When we met, he told me he wasn’t going to change. He told me he loved taking risks, loved living on the edge—the kind of nonsense women normally go for. I was at the salon where I work as the head stylist. He was dropping off his sister for a cut and color. I’ve gained something of a reputation as a colorist—I know what hues and tones look good on a woman’s head. He tracked a slimy trail of mud and grass clippings into the salon with his big leather boots. I paused in the middle of applying a foil to a thin section of hair, grabbed a broom and made a beeline for where he stood next to the reception desk, leaning arrogantly, taking up too much space. He looked down at me with a smirk. I thrust the broom into his chest.
“What’s this for?” he asked.
I snapped my fingers and pointed at the mess he’d made. “We expect adults to clean up after themselves around here.”
He stepped in closer, smelling like motor oil and cigarettes and sandalwood. He was a very big man—a good foot and then some taller than me, broad in the chest, thick logs for thighs, long hair, a strong jaw, pale blue eyes, surprisingly full lips. His sister focused intently on the magazine she was reading, slowly flipping the pages.
“Is that so?” he asked.
I nodded and he laughed and that’s when he explained he was a bad boy, the kind of man who could never change, and I told him I was not impressed. I grabbed his wrist, letting my fingernails dig into his skin, and forced his fingers around the broom handle. “I don’t really care what you think you are so long as you clean your mess.”
As I walked away, I gritted my teeth, willing myself not to look back. I wondered if I could smell him on my fingers. Before long, I heard the soft swish of the broom moving back and forth. At the end of my shift, he was standing in the parking lot, leaning against a motorcycle.
I held my purse tightly against my ribs as I made my way to my car.
“Hey, bossy.”
I stopped and turned around, glaring. “Who the hell are you calling bossy?”
He closed the distance between us. The smell of sandalwood was stronger. His long hair was pulled into a ponytail, revealing an elaborate tattoo on the back of his neck. “I’m calling you bossy.”
“What do you want, sloppy?”
He laughed. “Who the hell are you calling sloppy?”
My lips stretched into a wide smile before I could stop myself. “I’m calling you sloppy.”
“I’m taking you out tomorrow night.”
I looked up at him again, taking in his broad chest, admiring the way he towered over me. “I’ll go out with you if you figure out where I live.”
“Hey,” he called out. “What’s your last name?”
As I drove past where he stood, I rolled down my window. “Tick tock,” I said. I reached out and pressed my hand against his breastbone, patting lightly, enjoying the warmth of his body seeping into the palm of my hand.
The next evening, I took a long shower and shaved my legs and otherwise behaved as if later, a man might be seeing me without my clothes on even though I had no intention of letting this particular man see me naked that evening or any other evening for that matter. I wore a pair of tight jeans and a silk camisole, lots of dark eyeliner, big hoop earrings, and ridiculously high heels. I enjoy being impractical. I enjoy being looked at when I know I look good. Then I waited, watching something ridiculous on television, staring at the clock every two or three minutes, pretending I did not care if the bad boy showed up. Finally, near seven, there was a knock at the door. A strange rush of energy filled my chest and spread down my arms to my fingertips. I waited until he knocked again, then stood slowly, snapping my fingers again. I snap my fingers whenever I’m angry or excited so I do it a lot.
When I opened the door, he said, “Goddamn,” and let out a long, low whistle.
I smiled, raised my hand high in the air, snapped and said, “That’s a good start.”
His motorcycle was parked at the end of my driveway, a big old Harley, the kind that rumbled between my thighs and made me wrap my arms around him even tighter, the leather of his jacket soft against my cheek. We drove to the lakeshore as the sun was setting and sat on his bike, staring out at the shocking stretch of red and pink and orange as it slowly sank into that dark expanse of water. As the night stilled, he turned to face me and pressed his lips against mine as he wrapped his fist with my hair to hold my mouth against his. I slid my hand along his muscled thigh and it flexed in response. His tongue was warm and solid against mine. I nipped at it with my teeth and he laughed deep and low.
“I can see I’m going to have to tame you,” he said.
I planted my hands against his chest and pushed him away, jumping off the bike. “Excuse me?”
“I’m a bad boy who likes to tame bad girls. I can tell you’re a bad girl.”
The spaghetti strap of my camisole fell down my shoulder as I blew my hair out of my face. “Who even talks like that?”
He beamed proudly and traced the line of my bare shoulder with just one finger. I resisted the urge to shiver or lean into his touch.
“What makes you think I am a bad girl?”
