Taught to Serve (5 page)

Her eyes glowed as she fixed on his splendour. Far from being uncomfortable on her knees before him, whether in the shower or some other location, she cherished his masculine projection. A quiver would wash over her body every time he uncovered it and offered it to her. A silly eagerness descended on her, and she felt her own sex tingle in response.

Casey’s own needs slipped down the ladder a little. However, she did not mind. Although Rob might sit and read a great deal in the evenings, Casey found he had an appetite in the bedroom which was invigorating and contagious. Her night times with Rob were a vast improvement on the lonely ones spent on her own in her old apartment. Moving in with Rob brought definite advantages, except on weekends, when he did not appear to be interested in her to the extent she wished. She had believed, prior to moving in with him, that he did not work on the weekends. However, his work ethic did not diminish according to the days of the week; it merely focused on other activities.

Rob went out on the weekends, but it was to exercise his body rather than his mind. On Saturdays he played squash with companions whom he named for Casey’s benefit and then left them as invisible personages. Early Sunday mornings he went for a run around the neighbouring streets and wooded areas. When he re-appeared from those excursions, he was sweaty, and Casey found he became youthful in appearance. The t-shirts and jogging bottoms mellowed his features and transformed him into the man that she had come to yearn for and admire.

* * *

Returning from his squash match that Saturday morning, Rob found her on the garden bench. Casey did not hear him approach, as she was lost in thought. Sitting next to her, Rob asked her if anything was wrong.

“Nothing,” she said with a shrug.

“No, I think there is something bothering you,” he persisted.

“Did you win?” she asked, deflecting him.

“Yes, I generally do against Graham.”

“Not much fun, winning all the time.”

“I analyse his weaknesses and concentrate on them,” he said matter-of-factly.

“That easy? Picking out the weak spots and targeting them. Wow, why had I never thought of that?” she said sarcastically.

“I ask again, what is wrong?” asked Rob, returning to his original question.

“Nothing,” she reiterated.

“I don’t accept that statement.”

“Whatever,” she said with a second dismissive shrug.

There were a few things Casey could get away with saying, but ‘whatever’ was not one of them. She blurted the word out as a red light of warning to Rob. She knew it meant her manners were slipping and her sulkiness was being put on display. She was hiding from him, and she was not allowed to hide. ‘Whatever’ meant she had forgotten the importance of being mindful of him.

His hand reached out and took a firm grip on her upper arm. He dragged her towards him, and at the same time, he positioned her downwards. Casey immediately recognised his intention; she was being drawn over his lap.

“Oh, no!” she hollered.

“No?” queried Rob.

“Not here!” She pushed away from him.

“Yes, here.”

“The neighbours…”

“Can’t see, now move.” His voice thickened with his sterner tone.

“No!” She slid away, using her bottom on the smooth wooden bench. The grip on her arm remained tight, and the other hand moved to the back of her neck.

“No?” he questioned. “Casey, you understand if you want me to stop, you know what you have to say.”

He was referring to her special word. The one he would obey, but it would mean a breach of trust between them, and the consequences were daunting. If she said that word, he would honour it, but its broadcasting would take them backwards. She had to believe he had her best interests at heart and would never harm her.

He manoeuvred her down and over him. As she slipped across his lap, her waistband took a journey in the opposite direction. He peeled back her leggings, then her knickers, so that by the time she was in position, she was exposed to the cool autumn air.

A tiny sob left her mouth. She did not fight him. She was resigned to her fate.

Her buttock cheeks would be transformed into a palette of pinks and reds by his firm hand. Between her legs, her shaved parts—something to which she had complied without hesitation—would puff up in reactive response to his warming actions. She could not help herself.

As spankings went, it was not on the disciplinary scale, and as soon as Casey noticed Rob was not being harsh, she relaxed. Her head buried into her arms, and she forgot her embarrassment at being out in the open. The cool breeze became an odd contrast to the rising heat of her skin. A rhythm was applied to his smacks, and she anticipated each blow with gritted teeth.

