To Seek a Master (2 page)

Laura’s mouth had also come open in astonishment and outrage. It was not at all what she’d been expecting. Normally the hero and heroine didn’t even kiss until the fourth or fifth chapter, while she had invariably had to fill in all the more juicy details for herself. Not this time.

She read the piece again, and a third time, enjoying the little thrill of indignation the words gave her. That wasn’t how heroes behaved, not normally. They were supposed to be dashing and chivalrous, a little brusque perhaps, or strong and silent, but never the sort of raving pervert who’d get off on spanking a woman’s bottom. Then again, there was no suggestion that he was doing it for his enjoyment. On the contrary, Evangeline had deliberately eluded her chaperone, allowing Lord Jasper to kidnap her. Then she’d failed to escape during a drive of several hundred miles during which there had been several opportunities to contact the authorities.

All this was pointed out to Evangeline while her bottom was smacked. There wasn’t the slightest hint that Mark was doing anything other than providing some badly needed discipline to a spoilt brat. There was nothing remotely sexual in his actions, except in that it meant he saw Evangeline’s bare
bottom,
certainly nothing perverse, but the same could not be said for the sharp thrill the scene gave Laura.

She was trying to push it from her mind as she hurried to the bath, which was now in danger of overflowing. Masculine confident men who knew what they wanted were one thing, but to be turned across a man’s knee and have her bottom smacked was so far beyond the boundaries of acceptable behaviour that she felt as if she was a traitor to her sex just for reading about it, while to surrender to the warm need between her thighs was unthinkable.

It was also irresistible. From the moment she slid into the hot scented water she knew she was going to have to play with herself. The fantasies she’d deliberately allowed to build up in her head, her sense of gentle tiredness, the knowledge that nobody could catch her and nobody would ever know, all conspired to make her need too strong, and yet even as she allowed one hand to slip between her thighs and the other to one breast she was determined that whatever thoughts in her head at the moment of climax they would not involve having her bare bottom smacked as she was held down across a man’s lap.

Evangeline had been bare bottomed too, of that Laura was certain. The words of
Taken to Turkey
were coy, but there could be no mistaking the implication of the expression ‘adjusted behind’. Mark Frobisher had bared Evangeline Tarrington’s bottom. Laura gave a shiver and her fingers began to work between the lips of her sex as she imagined how it would feel – the helplessness, the indignation, the shame – as her skirt was lifted up over her legs and around her hips, exposing the seat of her knickers to the man’s view, to the utter bastard’s view. No, that wasn’t fair, because she’d have deserved it, just as Evangeline had.

In no way would that have lessened the awful feelings, and
they
would have grown ten times worse when the time came to have her knickers taken down, a hundred times worse, unbearable, and yet she’d be trapped, held helpless across a strong man’s knees, bare and wriggling and silly as her bottom was stripped for the final, intolerable outrage of being spanked.

Laura’s back arched, her lips already parted in rising excitement, only for her to shake herself, forcing the disturbing thoughts from her head. It just wasn’t right, not to imagine herself being handled that way. Fifty years had passed since the book was written, fifty years in which women had fought free from the sort of crass, macho bullshit represented by the scene in the book. Yet even as she struggled to think of something more acceptable to her personal values a sneaky little voice was whispering to her, and it was only a fantasy after all, that really being taken from behind across the seat of a commuter train wasn’t so very much more dignified, and that nobody need know in any case.

Again she began to massage her sex, trying to imagine how Darcy might treat her if they were ever in a carriage alone, one of her favourite fantasies. It was always much the same, his voice as he told her she was to be stripped, allowing no room for refusal, his hands on her body as he peeled off her clothes, the feel and taste of his cock in her mouth, the curt order to kneel on a seat and lift her bottom, not for spanking, but so that he could enter her from behind, no, not for spanking … not for spanking.

