Chapter Three

Asking For It

She told him he wouldn’t dare, but secretly she hoped he would. Something in Sergeant Levine’s countenance told her this time it would be different.

It had not been like this by the lake with Bobby, or at the drive-in with Richie. For all her efforts, it had not been like this with witless football ace Willard who, despite his prowess on the field, seemed impervious to simple hints, even though she had eventually been about as direct as she could be without sending him an email. It had not been like this with Riley, when on a dinner-date with him, attempting to make his blood rise, she had flirted outrageously with the Mexican bullfighter sitting at the next table. No, this sergeant, on leave from active duties in Iraq, had a determined edge to him that more than suggested he was not about to let her bratty behavior go unchecked. This time she was with a man who was likely to respond.

Levine was in uniform. Flashed with insignia and medal ribbons, his No1 dress sharpened by razor creases. Standing in a small group in the drawing-room whilst the mingling hosts – the Coopers – left them alone, Cyndi May Thurston taunted him. Circling him with her hands demurely clasped behind her back, she had said: “Interesting suit. Although, if you ask me, it’s on the drab side.”

“I didn’t.”

“Bit smart for combat though, isn’t it?”

“It would be. We have battledress for that,” he continued, a pained expression crossing his features as he tried to decide whether this girl in all her finery – the sort he and his comrades believed they had risked their lives for in the tinder box of Iraq – was amusing herself at his expense. “This is for best occasions,” he added.

“That’s a party at Welbeck Mansion – a best occasion, I mean.” From then on she wouldn’t let it go, provoking and taunting like some terrier with a bone as they strolled onto the patio. She chuckled impishly. “Well, shouldn’t we all be grateful, knowing we have a real live hero at our sides to keep us safe on this lawn.” Then, after his obvious annoyance and his declaration that she should watch her mouth, she followed it up by issuing the dare, asking: “What you gonna do – spank me?”

He had responded with a nod, saying: “That’s an idea at that.”

“You think you got the nerve?”

“You impertinent brat! You deserve everything you get!”

“And what would that be?” It was crazy idiotic talk to a stranger, driven by a prevailing longing. Her words would only invite trouble from such a man. But it was too late! They could hardly be retracted.

Sergeant Levine looked thoughtful. He lazily raised his foot on a low brick pillar so that his knee was bent. It was a stance Cyndi had always found compelling. There was something about a man that leisurely planted a foot on a chair or stool whilst leaning his elbow on his upturned knee and thigh. It demonstrated a contemptuous, almost casual show of self-belief and authority. And now events were progressing beyond the mere gesturing stage, Sergeant Levine projected more than an outward display of confidence.

Events controlled by Levine were unfolding with such rapidity and apparent certainty that Cyndi was unsure what was about to follow. All she knew in her starry state was that she could have reached out and touched his trousers, felt what she suspected was a muscled and toned leg beneath the cloth as she fluttered her doe eyes at him, daring him to bend her over that single knee and to spank her.

Levine had the look of a man that would not need to be told twice – if at all – unlike so many of the feckless youngsters it had been her misfortune to date; those who managed to ignore her references to anything connected with the issue that quickened her pulse the most. They smiled weakly and changed the subject, seemingly incapable of making the connection, or possibly feeling unable to handle such a pretty young girl in the manner she implied was most appropriate.

Not so Sergeant Levine. He looked capable of hoisting her up and over his knee in one move. And something told her he was the sort of man that could administer a good hard spanking. It was all speculation of course, but right then, Cyndi found herself dreamily imagining his strong machine-gun hands lifting her up and tipping her over that outstretched knee of his. Engrossed by such invasive thoughts, it became difficult to concentrate. Images of her bucking and kicking as he delivered a brisk spanking were swimming in her mind. And she was in no doubt he was up to the task – that he would probably relish it. For crying out loud, excepting some of the dorks she seemed to attract, who wouldn’t?

Cyndi was an attractive young woman, fresh as a newly opened bottle of fizzy lemonade. She was at the age where whatever she wore seemed to fit and suit her. In great shape, physically and mentally, she was lusted after, both secretly and overtly, by most men she met. She had long legs, a slim waist and hair that would spill over her porcelain face and partly obscure her china-blue eyes if made to bend over. In which case, she would peep from behind that hair and screw her face into a delightful shape with each barrage of smacks, producing the sort of look that could drive a man crazy.

