Proper young ladies don’t wipe their brows, Charlotte.
Her mother’s voice tormented her. Years of training—and berating—had made Charlotte’s internal voice just as harsh as her parent’s, just not as annoying.
Tucking her strawberry blonde hair behind her ear allowed the breezes from the ocean to brush along her neck, giving her a modicum of relief.
The not-so-distant waves lapped against the shore, calming any fears she had of walking alone at night. Again, her mother’s neurosis had heightened her anxiousness. Even though Alexandria was a very safe, upscale city, one could never be too safe.
Who in their twenties could afford a brownstone in Alexandria?
Her family had insisted she move here upon graduation; using their contacts, they’d procured both an entry-level journalist job for her in Washington, D.C. and the apartment she was walking to on this unbearably humid night.
And ultimately, her pretentious family was the cause of her fast-paced trek back home… alone. Her date with one very preppy Davin Davison, III, had been arranged by her intrusive, domineering mother. Again. In the morning, Charlotte would be answering her phone at an ungodly time explaining to her mother that Davin was as dull as watching paint dry.
But turning twenty-four this year meant her days of nabbing a rich man would soon be over, at least this was the truth according to her family. Rolling her eyes, she sighed loudly. It had been several weeks of blind dates with men, followed by the disappointing sighs and rebukes about how she would become a spinster. Charlotte didn’t even think people used that phrase anymore. Did they? After all, women were getting married later and later, focusing on their careers, and many had decided to live with a significant other, foregoing marriage completely.
Nancy Winslow, Charlotte’s overprotective mother, had sent her only daughter to prep school and socialite classes. Only the best for her girl and, of course, the end goal was ever-present.
I’m doing this for you, my dear. You’ll marry a rich man and live happily ever after.
Charlotte’s brownstone was within sight now, and she hurried her pace, her calves burning with the briskness of the jaunt.
Davin would have driven her to her apartment if she had asked him, but she didn’t want any unwanted stalking or drive-bys in her future. The man was pleasant enough, and had climbed the ranks into some pretty impressive political circles in D.C., but he was so focused on his career, wanting nothing more than a trophy wife, it made her stomach turn.
Charlotte had been groomed to be a trophy wife, sadly. But what she wanted was someone who would love her for her mind, her independence. She yearned for true love, someone who would cherish and protect her, be reliable when she needed it, and gentle when she needed that as well.
It seemed that a man who could fill those shoes no longer existed. Were there any gentlemen around anymore? Dominant men who supported and loved a woman for who she was, not just what she could provide for them.
The romance novels she had read every night before sleeping filled her head with the desire and need for something more. More than the Davin Davisons of the world could fulfill. She couldn’t see a man like that making her scream, overwhelmed with her orgasms, let alone doing some of the kinky things she imagined during masturbation.
And she didn’t blame men. Some felt uncertain and confused, afraid to show any dominance, fearing retribution and accusations. At the same time, she and many of her peers were fearful of asking for a spanking or requesting they tie her up. Some would laugh in her face, thinking she was crazy or that it was a trap to accuse them of a crime.
No. Charlotte had concluded that her sex toys and fantasies would be the extent of her dreams.
She climbed the steps, inserting her key in the hole, and walking into her lovely apartment. The faint scent of caramel and vanilla greeted her, and she smiled to herself.
It felt like home.
Flicking the light switch on, she shut the door and kicked her heels off before walking toward her bedroom.
Having barely crossed the threshold of her sanctuary, a large meaty hand slapped across her face, and a pungent chemical smell accosted her nostrils, burning the sensitive flesh, her eyes immediately watering. She coughed and gagged behind the sweaty, dirty hand before struggling to kick and claw at her intruder, but within seconds her eyes rolled, the room slowly turning black.
Fuck! I need to get my pepper spray. Oh… shit!
Charlotte woke, retching onto a greasy, dirty floor, her belly contracting violently, and her vomiting ending with a particularly loud dry heave. The contents of her stomach finally expelled, she swiped her hand across her mouth, gasping and struggling to regain her composure. Charlotte willed her eyes to focus, lifting her head and looking around.
It was still night, and she was surrounded by hydraulic lifts with cars in varying stages of repair. Am I in a fucking filthy garage? The walls were lined with tall steel tool cabinets. The concrete floor was covered in dirt and grease, the smell of diesel fuel overwhelming her and adding to her current nausea.
Jesus, why would anyone work in a garage? And how in the name of hell did I get here?
Pushing up from the floor, she struggled to rise, her legs and arms wobbly and uneasy. Before she could brush the dirt from her hands, disgusted that they were black from the floors, a large, sturdy, strong hand and arm tugged her upright to stand.
Blinking, she looked at the blue mechanic coveralls and tilting her head back, gazing into the greenest eyes she’d ever seen before. The hint of a smile played at the man’s lips, a dimple showing on his right cheek, and his eyes twinkled with mirth under the brown curls tumbling haphazardly down his forehead.
It was then Charlotte came to her senses and realized that it was this fucker who had kidnapped her, bringing her to this godforsaken place. This vile destination of oil, grease, and… blue-collar smells.
She flung her hand out, slapping the smile off his smug face. “Who the hell are you?” Backing up a step, Charlotte shouted, “Where the fuck am I?” Scanning the concrete walls, Charlotte desperately searched for a clue as to the name of the garage. Placing her hands on her hips, she gritted her teeth tightly, growling toward her captor. “And you better get away from me, or I’ll make you sorry you’re alive.”
His beautiful green eyes darkened and narrowed, and he took a step forward, also placing his hands on his hips. Leaning forward, he was nose to nose with Charlotte. “That was your one get out of jail free card; you’ll face the consequences if you dare to lay a hand on me again.”