Laura gave in, a low moan escaping her lips as she surrendered to what she really needed to think about. It didn’t even much matter who did it, just so long as he was big, and male, and took no nonsense as he levered her across his legs, stripped her bottom bare and spanked her. She cried out as she started to come, playing the same awful sequence over and over in
her
head, bent over, bared, and smacked. Her legs had come high and open, her hand was locked tight to her breast, squeezing so hard her nails had dug into her flesh, but she was unable to stop herself, her fingers working on the sensitive bud between her lips as peak after peak tore through her, stopping only when she could bear it no more.

With that she collapsed back into the bath, her breath coming out in a long sigh of absolute satisfaction even as the inevitable feelings of shame welled up inside her, made worse by the fact that she knew full well it wouldn’t be the last time. Never before had she experienced an orgasm as intense.

2

LAURA STILL FELT
guilty in the morning, but that did not dispel an underlying excitement for what she had discovered. For once she hurried, going through her morning ritual with considerably less care than Mr Henderson would have expected for such an important day, but his intrusion into her thoughts only bred resentment. She was his from nine in the morning until five in the evening, with an hour for lunch, and he had no right to expect her to waste what little precious time was left. That, or as much as was possible, she intended to devote to
Taken to Turkey
, largely in the hope that there would be another spanking scene, this time described in rather more detail.

She was disappointed, although not entirely. Mark Frobisher had no sooner dealt with Evangeline’s bottom than he was neatly coshed from behind by Lord Jasper Mauleverer, who turned out to have watched the entire procedure. That was quite exciting for Laura, with the added humiliation of an audience, but Lord Jasper proved to be a pretty poor villain, enjoying the view and making a few intimate remarks to set Evangeline’s upper cheeks aflame as well as her lower ones, but completely failing to take proper advantage of her dishevelled state.

He did force her to walk behind him on a string and with her hands tied behind her back as they returned to his car, but that was plainly necessary, as he’d already tied her up once when he first kidnapped her. Both scenes were good, but fell
well
short of the spanking, while the ensuing car chase through the Sredna Gora mountains provided no more than conventional thrills. Only when Mark Frobisher’s Bentley overheated did things start to look up, with Lord Jasper declaring that it was about time Evangeline paid for all the trouble she’d caused before giving a single laugh of unspeakable malevolence.

The train had been filling up as she read, with a typical assortment of complete strangers, Darcy, Mr Brown and Hovis Boy at King’s Lynn, the Grey Man and the Tramp at Downham Market, Miss Scarlett and the Devil at Ely. By then only a few free seats remained, and the Devil excused himself politely as his hip bumped against Laura’s. She murmured something in reply and shut her book, embarrassed by the thought of him reading it out of the corner of his eye while she enjoyed the horrid thrill of discovering what Lord Jasper planned for Evangeline.

Instead, she let her thoughts drift, thinking of how much the Devil resembled Lord Jasper in her imagination, which presumably meant that she’d subconsciously connected the two. It was easy to go further with the idea. Darcy was the perfect model for Mark Frobisher, and Miss Scarlett perhaps not unlike the chaperone who might have been bribed to allow Evangeline to give her the slip. The only one remotely like the Bulgarian chief was Mr Brown, and he needed a darker complexion and rather more hair, including a large and bushy moustache, while he was really too dull to fit in with Laura’s fantasies in any case.

She was still in a daydream when the train pulled in at Cambridge and as she walked to work, but was brought suddenly down to earth by the sight of Mr Henderson standing beside his company Mondeo in the car park at EAS. She ducked down to check her appearance in the wing mirror of a convenient 4x4, only to end up blushing as she realised it was occupied
by
an elderly woman with an expression of carefully cultivated disapproval. As she approached Mr Henderson she wished she’d spent a bit more time on her hair, gone for another suit, higher heels, a splash of colour somewhere and, most especially, the seamed stockings that always earned her one of his approving nods but cost the earth, were a pain to put on and seemed to ladder at a single glance. He clearly agreed.

‘Not quite the style I’d have expected today, Laura. Look smart, look smart, that’s my motto.’

‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’

‘Well, we shall just have to do our best. This is an important contract, Laura, not just for the company, but for me personally. Land this one and there’s every chance I’ll be head of marketing this time next year. I need you to be one hundred and ten per cent behind me.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Laura got into the Mondeo, wondering how it would be possible to be one hundred and ten per cent behind anybody, unless it involved having a bit sticking out to one side or at the top, which in Mr Henderson’s case would have been impossible for her and most other people. She had at least got the relevant papers together, and began to go through them as he pulled out of the car park, heading east on the Newmarket Road.

Mr Henderson had begun on another of his pet peeves, other road users, who he assumed were all out merely to pass the time of day, while he alone had important business. Laura had heard it all before and made the appropriate comments at the appropriate junctures, meanwhile working through the order in which to present the virtues of their 24,000 volt SF6 switchgear system. Mr Henderson knew it by heart, but would expect the papers handed to him at exactly the right moments and in the right sequence, thus demonstrating efficiency. Only
when
he’d got up to speed on the duel carriageway did he turn back to the task in hand.

‘The meeting is at Setchal Manor.’

The name meant nothing to Laura, but she responded politely. Presently he turned north, into the flat fen country, and again, following the instructions of his satnav down a narrow straight lane raised above the level of the fields. After a mile the scenery changed to carefully landscaped ridges and hollows set with clumps of trees, small lakes, bunkers and carefully manicured greens. Mr Henderson gave a satisfied nod, stating the obvious.

‘A golf club.’

‘Yes.’

‘An expensive one, too, unless I’m greatly mistaken. This Mr Drake has taste.’

‘I hope he doesn’t expect us to play.’

‘Nothing was mentioned, but if he does, we’ll have to. Be prepared for the unexpected, Laura.’

It was another of his pet maxims, and one she’d always felt was particularly silly. After all, if you had prepared for something then it wasn’t really unexpected, while it was impossible to prepare for everything unless you were going to carry around an impossible amount of stuff, including, in this case, a full set of golf clubs. Not that it would have done her much good, as her sole experience of golf was being told off by a man who looked like a retired Colonel, while enjoying a hasty fumble with an ex-boyfriend on the links near Cromer.

Setchal Manor was a large house of red brick and flint, fronted by mature cedars and a weather-beaten stone colonnade, all of which gave it an air of prestige and made Laura feel small and nervous. An impressive set of double doors stood open, exposing a smaller, glass set within and the reception area beyond. Mr Henderson announced them and they were
shown
into the bar, a great panelled room hung with trophies and boards listing past luminaries of the club from a date well back in the nineteenth century.

Mr Drake was already there, a man even taller than Mr Henderson, also younger and with an open yet assertive manner Laura found simultaneously appealing and intimidating. His PA was worse, a Miss Manston-Jones, whose public school accent, tailored clothes and air of friendly condescension gave the impression that she was really only there because Daddy thought it would do her good to mix with the proles for a while.

Despite feeling well out of her depth, Laura did her best to remain businesslike and efficient, or at least to look businesslike and efficient. That meant following Mr Henderson’s rules, which included never refusing a drink from a client. After two large gin and tonics she was feeling a little more confident and a lot less steady, neither of which helped when Mr Drake made the suggestion she’d been dreading all morning.

‘I think that takes care of the business end of things. How about nine holes before lunch?’

Mr Henderson responded without batting an eyelid. ‘An excellent idea.’

Laura knew better than to object, but clung to the hope that she and Miss Manston-Jones might not be expected to play. After all, they were hardly dressed for the part, in tight skirts and heels, with Miss Manston-Jones’ skirt inevitably that little bit tighter and her heels that little bit higher. The hope was short lived. Mr Drake drained his Scotch before adding a fresh horror to the experience as well as dashing her hopes.

‘How about fifty pounds a hole, just to make it interesting? No handicap, and that goes for the girls, too.’

Mr Henderson responded with another favourite line.

‘I’ve never turned down a bet yet.’

‘That’s what I like to hear. We’ll get changed then, and meet up at the first tee. I take it you brought something casual?’