Hunger

Image by Photographer Stephan @SWLphotographic

Not to be reproduced or redistributed without his permission.

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Her hands were tied to the bedpost. Just high enough for her to stand on her toes.

"What is the punishment for being late?" he asked.

"Five strokes for each minute, sir," she replied promptly, as hesitation would increase her debt.

Thwack!

The sound of a cane making contact with her bare behind reverberated around the room. It stang, but it was a sweet pleasure to a woman like her. She knew there would be a mark... marks from the subsequent strikes.

"One, Sir!" she counted as was expected of her.

Thwack!

"Two, Sir!" she gasped this time.

***

Her fingers tapped on the steering wheel of the Lamborghini Huracán Evo. Debussy's Claire de Lune steamed through the speakers as she drove dangerously fast between traffic. It was a sad attempt to calm her aroused body in the early stages of her craving. And it rarely worked.

'It has been too long,' she thought as she exited the motorway at her destination - his exit.

The orange color of the Lambo Evo's hood insulted her sense of style and deportment. Of all the colors, her husband had to pick that to buy. 'Orange! How monstrous,' she thought, trying to settle herself, focusing on something other than Him.

Not her husband, who was busy making them richer by the minute in the government lobby firm or wherever he was at the moment. But Him, was the man she was on the way to meet. The man who had unsettled her when they first met. The one who still did each time he summoned her as if she were his Pet. That's what he called her, wasn't it?

"Come here, Pet. Stand straight, Pet. On your knees, Pet."

And maybe she was. All it took was one call. A call Carol Smith-Van Bartell, wife of ex-Senator Randal Van Bartell, was not allowed to answer. But woe-be-to-her if she did not drop what she was doing and go to him each time she received his summons. The thought of losing him terrified her.

And here our heroine was, driving her husband's monstrosity weekend car instead of her indiscreet gray S.U.V. 'It would need to be serviced today,' she thought in frustration. 'Of all days.'

As fun as it was to drive, this rocket on wheels was conspicuously noticeable. Getting caught meant jeopardizing the life she had worked hard to build for herself. Yet something about the possibility of being discovered enticed her.

She had been shopping with friends. Then at a social lunch with women of her social status when the call had come. No time to race home and fetch her maid's sedan. Why did Washington DC have to be so provincial? Everyone knew everyone of note and stuck their nose into their business. Carol knew the score and rules of the game, yet she could not resist him. He had become an unshakeable addiction.

She had to park on the street, as no other spot was available. Carol knew she would be noticed. Not just the gaudy orange-colored super-car, but her outfit also stuck out. Her yellow dress, ruffled top and bottom, contrasted with the earth tone colors of the neighborhood. And those toned, long legs and bleached blond hair... everyone in D.C. knew who she was. Ex-model, lawyer, occasional actress, a celebrity in her own right, not just Senator Van Bartell's arm candy.