Jocelyn's Rebellion

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

The house was so quiet, Reggie felt as though he was creeping into a tomb. With a few lights on his home brightened, but now it was dreadfully dark. There was only the faint smell of Jocelyn in the air when he was used to a full bodied whiff of her delicious essence. Moving from the foyer, through the living room toward his private office, that room was normally bereft of any aroma of his wife. Yet stepping inside, Reggie found her fragrance was most noticeable inside these four walls. Perhaps an hour before she’d spent some time there, certainly she was somewhere in the house.

Maneuvering through the room without a light, when he turned on his desk lamp, his eyes abruptly focused on items resting on the blotter. Pictures and a leather spanker were deliberately arrayed for his eyes to notice. A quick examination of the photographs and he picked up the intercom phone and rang for the maid.

“Trina, where’s Mrs. Harold?”

“You’re home, sir?”

“Of course I’m home,” he snapped impatiently. A lock of his blonde hair was uncharacteristically hanging over his face, casting a shadow on his austere visage. A man of precision, order, calm and practiced finesse, nothing about the unexpected sight of his wife in full color alarmed him, but he was aware that she was making a premeditated statement. “Where is she?” he asked again.

“I’m not sure, sir,” the maid quipped. There was a little giggle behind her comment and a second giggle that was not hers.

“Unless you want me to throw your boyfriend out of your bed and haul your ass over my desk to be strapped, you’ll answer better than that.”

The command given, the girl shrieked, “Ooo, sir, I really don’t know where Mrs. Harold went. The last time I saw her she was on the path to the lake. It was raining cats and dogs and I saw that she had no umbrella. Then the light went on in the boathouse. That was about an hour ago. Maybe she’s still there?”

“Thank-you Trina.” Reggie slammed down the phone.

With the paddle in hand, Reggie exited the house through the French doors in his study, taking a path around the side of the building that led to the boathouse and the lake. Though it was still pitch black, the rain had stopped and it looked as if the clouds overhead were breaking up. Seeing no light from the frame building at the shoreline, he walked around the deck to the front and tried the door. Locked, he retreated to the back door and found it ajar.

There was no way to cross stealthily from one end of the creaky old structure to the other. With floor boards squeaking beneath his feet, his presence was unmistakable to the woman with her back to him, sitting on a stool looking like a statue in gray—except for the red of her hair, of course. Even in the dark, Jocelyn’s auburn locks gleamed, having an uncanny way of picking up any stray light that might be lurking about a dim lit room.

Knowing her husband was stalking her, she let him approach until she could feel the energy of his body reaching out to her. That warm and sultry bath of sensuality she associated with his every move soothed the chill in her shoulders and then made her tingle at the nape of her neck. From that electrified place the sensation crept down her back to her bottom, appearing there at same moment that Reggie reached out and placed his hand on her derriere. She turned around to face him, finding the cool force of his stare enough to make her gasp.

“I should explain,” she acknowledged.

“Eventually,” he agreed.

But she didn’t want to wait. “My business trials are only getting worse, Reg. Every day I feel like another ax is going to fall.” There were tears in her eyes about to spill. “And then in the middle of that I get a call from Morgenstern, he has a six month assignment and I don’t have the hotshots to do the work. Kevin walked. Andrea’s about to. And Emma…”

“Shush!” He cupped a gentle hand over her mouth. “So getting your ass paddled by another man is the solution?”

“I don’t know what came over me. It was there, the shop, the paddle, the need for it took over like an obsession.”

“How many days ago?” he asked.

“Two.”

“Any marks remaining?”

“A couple of bruises.”

“Let me see.”

Hopping off the stool, she leaned over facing him, her ass pointed toward a streak of moonlight that suddenly appeared through the boathouse window. Reggie moved to inspect her, while Jocelyn trembled feeling her husband’s hot hand run along her soft skin. He stopped where there were bruises, seeing the signs of the roughed skin he’d noticed in the photographs. A finger along the anal cleft he’d mastered after years of attentive discipline, he drove it deep until he could feel her puckering anus. Trained to give him access to the portal of his choice, Jocelyn parted her legs enough so there was no obstacle in the way of his exploration. But he withdrew his hand and backed off.

“Get up,” he ordered.

