The Gift

It was ten o'clock in the morning when Penelope Hart saw the package. She and Joan were heading for their favorite table in the library's break room.

"Hey, girl, looks like somebody's got a birthday," Joan said. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Penny joined her at the table, looking at the gift, wrapped in expensive silver paper. "It can't be for me. It's not my birthday."

Joan picked the box up and shook it. Something inside rattled. "It's got your name on it, Penny."

Penny grabbed the box from her, smiling. "Then hand it over, please. I wonder who would leave this here?" The box was flat and square. Her name was printed on the tag, in a crisp hand. Was it a book? As a librarian, people were always giving her books. She tore it open, to see something red nestled inside. A ping-pong paddle! How odd, she didn't play ping-pong. Lifting it out she saw that it was bigger than that and covered in red leather, a little padded. She turned it over in her hand, showing it to Joan, who giggled. "What on earth is this?"

Joan pulled a sheet of paper out of the box. "There's a verse, Penny. ‘How should librarians be spanked—hard and often! Will you cry when I paddle you? Weeping tears of sweet submission before I make you come? Soon. X.'"

Penny gasped, her cheeks flaming along with her bottom. She buttoned the top button on her prim white blouse, tucking an errant wisp of her strawberry blond hair behind her ear. How could anyone mistake her for a loose woman?

Joan grinned. "Why didn't you tell me you were getting some nookie, girlfriend?"

"I'm not...I don't." Oh lord, her panties were getting damp.

"Yeah. That's right, your last date was Paul, the thirty-second man," Joan said, sympathetically. "This means, you've got a secret admirer Penny."

"A secret sadist, you mean." She flipped the paddle over, "The stamp on the handle, says Missy's House of B & D."

"That's short for bondage and discipline, Penny. Mr. X wants to tie you up and spank you."

Penny's cheeks flamed redder, her bottom tightened, at the word spank. She ran her hand, over the smooth leather. "As if I would let him."

"I do," Joan admitted, with a giggle.

"What?" Penny gaped up at Joan, noting the twinkle in her brown eyes.

"Every year on my birthday, for sure," she said, taking a deep breath. "The first year it happened, we got in a fight. I was being a bitch."

Penny grinned, refraining from comment. Her pal could be hell on wheels.

"Anyway, Doug got really pissed, pulled me over his knee, and paddled my ass—hard. I screamed, I cried, I bit him, but he wouldn't stop, and the strangest thing happened. I started to get really turned on, you know, wet down there. Well, after he spanked me, he gave me the screwing of my life. I could hardly walk, to say nothing of sit down, the next day."

Penny blushed, she could just picture Doug, a burly auto mechanic, paddling Joan's round bottom. Now some man wanted to do the same thing to her, a little frisson of fear and excitement zinged through her. Shooting an embarrassed glance at grouchy Mrs. Bates, the returns clerk who was passing through the breakroom, she hoped they hadn't been overheard.

"Nothing but sluts and hooligans," Mrs. Bates, muttered to herself.

Penny and Joan both burst out laughing, earning a scowl from portly Mr. Powel, the day manager, who manned the check out desk out front. "Shh."

Biting their lips, they subsided.

"Oh, crap, keep it down," Joan muttered, adding nervously, "Here comes Vlad."

Tensing, Penny looked up. Victor Deveroux was indeed coming their way, here early for the board meeting, she decided. She took in his raven black hair, piercing blue eyes, and dark suit, her heart skipping a beat. He was handsome, rich, austere, and way out of her league. Joan, of course, had dubbed him Vlad the vampire. Penny saw his gaze light on the paddle she held. One of his raven dark brows arched in surprise, and she thought she saw his sensual mouth twitch in amusement. Blushing, she slipped the paddle under the table, letting it rest on her lap.

He nodded. "Ladies."

Penny felt her pulse race. Was he going to comment, or reprimand her? But he passed on by without another word. She stood up, tossing her cool cup of coffee down the drain; she didn't need the caffeine buzz today. "Back to work." She walked to her desk, and slipped the paddle into the bottom drawer, then locked it.

"So, you're not going to go to the cops with exhibit A," Joan said, with a smile.

"And say what, some anonymous sex maniac wants to spank me?" she said, trying to act casual. "I'll just forget about it."

"Right," Joan said, laughing.

The Commander's Club

Courtney Fox stood outside the Commander's Club working up her courage. Her pulse raced as she visualized all the kinky sex that had to be going on behind these innocent looking ivy covered walls. She'd have to go along with the program; maybe even submit initially in order to find Cara and save her. Three weeks ago, her former protégé, a new college grad with stars in her eyes, had fallen for the oldest con in the book—taking an exciting job abroad. Courtney of course knew better, the club was a front for a white slave operation. She would have warned Cara if she'd been consulted.

Of course, it didn't help that she'd been off covering a story when Cara vanished. The police had been no help when she'd gone to them, so now she would have to infiltrate the sex club from the inside. She'd save her friend, not to mention write was sure to be a Pulitzer Prize winning story. The reporter in her couldn't help thinking about that. She'd done her homework, researching the Commander's Club through the back channels, gaining access to their website where they put the girls on auction to the highest bidder.

The pictures she'd fanned through on the private pages left little to the imagination. Women in various stages of undress, some being caressed, and others were bound and gagged with hot gleams in their eyes. The last one of a spread-eagled vamp, tied to a frame, while a man approached her with a huge dildo. Remembering it now almost made her knees buckle. Her pulse had pounded at the time, while her clit had gone stiff. She'd switched off the computer, not happy with what the images were doing to her libido.