He grabbed the belt loops of my jeans, pulling me against him. “I can just tell.”
I tapped his chin with one of my perfectly manicured fingernails. I enjoy painting myself pretty. “You have so much to learn. In fact, I don’t believe you properly apologized for getting my salon floor dirty.” I sank my fingernail into his skin harder and harder and held his gaze. I watched as his jaw tightened. I still held his gaze.
“Am I supposed to apologize now? Or are you trying to draw blood?”
I lightly rubbed my thumb over the dark red crescent I had made and stood on the tips of my toes, flicking my tongue against his chin. He slid his big hands beneath my camisole, brushing his lips against my neck as he murmured, “That’s more like it. You like bad boys. Admit it, bad girl.”
I arched my neck into his lips and then his teeth and sighed as he sucked hard, pulling at the skin. I hoped for an angry bruise in the morning. His hands slid higher until he cupped my breasts. As he was about to squeeze my nipples, I pulled away, grabbing his wrists and pushing his arms down. “You owe me a proper apology.”
He offered a charming grin, one I’m certain had charmed many women before me. I noticed his dimples for the first time. The night grew darker and stiller around us. The air was cool but not uncomfortable.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice lowering into a lazy drawl.
I looked him up and down, crossing my arms over my chest. “I’m not convinced.”
He crossed his arms across his chest, too. “What would it take to convince you?”
I walked around his motorcycle, running my hand along the bike’s solid curves. When I reached him again I turned him around and guided his hands to the bike seat. I pressed my chest against his back and slowly unbuckled his belt.
“That’s more like it,” he said.
I unbuttoned his pants and found his cock thick and hot, standing at attention. He hissed as I began stroking him slowly. I stroked harder, pressing my thumb gently against the tip, and he groaned, leaning his weight against his bike. With my other hand, I began squeezing his balls, warm and soft and heavy. He leaned into my hand.
He muttered something invoking a deity along with several curse words. Suddenly, I stopped. He tried to turn around.
“Don’t move,” I said.
I tugged his jeans down around his ankles and, crouching behind him, I kissed the muscled rise of his calves, the soft and sensitive spots behind his knees. His legs began to tremble. I drew my tongue against the backs of his knees in wide circles then drew a line up one inner thigh and down the other with the tip of my tongue. He breathed hard and fast. When he tried to reach for his cock, I smacked his thigh.
“Don’t move,” I repeated.
I dragged my tongue along the underside of his asscheeks and smiled as I felt him clench those muscles. Then I stood and began running my hand over his ass in a lazy circle.
“Are you really sorry?”
He nodded. “I’m really sorry.”
“Are you a bad boy?”
“Hell, yes, I am,” he said.
“I suppose I do like bad boys.”
I raised my arm, and swiftly brought it down against his firm ass, rounder than I would have expected. My hand tingled pleasantly.
He tried to turn around, but I reached around and tugged on his cock once, hard.
“What part of ‘do not move’ are you having a hard time understanding?”
“You just smacked me.”
“And I’m going to do it again. You said you’re a bad boy, right?”
“Damn right,” he said, his voice faltering slightly.
“Bad boys should be punished.”
His shoulders slumped slightly and he chuckled. “I get your game.”
I slapped his ass again, spreading my fingers a little wider. “I’m not playing a game and if I am, it would seem you like to play.”
Slowly, I dragged my fingernails between his thighs and squeezed his balls from behind. He pressed back into me again. I began to stroke his cock with one hand while I slapped his ass over and over, alternating from cheek to cheek until his ass was nice and warm. The moon had finally risen. In the dim light, I could see the pink spreading.
“You know you deserve to be punished, don’t you?”
He was silent. I raised my arm high, and brought my hand down against his ass as hard as I could.
“Do you deserve to be punished?”
He nodded.
“I cannot hear you.” I pressed my fingernails into his ass and dragged them roughly from one side to the other.
“Yes,” he said, tightly. “Goddamnit, I do.” I watched his grip tighten as he held on to the motorcycle.
“Do you deserve to be punished very badly?”
Again he was silent. I let go of his cock and squeezed both asscheeks in my hand, then scraped my nails back across the warmly worked-over flesh, leaving bright, angry streaks. I spanked him again and again and again.
“Why do you keep making me repeat myself? Do you deserve to be punished very badly?”
A strange sound caught in his throat. We were both silent and still for a moment. Finally, he said, “Yes.”
“Do I hear a question in your voice?”