Right now, she resisted the temptation to reach over and lean her elbow on Sergeant Levine’s leg – a leg that was so close she could almost rest her chin on its knee. It was a reminder of how frustrated she had become.

After their earlier exchange, an almost disturbing silence followed. Levine hardly altered his deportment, although there was the slightest twitch that suggested he was quietly seething. Exposed to her continual goading, he gave it a couple of long minutes, then, as if acting on cue, placing his glass of punch on the low wall, he merely grabbed Cyndi by the arm and started to lead her away from the terrace and across the grass in the direction of a row of boundary trees.

As she hesitantly followed, his strong hands almost bruising her flesh, Cyndi became aware she had lost any control over what was about to transpire. In complete contrast to so many parallel situations that could have led to such a moment in the past, everything happened with great speed. Her head was spinning as she followed him into the unknown. And for all the rush of adrenalin, she felt an emptiness inside. It was as if she had opened a forbidden casket and was about to be exposed to its contents.

For his part, Sergeant Levine knew exactly where events were headed. More importantly, now he had hold of Cyndi’s arm and was in the act of hauling her away from the party at the house and the small crowd that had spilled on to the lawn, he knew what his intentions were. Cyndi could have called a halt to his actions with a shake of her cute blonde hair, a stamp of her foot or even a cry for help. Instead, albeit with a somewhat stubborn gait, as she kept pace with Levine, there was a barely perceptible willingness in her stride as she allowed herself to be led away. All too soon it became too late. Amidst the clinking of glasses on the lawn, and the chatter and the strains of Tamla Motown, no one from the house paid attention as she and the Sergeant made for a quiet spot in the darkness at the end of the garden.

Cyndi’s breath quickened. Hair bedraggled after it had snagged on an overhead branch, the strap of her evening dress having slipped to her shoulder, succumbing to the firmness of his grip, she trudged behind him, her silver, circular earrings – now apparently so unnecessary and looking unduly cheap – jangling as she did so. New sights and sounds that replaced the receding drone from the party were closing in on her. She heard what she thought was the whooshing of the sea in her head. But it was the Kentuckian night, now suddenly hot and dangerously tropical, that surged through her, singing its own song, filling her ears with a humming ferocity.

With the murmur of voices and the thrum of the music becoming more distant, the two of them reached the summer house. Sergeant Levine looked unrelenting as he led her inside. There was another half-hearted attempt from Cyndi to baulk, but with an extra yank on her arm, she found herself following him through the door.

Barely offering her a glance, after clearing one of the scatter cushions from an ironwork seat, emulating his actions on the patio, Levine planted one foot on it, raising his knee.

Once again Cyndi was light-headed with weakness. She imagined what might follow – could see herself bending to his command, surrendering to his will. Yet, as she felt the pressure of Levine’s hand on the back of her neck, with it came a realisation, stinging like a torrent of icy rain on her face. And it brought the first shoots of fear. Isolated from the party, anything could happen. What if this man meant to harm her? What if this wasn’t a game to him? What if he had failed to appreciate the nuances in this stage-managed affair? What if she had pushed him too far? What if his programme was totally different to hers?

She knew it was too late. The voices and the music had faded into the night as if they had never been there. She and this sergeant were alone. With the tick of each second he assumed more control. His face contorted into genuine anger. At first she had thought this anger was all part of their joint diversion. Now, in the deserted summerhouse, it seemed to flood and contort his face. His eyes flashed with annoyance as he spoke.

“Let’s see what you gotta say now,” he hissed. “You picked the wrong badass to mess with.” After what seemed such a long period of silence from him the words came as something of a surprise.

She felt dizzy as she lost her balance. Blood rushed to her head as in part her earlier vision – now nowhere near so appealing – was about to come alive. Sergeant Levine manipulated her easily so that she found herself at first rising then falling to the bridge that was his thigh. She bobbed like a cork on a boiling sea as she came to rest over his single knee. For all her earlier contemplation, Cyndi found the position impractical and uncomfortable. She was too tall to be tossed over his knee in such a fashion.

