Bad Itty (lisa Wu #05)

These stories of Lisa's are all written to be read on their own. You don't have to start from the first one if you don't want to, but perhaps Lisa, Paul, and Jamie will make more sense if you do. And they are free after all, so why not start at the beginning? (If you click my author name it opens my profile. You can find the list of stories there.)

*

It's not true what they say -- men and cats can be trained. It's actually quite easy if you go about it the right way. The problem (with men) is getting them to do the things they really ought to do

without being told

. If you come across a man who can do that, then hold on tight. You've got yourself a freak of nature.

Speaking of freaks of nature, the person who first put the idea in my head was none other than Jamie Chen. Jamie (to those of you who don't know her already) is a recently hired workmate of mine. We were on our lunchbreak at a nearby café.

"You know you'd make a wonderful domanatrix?"

This was Jamie being Jamie. I had a momentary vision of myself in black leather, flouncing about with a whip in my hand. It didn't take me very far.

"It would suit you," said Jamie. "Think of the contrast. The way you look so soft and sweet on the outside ... It's like in your cooking, right? It's the combination of different flavors that gives a dish its oomph. Sweet and sour."

This last bit sounded like something she'd read in a cookery book. Jamie knew about my passion for cooking. I hoped she hadn't started studying up on the subject -- that would be just a little too obsessive.

Thing is, Jamie has developed a bit of a crush on me. I wouldn't normally encourage her, but my schedule for the afternoon included a particularly nasty duty I had to perform. Right now, any sort of distraction was welcome.

"So," she asked. "Do you and Paul get up to anything like that?" Jamie's one and only superpower is an ability to ask the most bare-faced questions, like this one, and make them sound as if she is reciting from a grocery list.

I gave a thin laugh. "I don't know what sort of ideas you have about us, Jamie. But apart from that one time with this lesbian friend of ours, we're really the squarest of the square."

"But you must have thought about it, right?"

I eyed her from across the café table, sat up straighter in my chair and took a moment to slow and deepen my voice. "You've got it completely backwards, Jamie. I don't want to be a dominatrix at all. I want to be one of those people who are so powerful they have to hire a dominatrix of their own, just to be reminded what it's like not to be in control all the time."

"Um, okay," Jamie replied in a characteristically small voice, eyes downcast. She looked up. "Still, you know where to find me. If you ever go ahead with it, I mean. You know, start interviewing for the position ..."

Back at the office, I decided to leave it till the end of the day. I was already feeling pretty dirty about the whole thing -- no point spreading those negative vibes across the rest of the team. Not before I had to. I'd talked about it with my boss, too. We'd decided I'd be the one to do it. There'd been a downturn. We'd lost a major customer -- no fault of me or mine, but it meant less work for my team. The deed had to be done and it was up to me to do it.

Vikram was the straggler, the runt of the litter. That's who the lioness goes for when she's out hunting for food -- not the strong ones up front but the easy meat trailing along at the rear. Nothing noble or chivalrous or pure about it -- eat or be eaten is the rule of this game.

I couldn't do it out in the open plan, so I invited him into a meeting room. He looked so pleased to be there, always so eager and cheerful in my company. I suspected he had a bit of a soft spot for me. Not of Jamie-sized proportions -- just the thing beta males inevitably succumb to when they have a female boss. If so, it wasn't going to last.

"I'm sorry Vikram, I have some bad news. We're going to have to let you go."

I winced inwardly at the transformation in his face, the sense of my words sinking in.

"What? But you can't. Sarita's due in just a few months now. We've only just put down the deposit on a new apartment lease."

"Sarita?"

"Yes, Sarita. My wife. You know? The one who's pregnant."

"Oh? I didn't know you were married."

Vikram held up his left hand. Sure enough, there was the wedding band on his ring finger.

I hardened myself. "I'm so sorry Vikram, but this doesn't change anything. The decision has been made."

"Hey Lisa, you're home. What's for dinner?"

"It's whatever you want to make. Who do you think I am, your live-in chef?"

Paul looked confused, as if his live-in chef was exactly who he thought I was. "You enjoy cooking. You told me it was therapeutic."

"Yeah, well, some days are beyond therapy. So just don't go presuming, okay?" A small part of me realized that taking it out on Paul was neither smart nor fair. It wasn't a part that was getting any airtime.

