Free Party Lines by Fiona Wilde Page B

it.”
    She
turned and walked towards the door, with Clara in pursuit.
    “Undo
it? Undo what? What is it, Lindsay? Maybe I can help!”
    But
it was too late. Lindsay was gone, leaving Clara standing there steeped in
feelings of confusion and concern.
     
    ***
     
    He
couldn’t believe it. Even standing there, paper in hand, he couldn’t believe
it.
    Unlike
Lindsay, Ron Sharp had been made aware of the Times article before he reached
work. He’d been in his car, flipping through the radio stations when he heard a
talk radio host mention her name. Quickly he scrolled back through the
stations, expecting to hear another glowing assessment of her political acumen.
But what he heard was a discussion of the scandal, and mockery by one host
being unsuccessfully balanced by genuine concern by another.
    He’d
accelerated through traffic, ignoring the one-fingered salutes from other
drivers he cut off in his haste to get to Bradford Hopkins’ huge Georgian-style
house. Ron wanted to reach his boss before the morning press did. He didn’t
want Hopkins gloating about Lindsay’s misfortune to the media. He didn’t know
how the Times had gotten the news about her past, but he was sure she was
thinking it had come from him. He didn’t want this mistaken notion to be
compounded by Hopkins’ on-air crowing about her character.
    But
he knew he had to be careful; he didn’t want to tip Hopkins off to his
relationship with Lindsay, not because he was ashamed of it but because he’d
promised to keep the matter private.
    His
mind drifted back to the night before and his heart twisted at the memory of
how she’d confided in him, how she’d told him how natural it felt to put her
trust in him. It had been a wonderful night, and were his mood not so agitated
he would have thought with fondness about the spanking he’d give her.
    It
had been her first introduction to a “good girl” spanking.
    “Do
you trust me?”  he’d asked her, and she’d looked
up at him with her wide, beautiful eyes and said ‘yes.’ But there was still an
edge of apprehension in her voice. When he’d floated the idea of spanking her
for their mutual pleasure she’d been hesitant.
    “Not
all spankings are for punishment,” he’d said, gently guiding her across his
lap. “Not all spankings have to hurt.”
    She’d
been wearing an adorable pair of tap pants with delicate lace around the edges.
The fabric molded to her bottom, accentuating the tantalizing shape of her
cheeks. Lindsay had trembled slightly as he’d rested his hand on her bum,
squeezing first one firm, springy buttock and then the other.
    “Do
you trust me?” he’d asked again.
    “I
trust you,” she said, her voice soft, sweet.
    She’d
trusted him.
    He’d
raised his hand then, and delivered a firm smack – not too hard, just
hard enough to leave a barely-visible blush through her underwear. She’d moaned
a little, but had not struggled.
    She’d
trusted him.
    So
Ron had delivered another, this one a little lower. He’d used his entire hand,
the span of it covering the lower half of her bottom. This time she’d moaned
louder and her hand had started to come back to cover her bottom, but Lindsay
had stopped it and instead had gripped the coverlet to her side, thrusting her
bottom up a little as she did. She was offering herself to him now, and Ron had
murmured that she was a good girl, a very, very good girl.
    She’d
trusted him.
    He’d
begun then to test her, to help her find the limits between pleasure and pain.
This was, he’d tell her later, important for both of them to know. For purposes
of pleasure, he’d bring her to the brink of tolerance; for purposes of
punishment he’d take her as far beyond it as the misdeed warranted. “Did she
accept this?” he’d asked. She had.
    She’d
trusted him.
    And
the idea that all that had now changed over something he’d not done cut him to
the core. He wanted to drive straight to her house, to explain he’d not done
this