Perhaps this was a good time for them both to draw a partial halt to events. Consequently, as the more mature participant, it was up to Levine to conclude he was dealing with a comparatively young and excitable girl that meant no harm. Someone whose bottom he should smack lightly before sending her back to the gathering on the lawn. But, plainly, he was in no mood to apply such a trifling but fitting remedy.

Cyndi plunged downwards, fearing she would slide to the ground and collide with the iron seat. She snatched at the hem of his trouser for support. One of his hands grabbed her shoulders, yanking her back up so that she rested on the anchor that was his upturned knee. The ocean once again flowed through her head – roaring this time – before the first snap of his hand on her bottom. And it was a rich bladed stroke – swordplay from the Sergeant.

Then, another slap, followed by fresh air on her flesh as part of her dress was lifted clear. Then her panties were down and the punishing hand was raised high – the maneuver betrayed by a wall shadow – before ripping, yes, ripping into her bare flesh. All finesse was gone. Levine made no attempt to disguise his actions. He was intent on chastising her as surely as if it were his military duty. Time and again his hand swung down to tenderize her bottom. Her body became inflamed – an angry and swollen object pounded by that ruthless hand as, clasped in place, she danced ineffectively over Sergeant Levine’s knee.

When ready, Levine allowed her to slide down. With a thousand volts’ worth of pain shooting through her, she felt him grab her lunging body so that she was standing before him. In the rush, there was no time to cry, but she was sure little girl tears were welling somewhere within her. “You really hurt me,” she managed to exclaim, the words squeezing out as she tried to rub her bottom with a free hand.

“Think yourself lucky it’s dark and I can’t cut myself a switch.”

“You beast! You bully!”

“What did you think I was? You’ve had your spanking, now I am going to tan your hide.” Clearly he wasn’t finished.

She saw the determined glint in his eye. “No! Let me go! You can’t do this!” she exclaimed, not quite knowing what it was he proposed to do.

“I think you’ll find I surely can – and I am here to show you how …” And with that he grabbed her wrist and made his way toward an iron stool in the centre of the room, taking her with him as he went. She pulled against the pressure, tried to dig in her heels, but the uneven floor denied any purchase. In any case, it was a battle she was never going to win. He reached the stool, sat down and dragged her closer. With one final tug she was off-balance, splayed over his knees so that she fell in a heap, her head almost hitting the floor. Her hair flew loosely in all directions, her face twisted in a grimace as the reality of the situation became apparent.

Legs paddling, arms flailing, she bucked and kicked. Hardly able to digest the impact of punishment already undergone, she cried out – shrieked and sobbed – but her wails were absorbed by the sound of his hand slashing her bare bottom.

Where was the eroticism? The sexuality? To Cyndi, what she was receiving was nothing short of a beating. She cursed the man’s heartlessness. She felt he had missed the point – the equivalent of a man that failed to see a joke – in his own way, as adrift and deluded as Bobby, Willard and Riley had been.

When he finished, they remained in position: Cyndi untidily draped over his knees with a searing bottom and with tears sprouting from her eyes; Levine rubbing his smarting hand. Full of the sound of their joint panting and Cyndi’s whimpers, the summerhouse resembled a battle zone.

She remained still, temporarily unable to break free, listening to the awful sound of her blubbering. Her eyes were wet. Tears dampened her face; she swallowed their salt. They smudged her cheeks, mixing with make-up and mascara, forming a black paste on her face. They plopped like precious drops of oil on the floor.

Pain coursed through her body to such an extent, although she knew where its origins lay, in truth, if pressed, she could no longer isolate its source. Then the glow – the all-over wash of numbness. It was not as she imagined it would be; never what she wanted, but the tears, allied to the sensation, meant she was experiencing a moment she had waited much of her life for – not in its exactness, but in its essence.

Three days later Cyndi happened on Sergeant Levine in the local diner. He was sitting alone at a table with a cleared plate pushed to one side and a mug of coffee gently steaming before him. Without his uniform – in jeans and an open-necked shirt – he was a world away from the man that had marched her to the summerhouse. Now he looked ordinary; he could have been a truck driver grabbing a quick bite before climbing back into his twelve-wheeler bound for Pittsburgh.