"Something happened at work?" he suggested tentatively.

I considered answering. I could have told him -- Yeah, something did. I squashed a bug. One moment there was this guy, a fully-fledged person, not a particularly competent specimen of a human being but a human being all the same. Next moment he was gum on the sole of my shoe. But I didn't. Work is my precious. It's the part of my life that belongs exclusively to me, shitty bits and all. You want to make it to the top? Other people's shoulders are for standing over, not crying on.

"I met Jamie for lunch," I said instead, making an effort to play nice. "She told me she thought I'd make a good domanatrix."

"Sounds like our Jamie," said Paul, still somewhat wary, perhaps struggling to connect the words from my mouth with the look on my face. "She's wrong though. You're much too cute and huggable for that."

A bare-faced lie on current evidence. The way Paul said it reminded me of a cartoon character. You know the scene -- the one where they throw the stick of dynamite, then crouch down with a scrunched-up face and fingers in their ears waiting to see what happens when it goes off. Paul is fairly sensitive by guy standards, but even he didn't need to be a mind reader to guess my current mood.

The dynamite proved to be a soft bomb. I punched him in the stomach, but it was a gentle friendly punch. I lifted my head. "I told her she'd got it wrong. I get to do all my bossing around at work."

Paul looked relieved. "That sounds more like you."

I went through to the kitchen to see what was in the fridge, not caring that I was contradicting myself. There wasn't much. "Don't you ever do any shopping?" I complained.

Paul shrugged. "How would I know what to get?" He must have seen something in my expression because he continued. "Something did happen at work didn't it?"

"Look, there's nothing here," I said, flinging cupboard doors around. "Would it be that hard to go and buy the things we've run out of?"

What to do? Had I been Australian I could throw myself into some extreme sport. If Greek, I could throw plates. Instead I was a modern career girl, liberated and sensible. Hell, I'd even had a religious upbringing. How could I be a rebel? I

was

the establishment. How does someone like me let off all this steam?

Meanwhile, the way Paul looked at me, it was like he was taunting me with his calmness. That's when I lost it. I let him have it, full force. Lots of words, not much sense. And what sense there was wasn't good sense. Things that aren't meant to be said. Not true things -- I didn't go that far. Lots of untrue things, that still shouldn't have been said out loud. No matter how good it felt to say them.

Except that it didn't. I'd barely got started when I stumbled back into silence. The flow of words just dried in my mouth. What was there to say? Paul suddenly seemed so blameless and lovable. I paused, drawing breath, surprised at the genuine intensity of my anger, which this sudden tongue-tiredness had done nothing to banish. It just lacked a target, was all.

Paul was still peering at me like I was an exhibit at the zoo. A venomous one, obviously.

"And for once in your life could you stop being so god-damn sanctimonious." With this final blast, I stomped back to the lounge, stopped in the middle of the floor, unsure whether I wanted to go hide in the bedroom or turn around and take another swipe at Paul. "If you insist on always being the good boy, guess that makes me the bad girl, huh?"

He came up behind me, put his hands on my shoulders.

"Not bad," he said, using his husky voice. "Just naughty."

He turned me around, then surprised me by dropping down and lifting me up onto his shoulder. I squealed and writhed, but he had me firmly by the knees and there was nothing I could do.

"You know what happens to naughty girls? They get sent to their room."

He marched into the bedroom, dropped me down onto the bed. It's just as well I really am on the

petite side of plump

, because I landed with enough force to make the bedsprings creak.

He stood over me, hand scratching his chin. "So what's it going to take, I wonder? To transform you back into sweet lovable Lisa."

I wasn't having any of this. "You think this is fair do you? Taking advantage of your being stronger than I am?"

"As opposed to, say, you taking advantage of me because you're smarter than I am?"

"Is that what I do?"

"It's what you'd like to think you do."

I tried to get up from the bed, prompting Paul to put out an arm to stop me. We wrestled for a moment, ending up with me face down on the duvet, my hands held behind my back.

"So what happens now," I stuttered. "Is this where you punish me for being a bad girl?"

"Well, that's the question isn't it. Do you deserve to be punished?"

My reply was to twist my body in a sudden spasm of movement. I broke free, but only for a moment as Paul used his weight to pin me back down again.

"Should I take that as a yes? You can still tell me, you know."