The sizzling nature of the command frightened her in all the places she was accustomed to fright. With a shower of prickly energy descending from her shoulders, her belly quaked and her s*x spasmed in a place so deep she couldn’t remember when it was last engaged. He was rarely angry and he wasn’t at this moment; but instead, stern, severe and cold to the point of unfeeling. How that seemingly cruel state could arouse her had always been a mystery, but aroused she was. Standing before him a trickle of female juice escaped her v****a. Labia pulsing, the center of her s*x aching, breasts anxious for the feel of his hands on her, that tear that had welled in her eye finally spilled down her cheek.

“You’re way out of character, love,” he said. “Taking your decisions from Alexandra’s playbook, perhaps?” he said referring to her abidingly s****l and perpetually guilt-ridden friend, who he’d once trained in submission.

“No, Reg, not this time. I’m desperate.”

“And desperation breeds lunacy?”

“It was rash, I admit.”

“Though the pictures were a nice touch. They didn’t leave anything out, I hope?”

“Oh, no!”

“Pretty premeditated to even think of them ahead of time—if it was as you say an obsession.”

“I had them taken for you.”

“And if I punish you now is that going to cure you of your woes?”

“I need you, Reggie, as dark as you want to be.”

“As vile as you deserve?”

“As much as that.”

“And that’s the cure?”

“Don’t make me sweat like this, please.”

He snickered as he often did when a woman tried to suggest what he should do. “I like watching you squirm, you should remember that, devious and cunning as I am.”

“My skin’s so hot, I’m wet between my legs and I feel the hunger in my mouth.”

He seemed amused, then bridged what distance there was between them and began running a finger about her lips. She parted them and that finger was inside where she sucked it like a tiny prick. She put her own hand on his crotch, which he pushed away.

“You purchased this for me to use on you?” He held up the slapper for her to see, leather holes and all. Running the cool surface along her cheek and against her mouth, the remembrance of its previous visit on her behind caused her to spasm again. Her face moved against the smooth leather as though it was a lover’s tender hand.

When Reggie pulled back one step, he bent his wife under his arm and held her tightly about the waist. Her short skirt raised once again, he brought the newly purchased slapper down on her behind with defiant and vigorous abandon … no building up the severity, no holding back because of her mournful state, no lessening the blows hearing the wild nature of her spirited cries. He worked her ass, seeing that even in the moonlight it was prone to blush crimson—the color of a righteous discipline. Jocelyn had picked an unmerciful implement. The inherent nature of the slapper was severe, but then she must have known that when she bought it. If he’d slouched in disciplining her the last few months, this was an indication that she required it grim to get over what personal anguish she was living day to day.

Seeing the crimson blush against the white of her back and thighs, he saw justice meted out, her spirit calmed and his own indignation appeased for her unthinking choice. He was sure that nothing but a harsh reprisal would do. Reggie suspected that the brute in the shop had only scratched the surface of his wife’s travail and the needed chastisement she required. It was rare to see his competent wife so battered by life. He’d made every effort to change her stubborn mind about her current troubles, so far nothing had worked. Perhaps this would.

“Ah, Reg, please no more,” the redhead cried, feeling the burn on her backside peak. Though she might have withstood more, there was another part of this session she wanted now. Certainly he’d oblige.

Another few tuneful smacks of the slapper and he slowed to a more erotic pace. Between smacks, he ran the leather over her distressed flesh. An unexpected slap and she bucked hard against his confining arm, then began a sensuous tango with her heated behind. This rhythmic dance made them hunger for the culmination.

“It’s been much too long since I’ve had your ass,” he whispered.

Laying her out over the stool, he moved in behind her for the assault. He found her tense but opening to him. Driving his swollen erection past the tight hole, he sensed her relinquish the last bit of fight she was prone to wage. And yielding to the stroke of his c**k he massaged her deep within. That state of obedience to his absolute control over her was—in the instant—complete. Though she didn’t deserve her own orgasm, he nonetheless reached around to take her c******s in his fingers. The manipulation required was brief. Only because he loved her as deeply as he knew how to love could he justify this breach of a master’s code and let her enjoy a proper climax.

“Ahhhh, yes,” she groaned happily. Such a pleasant wail it was.

Letting his c**k respond to her squeezing inner muscles, he grunted as he deposited his c*m within her dark channel.

“Easy love,” Reggie murmured as he rescued her from collapsing to the floor.

An old chair by the window—a place where she loved to sit and read when it was storming on the lake—cushioned their exhausted fall. They landed in one big heap on the over-stuffed pillows, with Jocelyn holding tightly to her husband.