As she took her place across the room their eyes met and Cyndi’s heart briefly began beating wildly. It was not out of desire, more because she found herself in a situation that caught her out. What was she to do? Ignore him? March determinedly over to his table and castigate him for his cruelty, accusing him of the worst type of bullying? Explain his gross overreaction?

But as the gum-chewing waitress arrived to take her order, at the same time blocking her view with a slovenly and insolent stance, he looked away as if failing to recognize her. By the time she had decided on coffee and a flapjack and regained her composure, daring to lift her eyes in the direction of his table, she saw he had vacated his seat and was in the act of pushing his way through the door on his way to the car lot.

Nobody who knew Cyndi May Thurston was surprised when she hit the big time. Always a leader, somewhat bossy at school, she knew what she wanted and invariably got it. On top of that she was a grafter, although only at subjects she liked. With the bubblegum look: blonde hair, blue eyes that opened startlingly wide when she flicked a switch, pink-frosted lipstick, unsullied features and a string of doe-eyed young men in her wake, barring some massive error of judgement on her part, success seemed assured in any number of spheres – be it in the supporting role of the wife of a senator, or in her own right as a lawyer. But just as her tutors at college were anticipating her bolstering the roll of honor, events took a dive. She discovered the guitar. As she spent every spare moment picking out chords and writing bits of songs, academia took second place.

She replaced a pregnant member of an all-girl group known as the Sirens that were in desperate need of a rhythm guitarist-come vocalist. Despite her lack of experience, Cyndi bluffed her way into the fold. What she lacked in musical ability she made up for in her appearance. Soon she was gyrating and grinding her way around three-chord-tricks. No one paid any real attention to her strumming – which was average – or for that matter, to her singing, which, although adequate was at least unique. No, what they really noticed was her get-down-and-dirty presentation.

The Sirens had their brief breakthrough with a couple of dates in a Nashville bar. The pay was lousy and the hours long, but Nashville is a place to get yourself noticed and Cyndi got noticed. The band broke up not long after that, the other three members struggling to keep up with the lifestyle and Cyndi’s flamboyance. They drifted into the wings of the stage leaving her in the fickle spotlight, but the exposure she received was enough to set her on her way.

There are no certainties in the music business. One wrong turn is all it takes, but Cyndi made the most of every opportunity. And through all the optimism, the extra dates, the promises that would mostly be broken, but were enough to give her the necessary confidence to face the broad beam of light on stage alone, there was one other noteworthy occurrence to provide wind to her sail.

Without Cyndi, her home town in Kentucky was more sedate and there was less to talk about. A mystery to most, it seemed no one quite knew what made her tick. Although, leaving behind a trail of failed and often controversial relationships, there was no shortage of speculation. However, with those who might have otherwise shed light on the subject keeping quiet, or having moved on, the town was no nearer to learning what comprised the real Cyndi May Thurston.

At the end of her first solo week in Nashville, with time on her hands before her next booking, she returned home for a quiet visit. There were second and third removed relatives to see and the odd friend from school. With hindsight, she had probably left it too long. Now she was mere folklore – someone residents preferred to talk about rather than engage with. Right from the start it was clear things were about to bomb, and before long she saw the folly of trying to recreate the past. She had changed and so had those she came to visit. Maybe they resented the shoots of her success, saw her as a threat, likely to prick the bubble they lived in. Alternatively, always inclined to be a loner, it was possible they never liked her in the first place. For whatever reason her presence was a disaster. She saw that after a long-weekend of awkwardness, where what were once friends and acquaintances spent most of their time looking disconnected in her company. No fool, she was quick to accept the situation and stopped by at the diner before heading back south to Nashville, and her engagement that started the week after next.

Then, as with so many events in life, fortune intervened. In one of those coincidences that they write into rom-cons, no sooner had she blown the froth from her coffee than an on-leave Tom Levine, wearing a baseball cap, T-shirt and sneakers, sat down to join her.