I slapped his ass again, then his thighs.
“No,” he stuttered.
I reached down for his pants and slowly pulled his belt free from the belt loops. He groaned. I wrapped my arms around him from behind, my breasts to his back, and held him tight. He trembled against me but he did not try to move. Suddenly, he lowered his head and exhaled loudly. I kissed his shoulders and pulled away.
Carefully, I folded the belt in half, slapped it against my bare hand. The sharp sound filled the air around us, echoed lightly.
“I’m glad we understand each other,” I said, slapping my hand again. “I would hate for there to be any misunderstandings between us.”
“There is no misunderstanding. None at all.”
I stepped a bit farther back, drew my arm back and lightly allowed the belt to fall against his ass. When the muscles flexed, I admired the deeply carved indentations on each side of his ass. I drew my arm back again, this time letting the belt fall harder. He jumped a little, but pushed his ass toward me.
“You like this, don’t you, bad boy?”
He shook his head. I whipped his ass with the belt again, letting a good length of the leather sink into his skin. A white streak appeared then grew bright red. I aimed the belt for the same spot and smiled widely when a deep and guttural sound rose out of his chest and into the night.
“I think it’s time for us to get serious, don’t you?”
He coughed. “This feels pretty serious to me.”
I slid my hand through his hair, tousling it gently.
“Baby, you haven’t seen serious yet.”
His head sank lower, his chin against his chest.
“Say thank you, bad boy.”
Before he could answer, I brought the belt against his ass once and twice and a third time, hitting the same freshly bruising spot.
His breathing grew rapid and ragged. Each time I hit him, a new and stranger sound fell from his lips. My arm began to ache. A thin sheen of sweat spread across my forehead and between my breasts. There was so much heat between my thighs I thought I might burn. Finally, he said, “I can’t. I can’t take anymore.”
I let the belt fall to the ground and dropped to my knees, pressing my lips against the hottest bruises. His shoulders shook. Gently, I squeezed his thighs and whispered, “Turn around,” and he quickly obeyed. His cock was as hard as it had been the entire time. Without ceremony, I opened my mouth wide and welcomed him inside me until my lips pressed against his body. He held my face softly with one hand and planted his other hand against his bike. As I began bobbing my head, wetly flicking my tongue against the swell of the head, he stuttered.
“Please,” he said.
I paused, grazing the length of his thick shaft with my teeth as I pulled away.
“Please what?”
“Please let me fuck you.”
“Bad boys don’t deserve to fuck me, do they?”
He grabbed me by my shoulders, pulling me to my feet. He didn’t answer. Instead he crushed his lips against mine, forcing his tongue between my lips as he held me so tightly against him I thought my bones would collapse in on themselves. I moaned softly as his rough, calloused hands slid beneath my camisole. He brushed the pads of his thumbs across my nipples. They instantly hardened. He rolled my nipples between his fingers, harder and harder. I leaned into his touch, offering my breasts to him. He lowered his mouth to my neck, grabbing at the sensitive skin between his teeth, tracing the small indentations with his tongue, sucking the skin so hard I thought he might tear the skin from the muscle beneath.
“I want you,” he growled.
He slid one of his hands down my body, deftly unbuttoning my jeans.
“How badly do you want me?” I asked as his hand drifted over my neatly shaved mound and he spread me slickly open, teasing my clit with his fingertips.
He stopped teasing and roughly shoved his fingers into my mouth. I sucked them wetly, enjoying the taste of my desire, the taste of his.
“I want you about as badly as you want me.”
I slid around him so I was standing next to the bike. After pulling my camisole off and tossing it over the handlebars, I draped myself over the seat, cool and firm against my chest. I spread my legs, arching my back so he could get a good look. I turned back to look at him, my hair falling into my face.
“You can fuck me so long as I get to punish you again. Bad boys aren’t very good at learning their lessons.”
He pressed his thumbs along the base of my spine and slowly pushed his hands along that curved line of bone like he was trying to push me out of my skin. His cock throbbed against the cleft of my ass and then he was inside me, stretching me, filling me. I gasped, reaching back to hold on to him, pull him deeper into me. He covered my body with his and nibbled my ear. He said, “Yes, please punish me again.”
I reared back against him, rocking my hips in a lazy circle. He grabbed my hips, pressing his fingers into the skin just above the sharp edges of my hip bones. In the morning, there would be light purple bruises.
“Good boy,” I said, biting my lower lip, inhaling the scent of motor oil and leather. “You are a very good boy.”