Chapter Four: Playing with Fire
We easily could've napped until morning, but I woke a few minutes to 8:00. She snored beside me. I gently shook her and said, "Time for dinner. There's a restaurant downstairs."
She stretched and groaned. "Do we have to?"
"I've got some things planned. It'll be fun."
She sighed and opened her eyes, still damp from slumber. Flashing me a lopsided smile, she asked, "Can't we eat the shit you got from room service? Or was that just to fuck with me?"
I stared at her, shaking my head in wonder.
"What?" she asked, suddenly self-conscious.
"That mouth on you. I think you're gonna need more paddling."
Now it was her turn to stare me down. "What?" I asked, trying to appear calm.
"Just wondering what it would be like to paddle you some time." Then, with a little lilt in her voice, she added, "Or administer some other appropriate punishment."
"Is that a threat?"
"I don't make threats," she said with an innocent grin. Her retort sounded familiar, but I couldn't place it. I got up and watched her loll in bed, naked. She looked -- dare I say it? -- self-satisfied. We couldn't have that. "Out of bed, now," I said.
"Why don't you join me?"
"You heard me. Get that magnificent ass up here."
She did, eying me, clearly wondering what I had in mind. "Pick up the paddle'" I said. "No, the wooden one. The hairbrush"
She did and looked at me, expectant. Her breath got shallow. I could see her getting aroused. I leaned over the bed, my ass in the air.
"Take your best shot. Do it now."
I said it like I meant it and she did as I ordered. Ten spanks. I counted silently but didn't speak or groan. My lack of reaction made her hit harder each time. Finally, she sighed in defeat.
"Have you started yet?" I asked.
She threw the brush onto the bed. "Not all pain is physical," she said, a low grumble.
"Now get in there and take a shower or we'll be late for dinner."
"Yes, sir." She padded into the bathroom. I heard the water come on.
Truth was, my ass hurt like hell. I couldn't sit while I waited. Gingerly donning black jeans and a button up shirt, I remembered the other time I'd heard about not making threats. One of her colleagues had told me about a time she'd been negotiating to purchase a competitor. When they balked at what she felt was a generous per-share offer, she began speculating aloud about things that could happen in the market that would lower their stock price below the number she'd said she'd pay. The president of the other company asked if that was a threat. She said didn't make threats. Her colleague had quoted the line to me, doing an excellent imitation. As it turned out, those things did happen, and she snapped up the company for a bargain price. Whether she'd done anything to trigger the stock slide -- who could say? But the incident honed her reputation as a badass.
A few minutes later, she emerged swathed in one of the big towels.
The dress I'd bought her for this evening hung on a rack by the vanity, with my other purchase on the floor directly below. "What do you think of your outfit?"
She nodded appraisingly. "The little black dress is a classic piece of evening wear, and this one appears to be styled for maximum comfort on a hot night. That's very thoughtful of you, sir. It's sweltering out and the air conditioning in the lobby, where I believe the restaurant is located, seems minimal."
Then I pointed to the shoes.
"The heels are striking and perfect for the fact that I won't have to walk far. I don't know if there will be dancing, but I'll be inclined to kick them off for that. I don't think you'll mind." She punctuated that comment with a naughty giggle and a sexy wiggle of her toes.
"Now tell me what you really think."
"The dress is slutty and I've never worn fuck-me pumps in my life."
"Well then, tonight will be a first. Now hurry up and get dressed. I'm starving."
Javier was still on duty when we crossed the lobby to the restaurant. The way his eyes popped told me the dress revealed nearly as much of her breasts as she'd showed him earlier. "Loving the room," she said as we passed. I enjoyed how his eyes flew over to me.
The place had a tiny crowd. A sign said to seat ourselves. I chose a booth where we could keep an eye on the room. As we slid in, I said, "Javier seemed pleased to see you."
She leaned in. "Are you sorry I didn't suck his cock?" Her smile was innocent as a baby's. "I understand he's on 'till eleven."