And so, ironically, the one person she had no desire to see turned out to be the one person throughout her visit to seek her out. Cyndi was consoled by his approach. Although not in the least interested in striking up any kind of relationship with the man, his eagerness to see her offered closure on an episode that had bugged her for too long. He didn’t look quite so youthful these days. And, as she had observed last time she saw him, without his uniform he was like any number of drifters in a diner waiting to fire up whatever vehicle was waiting for them outside. She found his mumbled approach gratifying.

“Been a long time, Tom. What brings you here?”

“Here? Back home? Or to this table with you?”

“All of that.”

“I come home every now and then. Can’t say why; ain’t nothing here. Saw you and got to thinking, you know?”

“What? What did you get to thinking?”

“About how we never got a chance to know one another and that maybe we should of.”

“What brought this on?”

There was no time to answer as the waitress approached – the same waitress from, what, four, five years ago? Cyndi couldn’t be sure but felt she recognised the trashy hairstyle. She looked like she had a stake in the place, either that or she considered herself a permanent fixture. She had that kind of possessive swagger it takes years working somewhere to assume. Her attention was on Levine. “You all set to order?”

He asked for a regular coffee. The waitress still chewed gum (presumably a fresh stick from last time) as she scribbled a note on her pad. She leaned over so Sergeant Levine could peek at her cleavage if he had a mind to. “You sure that’s all you want?” She waited just long enough for her words to register. “You look more like a Bud man to me. You want a beer, just holler.”

Levine nodded and picked up a coaster to finger as she swept away.

An expressionless Cyndi let him return to his set topic. “So, how you been?”

“Okay.”

“You know, about that night at the Cooper’s place … I spent a long time thinking. I kinda got carried away. Thought you were enjoying yourself, you know?”

“What made you think that?”

“You did kinda ask for it, if you know what I mean.” He blurted the words out, then looked at her with nervous expectation.

“Sure, I know what you mean. That’s me; always asking for trouble and getting carried away.”

“I am sorry if I overdid it. I truly am.”

“I’ll take your word for it. Don’t give it a thought.”

“Maybe I can make it up to you.” He went on to mention something about the Crab and Lobster on Main Street.

Full marks for perseverance, she was thinking as she nodded non-committally. But it was too early to reveal her hand; there was some mileage in the conversation yet. Taking a sip of coffee, Cyndi offered one of her sweet smiles, something she had plenty of practice doing. In a public place, there was no chance of Levine repeating his performance in the summer house on that warm evening all those years ago. This time Cyndi was to assume the leading role, and to that end, she required a little more of the soldier’s time.

“It’s always nice to catch up. I travelled all the way here from Nashville, and you know what? When I got here, no one seemed that pleased to see me. Funny thing is, I guess you are the only person that’s been civil. Funny because we are both outsiders now; neither of us belong here anymore. Well, I sure know I don’t.” She paused to drain her coffee and to give him another of her encouraging looks. “So, it’s terrific to see a friendly face. At first I was surprised to find you still hanging around here. But then I got to thinking how I shouldn’t be. You didn’t mention it, Sergeant Levine … but I guess you are still a sergeant …” She waited for a contradiction. When none was forthcoming, she added: “Thought so! Funny how time has a habit of standing still for some folks. Like for you and that waitress that’s bringing your coffee over as we speak ...” She waited for her to place the pot down and watched as she fiddled with her hair and allowed her thigh to graze Sergeant Levine’s shoulder.

“As for me, why, I am no longer a silly little girl you can push around. I do a bit of singing in Nashville – you might have heard about it. I guess you could say I have moved on. Crazy how life turns around isn’t it?”

This time it was her turn to fix him with a stony stare while he squirmed in his seat, picking the bones out of what she had said.

She had the money for her coffee ready but she added a couple of bucks to it and threw the cash on the table. “Have the coffee on me,” she said, gathering her jacket from the back of the chair.

Mid-morning and the diner was almost empty. She swept towards the door, two men at the bar and the waitress watching her as she left.

Some might say it was a spiteful act to speak as she did. For Cyndi, it was a chance to savour a cold slice of apple-pie revenge in more ways than one.

Up to now her visit hadn’t given her much to smile about. But during its last minutes she could not help but feel a satisfying glow inside.