It was her turn to narrow her gaze. “Are you for real?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. I don’t tolerate defiance and sassiness, and you’ve now been forewarned.”
“Fuck you!” Charlotte spun on her heel—her shoeless heel—searching and scanning for the closest exit.
“Charlie! Stop. We need to discuss some things. You aren’t goin’ anywhere. I do contract work for the FBI. I grabbed you and brought you to my garage to protect you from the mafia.”
She continued to search.
“Charlie, stop! I’m trying to help you. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
“Who are you calling Charlie?”
He had the audacity to snicker at her. “I saw your name is Charlotte Anne Winslow.” He shrugged, rolling his eyes. “Seems a bit stuffy for you, so I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve decided to call you Charlie.”
She shook her head in disgust before spitting out her reply. “Of course you don’t appreciate the finer, more elegant things of life. You wouldn’t know upper-class societal rules of decorum if they slapped you in the face. Charlotte Anne is a cultured name that bespeaks the generational refinement of the upper elite.”
He closed the gap between them. “You don’t know anything about me, Char-lie.” And he dragged her name out purposefully to annoy her. “But you’re about to. Now, sit. I’m not going to tolerate your tantrums.” He pointed toward a very worn and dirty office chair.
She widened her stance, defiantly crossing her arms over her chest and then, drawing upon her sparse saliva, she opened her mouth and… Charlotte spat upon him.
Charlotte had begun to wonder if she’d temporarily lost her mind. She’d never spit upon anyone in her lifetime, and choosing now to venture forth into derelict behavior was probably a wrong life choice. Even though spewing bodily fluids onto a stranger was never a good idea, once the decision had been made and the deed was done, she’d stick with it. Not budging or apologizing.
Or so she thought.
The brute snatched her left ear between his fingers, the sting unbearable, and dragged her over to what she assumed was his desk. It was a dingy green metal desk that had seen better days—many, many years ago.
“Ow! Ow! Stop!” Charlotte flung her arm out, doing her best to nab a hammer or wrench along her travels to aid her in her attack on the brutal idiot who seemed to be trying to twist her petite ear from her skull.
Success! Charlotte seized a long-handled wrench and began flailing it wildly, hoping to knock him out with her newfound weapon.
With an ease that surprised her, he tossed the would-be weapon recklessly to the nearby cabinet, continuing with his trek to his office chair. “Oh, princess, I’ve just begun meting out your comeuppance. I haven’t lived thirty-six years to find myself answering to a sassy brat who has never learned boundaries.”
Before she could clock him with her already fisted hand, he pitched her forward over his lap, his hard, muscular thighs jutting into her belly.
It had been years since she’d found herself in this position, but she recalled the experiences and had read enough novels to know that being jackknifed over sturdy, muscled legs meant something dire for not only her but also her backside.
He patted her bottom, clearing his throat. “I feel like I should at least tell you what my name is before I blister your ass. I’m Logan Marshall, and you don’t know it yet, but I saved your life. I’ll explain all of this later, but first things first.”
Charlotte looked over her shoulder at Logan. His arms were the size of her thighs, and his hands were nothing short of frightening, especially considering her current position and predicament. His jaw tightened with his intense focus, the tic in his cheek pulsing. Wishing she had put on a more difficult outfit for her date ran through her mind, especially when he quickly flipped up the short black skirt.
The idiot was quite handsome, even though he was currently ogling her cheeky panties with a wolfen grin. And if circumstances were different, she would probably decide a bit of flirting would be helpful, but it didn’t seem it would be a prudent choice given the circumstances.
But… he’s a mechanic, Charlotte. Mother would faint at the very idea. Bless her heart.
“Oh, my God! You can’t do this!” She struggled with the material, doing her best to drag it back over her hips, preserving her modesty, which when looking back, she would realize how absurd the attempt was since his next move was to pull her pink cheeky panties down past her feet, dragging her skirt back up and over her hips, leaving her completely naked from the waist down.
And although her precarious position and vulnerability should have frightened her, what really horrified her was the fact that her sex pulsed erratically and dripped profusely with the excitement.
How can that be?
“Oh, yes.” Logan crashed his thick, work-hewn hand onto her buttocks, the pain stealing her breath away.
“You will. Not. Spit at me. Ever. Again.” Each word was accentuated with a sharp, crisp slap that echoed off the concrete walls and floor.
Charlotte wondered how she had forgotten how painful a spanking was, swearing just those few smacks had bruised her ass. She flutter-kicked her feet, but with determination and a need to protect her bare bottom, she curled her legs, hoping to thwart his attempts to paddle the hell out of her ass. However, he thwarted any further attempts to protect her ass.
Several swats to the back of her thighs had her planking her legs straight out, screeching for mercy. “Oh, no. Stop. Please!”
“Then keep your feet down, or your thighs will be spanked again.”
She willed herself to keep her feet down, screeching with the relentless paddling, pleading for her spanking to end.
“We’re nowhere near done yet, Charlie. I haven’t heard the magic words every daddy wants to hear before he ends a naughty girl’s spanking.”
Daddy? Did he refer to himself as a daddy?
She had read books about women who called their boyfriends or husbands Daddy. Was he one of those men? Maybe? She’d always been curiously attracted to those books… and loved how the men cherished their women, adoring their idiosyncrasies. The daddies found their women loveable and sweet, just the way they were.
Could she love a man in this manner and call him Daddy?
Charlotte couldn’t think about that now. At this very moment, she needed this fucking ass-kicking to end. She reached behind her to cover her scorched skin, only to find it seized by his huge hand while the other spanked her thighs once again.
That was when Charlotte broke. Would this spanking never end? Would he paddle her until she passed out? Dropping her head, her lengthy hair shrouded her face, stray wispy strands stuck to her cheeks now drenched with her tears.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Daddy. So sorry.”