Her question and the suggestion behind it threw me, but I couldn't show it. "Are you insinuating I'd get off on it?" I asked, chuckling. I wondered whether it was a shot in the dark or if somehow, she knew. "That's outlandish -- and very bratty of you. It requires a response."
Just then, a fortyish guy with a neatly trimmed beard came over to greet us and provide menus. He asked if we wanted to start with drinks. On quiet nights like this one, he doubled as bartender and waiter, he explained. I said we'd both have vodka martinis, straight up -- and make them doubles. He scooted off to take care of the drinks and "give you a minute with the menus."
She kept her eyes on the table and let me do the talking. Our dynamic seemed to pique his interest. By the time he returned with the drinks, I'd chosen our meals.
"I'll have the rib-eye, rare."
He nodded. "And you, miss?"
She kept quiet, letting me answer for her. One reason the place's menu had attracted me on their website was its selection of Indian dishes. I ordered her a goat curry. The menu said the spice level is up to the patron. I asked the server to explain how it worked.
"One means not hot at all," he said, "ten's a five-alarm fire."
"Let's say 'eleven,'" I deadpanned.
He looked confused, briefly, then got the joke (a film called This Is Spinal Tap, if you're wondering). "Okay," he said, making a note on his pad. He tried to catch her eye. "You've had the extreme stuff before, I take it?"
"She loves it," I said. My jumping in annoyed him, but he held his tongue. "And we'll start with the jalapeno poppers. See, honey? I told you they have good choices."
He headed back to the bar, clearly troubled but staying out of it. The truth is, she hates spicy hot food. She could counter my prank by asking for a side of pineapple. It wouldn't have ended the evening, only this particular tangent. But she wasn't going there.
I held up my glass to toast. She lifted hers and clinked. I took a sip. She did the same. We both set the glasses down.
"Finish it," I said.
Her eyes got wide. I stared back impassively. She brought her drink to her lips and tilted up the glass. Gulp after gulp, I expected her to cry uncle, but she drained it. Then she lowered it to the table and exhaled. She muttered something I couldn't make out, so I asked her to repeat it.
"I said, 'Jesus,' sir."
"I see. As a prayer or a curse word?"
"A little of both." I nodded. Neither of us was going to give in and giggle. She leaned in closer to speak confidentially. "If I get sick, may I have permission to run to the bathroom, sir?"
"I'd expect nothing less."
She looked surprised when she let out a big burp. Stifling my laugh was hard but worth it. I gave her my best fake glare, since I loved it but had to look peeved.
The effect of the alcohol proved beneficial when our food came a few minutes later. She was as loose as you might expect and ate with abandon, despite the nuclear explosions that must have been detonating in her mouth. Her expressions as she chewed and swallowed were priceless. By the time she finished, her face flushed red and tears streamed down her cheeks.
She smiled through them. "Who's ready for another drink?" she asked.
"That's the spirit," I said. "Go to the bar and get us refills." She slipped out of the booth. Before she could go, I took her hand and pulled her over to whisper, "Food and drinks are part of the package. No money should change hands." She nodded and began to get up.
"Wait. You have to come back with more than the drinks. I want an item of information from the bartender. Something he wouldn't normally tell people. Do whatever it takes."
She turned toward the bar and took a wobbly step in that direction, then stopped.
"May I take off these heels, sir?" she asked.
"Going barefoot in a restaurant is a violation of the health code."
With a plucky nod, she continued on in a shaky stride. At the bar she leaned over to talk with the guy. For the first time I noticed another man on a barstool facing away from me. A silver-haired, older guy. She chatted with the bartender for a while and kept up their tete-a-tete while he made drinks. I saw him laugh, nod, and, at one point, cup his hand by his mouth as if to tell a secret.
The older guy took it all in, perched on his stool with a familiarity that made me take him for a regular. I wondered how his presence might influence her quest to get private info.
