Something Has to Give by Maren Smith Read Free Book Online Page B

louder and flailed harder, clawing and hitting at his shins and feet, her little bottom bouncing up and down in lewd humping motions. It was all the leverage she could manage and he let her take it, right up until he got her jeans bunched uselessly around her mid-thighs. It was then that he noticed, admiringly, what he’d been too pissed off last night to notice—she was wearing Maydeen’s underwear… the faded scarlet ones, French-cut to ride high up on her thighs and with only just enough fabric in back to cover the absolute summit of each buttock.  Suddenly he spotted something amid all the plastic cups and fallen pots and utensils on the floor. It was the wooden handle of a flat spatula protruding through the mess.
    Quint had to reach, but he managed to hook it with his fingertips and drag it close enough to grab.
    “Don’t you dare!” she screeched, and then screeched again because he not only did dare, he dared with a vengeance.
    He grabbed the back of her panties, hauling them up between her buttocks to bare the pale swells of both tense nether cheeks. Amazing, for all that he had blistered her last night , there wasn’t a sign of it now. Her bottom was just as smooth and as white as it could be—the perfect canvas to paint now in all the brightest shades of repentance and regret.
    “Baby,” Quint said with a tsk of feigned dismay, “Daddy’s going to show you a whole ‘nother world.”
    Elsie cursed and screamed, but Quint saved his breath. He let the spatula do his talking for him and damn if it wasn’t a chatty little thing.
     
    * * * * *
     
    Elsie sucked air into her lungs and promptly howled it all out again. He was spanking her again! And it hurt! It hurt like the devil, blazing up under her skin in bursts so fierce and hot she could have sworn she was being scalded by fire. But it wasn’t a fire. It was Rydecker and some silly little, anything-but-harmless cooking utensil! How many times had she scrambled eggs with that stupid thing? How many times had she washed it, dried it, and put it back in the crock by the stove? The very crock she’d lobbed at his head, only to have him duck; the wrong one broke and now she was paying the price. And it was more than she could bear, but he wasn’t stopping. Tears filled her eyes. She fought to hold them back, but she didn’t know how much longer she could—why wasn’t he stopping?—and it was ridiculous, because she could feel how hard he was spanking her and it wasn’t very hard at all! He was barely putting any force behind the raining onslaught of downward arm-swings, and yet it hurt so much!
    She couldn’t bear it! She burst into wailing tears, bawling with her cheek pressed hot against the kitchen floor and her whole bottom scald ing under the snap-snap-thwap of a spatula that wasn’t stopping. Had no intention of stopping. Would never stop again. Not until he did what he’d threatened to do that morning and make her wish she’d been born without any bottom at all.
    Well, he was succeeding. She wished that now. She wished it with all her heart. She’d scream it if she could, if she thought it would make any difference at all, but she didn’t. All she could do was lie there under him, while the spatula bit every inch of her bottom, and she cried.
    For some reason, Rydecker stopped spanking her. She had no idea why. It certainly wasn’t because she had kicked him off.  By the end there, she had lain too exhausted and defeated to move.
    She didn’t think it was because her tears had moved him, either; he’d let her cry for what felt like years before the spatula ceased its attack.
    She sobbed, broken and unmoving while he let go of her underwear first, then pulled her jeans up, the coarse denim scraping up over her raw skin. It hugged her swollen bottom, and suddenly she wasn’t just sitting on a stove, she was broiling in the oven. All she could feel when he picked her up off the floor was the hot, pulsing, wounded throb of her nether