"Tell you what?"

"Whatever it is you're not telling me."

I let out an infuriated grunt and tried to break free again. Not with any expectation of succeeding, just as a pressure valve to release the build-up of energy inside me.

"Let me go," I scolded. "You're mussing up my dress." A part of me knew what Paul was doing. What both of us were doing. A role-playing game. Acting out our own little scene. Emotional cosplay, except that some of the emotions were real. I'd dropped clues -- not consciously, but clear enough for Paul to take the hint.

I also knew better than to give this thought any space. It doesn't work, does it, if you know it's all a game of pretend? And besides, the turmoil inside me was real. Maybe fury wasn't what it really was, but fury is simple and I wasn't in the mood to deal with complications.

"If you're so worried about your dress, we'll just have to take it off."

"Okay," I conceded. "But let me do it."

Paul loosened his grip on my wrists, allowing me enough freedom to unfasten myself. I rolled over, raising my hips to shimmy the dress down over my knees. Using the opportunity this provided I slipped off the opposite side of the bed, ended up standing with my back against the wall. Paul made no move to stop me, knowing he was still between me and the bedroom door.

"Is this you being a bad boy after all?" I taunted.

Paul was standing by the chest of drawers, surveying me with a self-satisfied smile. He opened up the top one and pulled out a couple of pairs of pantyhose, holding them up for me to see.

"I think it's pretty clear you're too dangerous to be let loose. Reckon I'm going to have to take you into custody."

He approached me warily. "I'm going to tie you up with these. You better not put up too much resistance or you'll stretch them."

Like I gave a damn. A brief struggle followed that ended with me forced into the corner of the room -- the walls and Paul's bulk together preventing me from retreating further. Rule one of self-defense for girls:

target the groin

. Unfortunately, I have a strong personal stake in that part of Paul's anatomy. I compromised. I stomped on his toe.

"Ow! That hurt." He wrenched my wrists around and dragged me across to the bed as I wriggled and squirmed to no great effect. Then he sat on top of me, using the pantyhose to tie first one then the other wrist to the bedstead.

Paul stood back to admire his conquest. Like an artist inspecting his work, finger stroking chin to call down inspiration. Grabbing me by the ankles another bout of wrestling followed as he pulled down my stockings and panties. My blouse and bra were still on but there wasn't much he could do about those now my hands were tied to the bed.

Standing back again, he gave me a headmaster's stare. "Are you going to say sorry for snapping at me before?" There was a slight breathlessness to Paul's words. A

through-clenched teeth-iness

. Had I provoked him into genuine anger?

For answer I pulled at my bonds, trying again to wriggle free. It was no use.

"Didn't think so."

Then he went out and left me there.

"Hey!" I tried some less lady-like words. Still no response. I stopped when I heard a sound. The front door closing? Seriously? Was Paul just going to leave me here to stew? I went quiet, listened to the silence. The temptation to scream was strong, but I resisted it. Given the state I was in -- naked from the waist down and tied to the bed -- having a neighbor come to investigate was the last thing I wanted.

Could I really have made Paul so mad he needed to take a time-out to cool off? My Paul? Mr Mild Mannered?

I took stock. Breathed in. Breathed out. I'd gone with the flow. I'd wrestled with Paul, got myself tied up. Now the flow had stopped. All was quiet but for the thoughts in my head. That was cruel. In my current state of mind.

I pulled again at my bonds. Paul had done a good job, leaving me with no easy escape. I was conscious too of my nakedness. I'd known where this was heading -- not consciously perhaps, but surely a scene like this can only end one way. Or so I would have imagined until Paul went out and left me here alone. The bastard. His refusal to show any anger back at me had only ratcheted up whatever was going on inside.

Some woman, I'm told, resort to food for comfort. Not me. My alternative to chocolate and ice cream is the mirror. I comb out my hair, perhaps experiment with a few new makeup tricks. If that's the direction my mood is sending me, I'll strip down and admire myself from different angles. I'll use my fingers ... well, you get the idea.