Rob lectured her. He pointed out they were still in the early days of their relationship and that habits did not change overnight. She had her privacy; he did not want to crowd her and frighten her away. Once they were used to each other’s daily company—the weekdays and the weekends—then he would take her out. She was impatient and had not managed her expectations. Real life was not a fairy tale. He was a busy man with commitments, and his leisure time was precious. Why had she not gone out with her friends and pursued hobbies that benefitted her own needs?

Casey grunted at his list of salient points. She regretted her short-sighted attitude. ‘Whatever’ meant she did not care for his needs, when he had put so much effort into her own. The kitchen was filled with her favourite foods, the toiletries included products she adored. The bedroom was to be re-decorated to soften the colours from blatant masculinity to neutral tones. Much was planned to assist her adjustment to living with Rob, and he too had to adjust.

“Patience, Casey.” The last words he spoke as he drew her back up into his arms.

The cuddle was accompanied by a reproachful apology on her part. “I’m sorry,” she murmured curled up on his lap. “But you have to help me on the weekends, not just with the sexy things, but with my own time.”

His hand ran up and down her thigh, caressing her, and she tried not to think about her stinging bottom. “I know I appear inflexible with my schedule and working hours,” commented Rob, “but I think you should try to occupy yourself. What about jogging with me?”

Casey grimaced. “Not my thing.”

“You told me you like tennis. What about my friend, the one who is a coach, you could have lessons with him. How about that to keep you busy while I play squash?”

Her first reaction was the idea of more lessons—her current life appeared to be made up of many lessons. Then she felt guilty because she was being negative and not meeting him halfway. She did like tennis and had been in the school team many years ago. “Alright. I will,” she said positively. “Thank you.”

Casey settled and the smell of his sweat, the fresh bodily odour of recent perspiration, triggered her natural reactions. He smelt magnificent and masculine. Hand in hand, they walked up to the house, and Casey succeeded in keeping a wandering hand from rubbing her throbbing bottom.

“I’m going to shower,” said Rob as they reached the back door. “Why don’t you join me?”

“On my knees?” she said with a coy smile.

“Well, I won’t turn down that offer.” He returned her smile.

Staring at the message pad, Casey equated her existence to being no more than a glorified answering service. Rob had been adamant he did not want to be disturbed. His request came upon a day when the telephone in Casey’s little room would not stop ringing.

His publisher rang to check on dates. The organiser of a seminar wanted to know when Rob’s presentation synopsis would be available. A lawyer from some firm wanted advice on the wording of a contract. The editor of a journal requesting whether Professor Tolchard would honour their publication with an article.

Casey noted all of the details down, precisely and concisely, on the pad. She did not know when Rob would answer them; he was very busy. Yes, they could send an email, but the same proviso was in place; Professor Tolchard was very busy.

Referring to Rob as a professor took some mental wrangling on Casey’s part. To those to whom he acted as consultant or to former academic colleagues at Oxford University, he remained a professor. To the rest of the outside world, he was Mr Robert Tolchard. He preferred Casey to use the latter form of address in his own home.

“I don’t live in a university,” he had once told her.

Still, it felt odd to refer to him in so many different ways. Mr, professor, sir, or Rob. All these titles and names were put to use according to his role, and Casey occasionally forgot the significance of each version of his name.

The telephone rang again, and she snatched the handset to her ear.

“Professor Tolchard’s office,” she announced for what felt like the billionth time that morning.

The man on the other end of the phone wished to speak to Professor Tolchard. Casey explained he was too busy to take callers.

“I don’t think you understand, young lady, I wish to speak to him.”

Casey was tired of repeating the same script. “You can’t. Okay?”

“Can’t!” said the man indignantly. “I am a professor and former colleague of Robert’s and I wish to speak to him today.”

“I know who you are, Professor Clayton,” rattled off Casey. “But, as I just said, he isn’t taking callers. Can I take a message?”

The man shouted back down the telephone. “Massage?”

“Message!” said Casey exasperated.

