Confessions of a Kinky Wife - Page 48

‘You did what?’

‘I know, but I was bored. And you were getting drunk. I’d had too much Coke. And I only meant to have the one …’

‘Philippa, one is too many. You know how I feel about that. How many times have I told you about the fatal accidents I’ve had to attend, thanks to some twat thinking they’re cleverer than the drink-drive laws? Eh? I can’t believe you’d …’

‘I know, I know, I only meant to have one …’

‘That’s what they all say.’

‘Yeah, but I’m not getting in the car, am I? I’d never do that.’

‘Damn right you’re not. Jesus. I can’t believe you’d do this. I’m … right. OK. This is the perfect example of when I should …’ He paused and took a breath. ‘Bend over the bonnet.’

‘What? No!’

‘Do as you’re told, Philippa. I’m very disappointed in you tonight.’

I looked back at the lift door and took another desperate scan of the car park. It was deserted. And something in Dan’s eyes made me feel the impossibility of defying him.

‘What if someone comes?’ I asked in a very small voice.

‘Then I’ll stop. I’m only going to give you a taste of what’s to come. I want to sober up before I deal with this properly. But the book says punishment is more effective when it’s immediate. So … please …’

I could hardly believe I was going along with this, but I turned away from him and rested my elbows on the dusty bonnet of the car. It needed a wash, I thought irrelevantly. I traced a pattern in the dust, thinking of the filthy white van that used to be parked up our road in the grime of which some knob had written, ‘I wish my wife was as dirty as this.’

I yelped out a plea when he lifted up my skirt to reveal my knickers.

‘Must you? This is a public place.’

‘If you can’t do the time, love, don’t do the crime,’ he advised.

I felt the cool air of the basement chamber settle on my thighs and the exposed parts of my bottom. It combined with the slight wine haze to form a sensual cocktail that was much more sexy than I expected it to be.

Suddenly, I was looking forward to the first stroke.

Until it landed, loud and sharp, on my poor bum. My knickers were no protection at all, pathetic stretch lace numbers that served only to hold the sting in and increase the heat.

‘Don’t,’ said Dan, smacking a second time.

‘Drink.’

‘Ow!’

‘And.’

‘Stop it.’

‘Drive.’

‘I didn’t!’

‘Unrepentant?’ he asked dangerously.

‘No, I’m sorry. I wish I hadn’t had the wine.’

‘Just.’

‘Argh!’

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