I could see the mirror now -- it showed nothing but the opposite wall. Levering my head up from the bed I ran my eyes down the length of my body. The flatness of my stomach and the shapeliness of my waist, narrowing, then flaring at the hips. The swelling of my mons and its tuft of upraised pubic hair. All curves and contours -- all soft and shapely, easy on the eye. I raised and parted my knees, admired my thighs. The opalescent paleness of unblemished skin, too far away to touch. Head flopping back, I arched my back -- spread my legs wide, straining at my pelvis, then brought them back together and stretched hard. Focusing on the sensation of muscle and sinew, tense and release, again and again. It helped, but not much. So much exposed flesh -- nothing but air to caress it. Where the hell was Paul?

I was alerted by another sound. The door to the bedroom opened and there he was. In his upraised hand, a rope.

"It was in the back of the car," he explained. "Knew it would come in useful for something someday."

My only reply was a sultry look.

He grabbed my legs, tying them together around the ankles. Straddling me, he untied one arm and then rolled me over before untying the other. I was face down on the bed now, uncooperative, but unresisting. He unhooked my bra and removed that and my blouse before tying my hands together behind my back. The rope was a long one. From there he ran it down between my buttocks, under my crotch, and up around the back of my neck. In the process he moved me to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. Finally, he ran the remainder around my chest, wedging my breasts between its strands, before tying off the end on my wrists.

It wasn't a comfortable pose -- I was essentially sitting on the rope, its coarse surface rubbing at the top of my thighs. Through all this I still hadn't spoken, struck mute as the inside of my head churned away with incoherent feelings.

"So, are you going to confess? Or do I need to torture it out of you?"

I tugged at my bonds but I was trussed up good and proper.

"No? I didn't think so."

Moving around behind me, he dragged me back up the bed, rolling me onto my stomach. Each movement tugged at the rope, forcing it deeper between my butt cheeks, rubbing over the lips of my pussy.

"Don't go away," he said, and left the room.

Through all this my mind had stopped working. Whatever was happening I just let it. I tugged again at my bonds but it was the instinctive response of a captured animal. My senses were consumed by the touch of the rope, the way it held and constrained me, giving me the freedom to wriggle and strain as much as I dared, achieving nothing but to drag its roughness across the softness of my skin. Was I aroused? Hog-tied and naked? Yes, of course I was aroused, though perhaps not in a normal way.

"Cosmopolitan magazine," said Paul as he came back into the room. "Seems appropriate somehow."

There was silence for a time, presumably Paul admiring his handiwork. My face was pressed into the sheets and I had no intention of turning to look at him.

"Last chance," he said. I didn't reply.

Then whack! A glossy magazine flat across my butt cheek. "Ow!" I yelped. "That hurt!" Whack again. The other cheek.

"Are you at least going to say you're sorry?" He raised the Cosmo.

"Why should I?" I wriggled in position, lifting my ass a fraction higher to meet what I knew was coming. It had stung but I knew I deserved it.

Paul muttered something to himself: "Some say print media has no role in today's world. I beg to differ." Down it came again. A whack and a squeal. Another whack.

"Okay, okay," I conceded. "I'm sorry." I twisted my head around so I could see his face.

"Are you really? How can I know you mean it?"

"I do. I've been bad. I took my mood out on you, and that was wrong. I deserve to be punished." I let my voice go all meek and high pitched and girly. "I'll do whatever you want. Anything at all." While this was going on, I could feed the initial sting across my ass morphing into a spreading warmth.

"Anything?"

"Anything at all. Fuck me, spank me -- just don't leave me alone. Please ..." I pleaded. "Whatever you think I deserve."

He shrugged. "Nah. Spanking's not really me." He lifted up the magazine and brought it down again, as if to check this assertion. I yelped on cue.

He shook his head, "I think you're enjoying it more than I am."

I wasn't at all sure about that but this wasn't a time to argue.

I whimpered. "Whatever you want Paul. I mean it. You're so good to me and I've been such a bitch." I did mean it, too. A switch had flicked inside me. Whatever the mood that had driven my earlier fury, it hadn't left me. What it had done was transform into something else. But now wasn't the time to be figuring out what was happening in my head -- now was the time just to let it happen.

"Okay then." He took the rope where it bound my feet and loosened it, freeing my lower body. "Get down on the floor. On your knees."

I complied, wriggling from my face-down position to the edge of the bed and levering myself down, then shuffling on my knees to where Paul was standing. He watched my progress impassively, not beginning to undress until I was right front of him. He first unbuttoned his shirt, then removed his jeans, underwear and socks. His erection was standing proud.