, and leather thigh-high boots. She looked like Xena at a fetish fair.

My tongue felt as swollen as my cock and the only word I could wrap it around was “Wow.”

“Not a word, slave, unless I give you permission to speak.” She shifted from one hip to the other, and her leather squeaked as she moved. It took all my willpower to resist grabbing her. My palms stung as I dug my fingernails into my skin and my cock grew hard with an ache I wanted her to rub out.

She nodded toward the wrapped box I’d found in my crèche. “You may open your package now.”

Heart thumping with excitement, I tore at the wrapping and found a plain brown box beneath. I placed my finger in the flap, and looked at her. She nodded, giving me permission to open it. Inside I saw a flash of silver chain and thick leather with chrome spikes attached—a collar and lead. My skin tingled at the sight of it, and my cock twitched in anticipation.

She pulled them from the box.

“I’m going to put this on you, and you are going to behave.” She pressed her fingers against my shoulder and I turned to face away from her. The leather felt soft against my skin as she fastened the collar around my neck. It was tight enough to let me know she meant business but not so tight that I choked. Metal links jingled as she held the lead in her hand.

Hard leather bumped my neck as she yanked on the strap. “Do you trust me, slave?” She asked.

“Yes, Mistress.” I had never trusted anyone as much as I trusted her.

“Will you follow my instructions without question?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Then follow me.”

Pulling on the chain to direct me, she guided me into her bedroom. Each step sent electric bolts of arousal down to my groin. My eyes adjusted to candlelight and I inhaled the delicious scent of roses which filled vases placed throughout the room. A purple and crimson scarf covered items on an end table.