“I’m so sorry.” She wept, her face pressed to his warm chest so she could feel his cold heart beat hot.

“I have to remind myself sometimes that you’re as foolish as every other woman I’ve ever known,” he replied.

“I shouldn’t let you say that,” she told him through a sad sob.

“But you do because it’s the truth,” he retorted. Running his fingers through her hair, his touch was magic. So delicate, as soft as rose petals falling to the mossy ground. She gave him tiny kisses on his neck in reply, smelled the scent of him, the mix of cologne and a little brandy he must have had at dinner. And cigars he’d been smoking with his associates on the private jet. And something minty, the after dinner kind of mints they served before the plane landed. That closeness to his virile, masculine neck gave away all his secrets.

“I love you,” she said.

“I know that, darling. And you need to be loved.”

“Isn’t that what you’ve been doing?”

“Not enough apparently. But I’ll remedy that.”

“Oh, please,” she exclaimed finally lifting herself away from his chest.

“Only if you get your head straight about your business, Jocelyn.” The remark was intended to carry a sting.

“Please let’s not fight.”

“No? Not now? Well then, we’ll do it in the morning.”

***

For fifteen minutes Jocelyn watched the figure of her husband, mostly his backside, saunter about the bedroom naked, noting as he did how much she adored his firm sculptured ass, and the way his trim waist flared into powerful shoulders. Jockey shorts on, there was hardly anything hidden, the smooth cotton just accentuated the provocative form and the muscles as he moved from the bath, to the dresser, to the mirror, to the closet—where disappeared returning half dressed with pants on, and a white dress shirt ready to be buttoned. Each movement was part of a carefully orchestrated ritual that turned out the impeccable Reggie Harold every day of this working life. It was hard to live with such perfection, but at the very least Jocelyn could admire the erotic quality of her husband’s careful grooming.

“Well, I suppose I’d better get going,” she exclaimed as she finally charged naked from bed.

A comment he’d ordinarily ignore, Reggie turned to her, his blue eyes biting.

“It’s time for a hiatus,” he said.

“Oh?”

“Time to close down Killian Management for a season, let the furor of Ibercon die down, let yourself heal.” They were wise words.

Jocelyn brushed past him on the way to the bath, though he grabbed a wrist and pulled her back.

“I can’t,” she swore, looking as undaunted and in command as he’d expect of his over-achiever wife.

“You will,” he countered.

“Don’t you pull that dominant trump card on me,” she retorted.

“You had no problem giving in to it last night,” he reminded her.

“Last night was s****l, I missed you.”

“That’s bullshit, Jocelyn, and you know it.”

“Okay, I stupidly let some stranger have my ass,” she conceded.

“It’s all about pride and ego.”

“And those aren’t your watch words?” she said scornfully.

“You know I should blister your ass.” He sounded ruffled, though he muted any anger.

Jocelyn jerked from his grasp and turned about sticking her ass out taunting him. “Go right ahead. It’s not going to change my mind!”

Reggie turned away from her. “It’s not that easy,” he said. “I’m not your dog to perform tricks when you call.”

“Then lay off ordering me around.” She was on her way to the bath again.

“Wait a minute, I’m not finished.”

“But I am.” There were real fireworks going off, prickly ones intended to hurt, and so the hurt began.

“Not until I’ve had my say,” he informed her, having taken her arm in his to hold her near. “You made some bad business moves, got desperate a year ago and flung yourself like a w***e at the sleazy jerks at Ibercon, neglecting everything else. It’s ruined your reputation everywhere in town. I couldn’t have you consult for me now even if I thought your advice was the most sound. The scheme’s failed, so let it go. Close Killian down. Travel with me, play the woman of leisure, volunteer at an old folks home, do anything. But let the brouhaha die away. It’s time.”

Staring eye to eye flinging arrows, they all hurt. For a moment, Reggie thought she might give in. It was just that close, Jocelyn on the edge of some supreme decision that would take her into brand new territory. But the instant died, as her green eyes snapped and her nostrils with their Irish temper flared like a dragon’s.

“It’s not time, Reg. Killian Management is not dead. I refused to bury it.” Jerking from his tight hold, he didn’t go after her again.

“Suit yourself,” was his only reply. Coldly turning back to his morning ritual, he buttoned the crisp white shirt and tied his tie in a neat knot at the neck. If Jocelyn wanted him to pursue their argument, she didn’t give him enough clues; and Reggie refused to be baited by any woman, including his obstreperous wife.