Consequently, here she stood on the club's doorstep, scared and embarrassingly on the edge of arousal. No innocent virgin, she figured she could handle anything they'd throw at her. She'd constructed a plausible cover story, and bought a false ID from a semi-reputable source. She had passports and cash secreted in her suitcase so that she and Cara could make their escape from whatever corner of the world they might find themselves in.

The building in front of her looked like a private gentleman's club, a three story brownstone with a discreet sign on the door. Just thinking about the wild sex going on inside made her pulse race, but she ruthlessly tamped the tremulous sensation down. She didn't have a reputation as a ball buster for nothing. She'd keep her mind on the prize—saving Cara. With a mixture of bravado and nervous energy, she strode into the building and made her way toward the sultry looking blond behind the reception desk. The blond babe's pert round breasts were clearly outlined by her silky red dress. A little preview of what lurked upstairs, Courtney decided.

Courtney glanced at the smoky bar on her left. A couple danced slow in the corner to some sultry jazz coming from the jukebox. The couple was entwined, the man's hands roaming all over his voluptuous partner's body, moving down to cup her ample bottom and squeeze. The woman laughed. Courtney looked away embarrassed, her gaze flitting over a group of men sitting at a corner table smoking cigars and talking. Two of them stared back, their intentions obvious. Courtney broke eye contact, thinking there was something familiar about one of the men, tall, gray hair, aristocratic, with cold gray eyes. Trying to place him, she reached the receptionist's counter and cut her gaze away from the ogling men.

The receptionist clicked a few keys on the computer, and then looked up with a distracted smile. "Yes, may I help you?"

Courtney licked her lip. "Yes, my name is Tiffany Andrews, I have an appointment with Mr. Malone," she said, recalling the code words she'd memorized. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that the entire cluster of men now turned to stare at her. That kind of focused group attention was a little overwhelming. They were probably on the market for new sexual concubines.

The blond smiled. "May I have your invitation and driver's license?"

Courtney handed over the appointment slip she'd wheedled out of a contact, and the fake driver's license she'd bought from Ramon, one of her semi-reliable snitches. She only hoped it would pass muster.

"Go up to the second floor, third door to your right."

Courtney picked up her suitcase and slipped into the elevator, trying not to notice the men's assessing stares. As her gaze swept dismissively over the gray haired man, his identity suddenly fell into place, Arthur Stringfellow, CEO of Stringline, a major investment banking firm. So, he was into white slavery, a valuable piece of information for the expose' she intended to write. She quickly jammed her finger on the second floor button, fearing a gangbang. One come hither look from her might set them off. The doors closed and she breathed a sigh of relief.

Standing inside the sleek silver car, she restated her priorities; find Cara and get her out. Do not be sidetracked by lust, hunky men, or any combination of the two. The elevator stopped, and the doors whisked silently open. She stepped out into a dimly lit antechamber and walked down to the door indicated.

The conference room was even darker than the hallway. A light illuminated the center of the table, but left the rest of the room in total darkness. The atmosphere was chilling. Were these people trying to save on their electric bill, she wondered, trying to find humor in the situation. Doing as instructed, she walked inside and took a seat, setting her suitcase on the oriental carpet next to her chair. She was impressed by the plush surroundings. One thing she could say for the club, it was a pretty bordello.

The fact that she hadn't passed any other girls was troubling. Finding Cara might not be the cinch she'd thought it would be. Darting a nervous glance around the dark shadows in the room, she couldn't help wondering how hard the training would be. She liked sex as much as the next girl, maybe more, but she'd never met the man who could dominate her, much less tame her. Folding her damp hands in her lap, she deliberately slowed her breathing. The door opened. She looked up to see a man heading her way. He was tall and thin, with sandy brown hair. She managed to give him a civil smile, "Hi."

"Hello, Miss Andrews." He sat down next to her, opening a manila folder containing copies of her fake ID and invitation. "Let's get on with it, shall we?"

So, they'd bought her fake name. Suddenly, things were looking up. All business, apparently this guy couldn't wait to sign her up. She looked his rangy body up and down, and tried not to shudder. He wasn't her type, but maybe that was good, she certainly wouldn't be distracted by lust. "All right." She noticed a stack of documents under the copies. Was she signing her life away? No wonder it was so hard to prove this was abduction. It helped explain why the police had rejected her claim of Cara's disappearance. Lucky for her, a kind officer had given her a few clues that had helped her get this far.

The man pulled off the top sheet. "This one explains the terms of the agreement. In exchange for our training and guidance, you will repay us with personal services for a one year term. But first, you must successfully complete the six day training course."

In their website's sales pitch, she'd read that their girls were hand picked and well trained, but she hadn't counted on six days of training. Of course, the minute she spotted Cara, all bets were off, and she was out of here. She took the paper and signed, eager to get it over with. "Fine."

He picked up the next form. "This is the training contract. You must agree to be molded by your trainer."
"Yes," she said, imagining some sleazy guy instructing her in the finer points of pleasing a man; Blow Job 101. Her face heated at the thought. "It isn't group training, is it?"

He smiled. "We find a one-on-one approach gets the proper results. In addition to sex, you will be trained in dress, attitude, and deportment. You will be disciplined as your trainer sees fit. You must be open to his instructions—body, mind, and spirit."

Disciplined? Her face heated as she pictured herself draped over the man's lap as he spanked her. It fit her secret fantasies a little too well, but she couldn't let the prospect of a little hot discipline divert her. She been through hellholes from Somalia to Iraq as a reporter, she wouldn't crumble in the face of a bully. The pen shook in her trembling hand as she quickly scrawled her signature.

He nodded. "That wraps it up." He stood, motioned her to keep her seat, and picked up her suitcase. "I'll take your bag to your suite. Stay put. Your trainer will be right in."

She licked her lip. "My trainer? So soon?"

He winked at her. "We take things fast at the club."

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