“No, I need to speak to him. He is expecting me.”

“No, he isn’t, and he is busy. Why is that so damn difficult to get?” she snapped at him.

“I beg your pardon!” His tone was somewhat aghast. “How rude!” The call ended abruptly.

She scrawled on the pad the name, time and the words ‘no message’. Then she went back to surfing the internet for new shoes. Twiddling the hair between her fingers, she heard a distant door slam.

Casey had failed to remember that her employer did not live in a bubble. Though she may answer his landline and filter his email account, Robert Tolchard had his own personal email account and mobile. The latter was in his hand as he stormed into her room.

“My study now!” he said icily.

Casey scurried after him, and she came to a halt before his desk. He did not sit down but instead paced up and down the room. The silence dragged on until he stopped in front of Casey.

“I employed you to represent me, to be my conduit, my public face, and to help organise my work life. Today you have been rude and obnoxious to a dear friend of mine.” Rob’s tone was quiet and forceful.

Casey did not need to ask to whom he was referring, although that did not stop her from blurting out the first thing that came to her head. “He shouted at me.”

“You swore at him!” said Rob through gritted teeth.

“Swore… I may have said something. Maybe I said damn. That isn’t a swear word, not really…” Casey’s voice lost its enthusiasm. It was not suitable vocabulary, and with hindsight, Casey realised the enormity of her mistake.

“I had arranged to speak to him. He has asked me to tutor a few of his promising students in private sessions. I was honoured by his request. He was my mentor at university.”

Casey gulped. She knew she was in big trouble, but still she made one last attempt to redeem herself. “There was nothing in the diary.”

“I left a note for you.”

“He still shouted at me,” said Casey indignantly, and the hole grew larger about her feet.

“Come with me,” ordered Rob. He took her back to the neighbouring small room and began to rummage about on her desk. “If you kept this tidier… here, my note.”

Casey did then recollect a post-it on her desk first thing in the morning. Without reading the note, she had put a shoe catalogue on top of it.

“And as for the shouting,” said Rob as he thumbed through her Rolodex and then pointed to the details of Professor Clayton imprinted on one card. “Read that!”

Casey peered at the small letters below the name. “Hard of hearing. Speak clearly and be patient.”

She straightened up and examined the mess on her desk. It never used to be so disorganised, but she had become lax and complacent since she moved in with Rob, as if being his girlfriend had overwritten her status as his personal assistant. She heard a mental ‘whoops’ rush through her mind.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “I take it he rang your mobile.”

“Yes, and I apologised for your behaviour. Now I will teach you a lesson in manners and being courteous.”

She knew where she had to go, and she stumbled into his study.

“Assume the position,” said Rob from behind her back.

The position. The wording was specific. It did not mean his lap, this was not to be a spanking. Nor did he mean the desk; the support it gave would be removed. She had to bend over in the middle of the room and grasp her ankles. Her heart thumped loudly, and she swallowed down a wave of nausea.

“Sir,” came her tiny voice.

Her legs had to move apart to enable her to hold her legs firmly. Between them, she watched as Rob went to the bureau—a piece of furniture she many times had come to dread as it held his harshest of implements. A beautiful cabinet, inlaid with marquetry and ivory, it creaked as he opened the doors at the front. Hanging up inside were a range of spanking implements. There were wooden paddles of different shapes and sizes. Next to them, the leather straps, tawse, and finally the canes. Made from various materials both natural and synthetic, they formed a formidable collection.

Rob selected a cane.

Casey had never been caned before. Paddled hard, whipped with his strap or tawse, but not the thin rod made famous by the public school system in bygone days.

“You’re going to find out why six of the best is all that is needed. Six whacks of this cane will equate to minutes of being spanked with my thickest paddle. It will leave neat welts across you bottom. Marks to remember your bad behaviour. After I have administered your punishment, you will stand in the corner, just like a naughty schoolgirl. Except, Casey, this is not fun. This is not playing. I am very disappointed in you. I thought you had improved your petulant attitude. Now I know why you failed in your previous job.”