“Get up,” he told her.
Susan slid off his lap and unconsciously rubbed her bottom through the satin gown and robe, sinking to her knees beside his chair.
“I said get up,” he repeated, pulling her up. Susan blushed, feeling like a stupid child.
“That outfit is too sophisticated for you,” he told her, as though the exquisite ensemble displeased him. “Go to your room and change into something more appropriate for a naughty little girl,” he ordered.
Excited and upset, Susan went up to her studio. Anthony seemed quite angry with her. Of course she couldn’t believe that deep down he was really angry with her. He was far too levelheaded to take the actions of a frivolous child like herself to heart. Susan felt a tiny thrill as she mused on her lover’s age and experience. He was quite old enough to be her father, though he wore his 40 years very lightly. His importance in the real world endowed Anthony Newton with a natural dignity, which even an irreverent Ivy League brat like Susan was compelled to respect. It occurred to Susan that though he might never use the word himself, Anthony was her master. The coolness with which he had greeted her return this evening confirmed his control.
She knelt before her biggest marble topped chest, the one that contained her combinations and nighties and pulled out the bottom drawer, in which everything was of white cotton. She selected a waltz length eyelet trimmed gown and wrapper, which was laced with blue satin, ribbons and tied with a blue satin sash. In the set with her long, blonde hair down she might have sat for Renoir.
Anthony had removed his tie and jacket and was in the process of rolling up his sleeves when she returned to him. Rather than meeting his eyes, she scanned the counterpane which displayed a multi-thonged flogger, a razor strop and perhaps what frightened Susan the most, a long, broad, oval shaped wooden hairbrush.
“Come over here young lady,” he ordered. “Give me your wrists.” When she obeyed he tied them together in front of her with a pristine white handkerchief. They looked at each other.
“You have something to say?” he asked her gravely.
“Only that I’m sorry,” she replied.
“Sorry that you overreacted to the Random Point incident?” Anthony pulled her by her bound wrists face down across his lap and took up the hairbrush, which terrified Susan.
“Yes, I overreacted,” she replied. He laid the back of the brush against the curve of her buttocks, which was fairly well protected by two layers of eyelet-sewn cotton.
“I hate to have to do this, Susan, but I feel I have to get your attention this time,” he explained, drawing back his arm to deliver the first smack. The blow of this big brush was solid, imparting a sharp, deeply penetrating pain, which caused her to cry out with shock and dismay as she jumped on his lap.
“No!” she wrenched her upper torso around and tried to break free.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he pushed her back down. Then he slowly applied the hairbrush with equal severity an additional half dozen times, holding her firmly in place across his knees with one hand on her waist all the while.
In his attic apartment Dennis heard his little mistress’ anguish as her desperate cries rang through the house. Half mad with empathy and excitement, Dennis paced. He didn’t know what state was to be more devoutly coveted, that of being Susan’s resolute master or worshipful submissive.
“You know you’ve got this coming,” Anthony uttered, with implacable certainty, raising her dressing gown and nightie.
“No more with the brush, I beg you!” She twisted and turned on his lap. He examined her blushing bottom, which revealed the dark rose imprint of the brush on her flawless white skin. Tears ran down her face as she gave him one stricken look then hung her head and burst into sobs. “Mercy!” she whimpered, repeating the plea several times before breaking down completely.
Anthony lifted her from his lap, setting her on her feet. He first untied her wrists, giving her the handkerchief to wipe her eyes, then untied her satin sash and pulled the wrapper from her shoulders. She was charming in the sleeveless, fitted, white, embroidered gown.
“No more with the hairbrush,” he pulled her down to sit on his lap, encircling her small waist with his arms.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“I’m still angry with you, though.”
“Are you really?”
“When would you have deigned to come back if it weren’t for Hugo’s lie about my new secretary and the trip abroad?”
“I was planning to run into you at Hugo’s Halloween party,” she confessed.
“Not until then?” Now Anthony was genuinely perturbed. “You intended to keep your distance for two months to prove a point?”
“Tony, we’ve traded E-mail every single day since I’ve been at Central Park West,” she referred to their daily computer bulletin board message exchanges via the modem. “If you wanted me to come back to the Village so badly why didn’t you say so?” Susan jumped off his lap.
“I guess I was waiting to see how long it would take you to decide to return on your own.” He got up and paced.
“That and you were so busy up on Park Avenue that you barely noticed I was gone,” Susan suddenly accused.
“What do you mean, Park Avenue? Susan Ross, did you follow me tonight?”
“What if I did?” Susan challenged.
“Worse and worse!”
“Oh Anthony, I’ve missed you!” she tried to put her arms around him but he didn’t allow this.
“So much that you could afford to wait to run into me at a party a month from now?” Anthony was so piqued at this revelation that he lifted her onto the high, lavishly dressed four-poster bed saying, “We’ve got to get some things straightened out here. Arms around the post.” He assisted in arranging Susan’s arms so that she hugged the carved wooden bedpost with her graceful back turned towards him. He gathered up the skirt of her gown and tucked it up between her arm and the bedpost, baring her pink bottom. He took up the multi-thonged whip with its broad, flat, leather lashes and placed his other hand in the small of her back.
“Run into me at a party, will you?” he administered the first stroke directly across the fleshiest portion of her bottom in a vigorous manner, which caused her to catch her breath and rock with the lash.
“You know, Susan, you’d bore me to death if you didn’t have a life of your own, but let’s not lose perspective here.” He delivered the next stroke lower and harder. Susan gave a little sob of fear.
“Are you my girl or aren’t you?”
“You said I wasn’t before,” she murmured.
“Don’t tell me what I said,” he administered a third lash, which seemed to cover her entire bottom and left a pink bouquet of whip marks in its wake. “Your manners are getting worse and worse, Susan.” He punctuated this accusation with the firmest stroke so far, one that caused her to cry out in pain and fear, while appealing to him with tearful eyes.
“Don’t look at me like that. I’m very displeased with you,” he told her, drawing back his arm to administer the end of the whipping. The two final strokes were frighteningly severe to Susan, who immediately sank down on her knees, hid her face and wept.
“Let’s get back to you following me tonight. You can’t possibly think that was the proper thing to do?” He lifted her head and quite coolly wiped her face with his handkerchief.
Susan looked guilty. “I just wanted to see the lady.”
“Really!