Repercussions

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When she feels the weight of his gaze on her, she shivers slightly.

For a few minutes, she keeps her own carefully on her computer screen, and doesn't acknowledge that she's intensely aware of him: his eyes, narrowed just a little bit; his smile, barely that, but just a little quirk at the corners of his mouth; the slight movement as he leans forward just a little over his desk for a closer look.

It can be little more than a silly formality, this attempt of hers to fool him into believing that she is not watching him from the corner of her eye; both know that he can have her full attention with the slightest indication that he might want it.

After a time, after she has not noticed him for long enough to satisfy the requirements of propriety and of her own pride, she looks up and blinks to clear her eyes of the haze of long hours poring over work, coupled with the dim light of the room’s few lamps and what moonlight and streetlight can filter in through the curtains drawn over the window at one end of the room.

“It occurs to me,” he says after a long moment, in response to the question in her eyes, “that we have yet to settle the matter of your recent…misbehavoiur.”

He rubs one wrist absently, leaning back slightly in his chair and eyeing her sternly. She saves several hours of progress, hopes he doesn’t notice she hasn’t saved in hours, and shuts her laptop with a snap. Then she carefully pushes it off to the side of the table, and looks up at him indifferently.

“Are you still angry about that?” she asks, tensing against a slight shudder down the back of her neck.

“Not angry, as such,” he replies slowly and thoughtfully, rising from his chair, moving around his desk, and around behind the low couch that she has been seated on for the past several hours of loose ends before the week is allowed to end. “But I would like to keep that incident from repeating itself.”

She peeks up at him over her shoulder, trying, as she has been since that night, to fight back the sour taste of shame at the back of her throat for doing something so blatantly stupid.

“Did you really have such an aversion to being tied up and jumped by a reasonably pretty girl?” She tries to ignore a whisper at the back of her mind: 'Of course he did; what did you think? The only thing he – or anyone – likes about you is that you’re quiet and biddable. And how ‘biddable’ is it to bore him to tears with your pathetic attempts at being seductive?' Choking back absurdly timed tears at this thought, she plasters on a smile that would look horribly artificial but for all the practice she’s had at smiling when she doesn’t mean it. “You know, they have a whole list of special names for men who do.”

The next second, she yelps, startled, as his hand tangles in her hair and tugs down roughly. His other hand rests comfortably at the curve of her neck, one finger drifting lightly over the hollow at the base of her throat. A reminder, she knows, not to push too far, because although the whisper-soft touch is making it difficult to hold back a sigh of pleasure just now, it would take very little effort to turn it to a choking gasp of pain.

“Don’t finish that,” he commands, leaning in slightly until he is staring her in the eye – the slight sheen of tears does not escape his notice, and he wonders absently at it, because he knows he isn’t pulling hard enough to really hurt her.

She does anyway; disregards his warning and, smiling up at him sweetly, lists every particularly crude term she has ever heard, in all her years of public schooling and friends who watched too much television, for a boy who kisses boys.

Even as he yanks on her hair, dragging her to her feet, she thinks she might still be listing nasty names. But she isn’t sure – she might just be yowling for him to stop pulling her hair like a mean little schoolyard bully. It hurts only slightly less when he grips her arm and drags her about to face him and then pulls her toward him.

Her knees collide with the edge of the couch and she stumbles, landing on her knees and bouncing slightly on the cushions. She shifts awkwardly, trying not to think about how silly she must look, with her feet dangling off the edge, slippers about to fall off.

“My dear, why on earth would you give me more reason to be angry?” he asks, voice soft with amusement but with something beneath it like steel, something that echoes the hint of warning in his expression

He lifts her chin until she is meeting his gaze again, and the lift in his eyebrow makes it clear that this is not a rhetorical question.

But she doesn’t reply, thinks that she probably couldn’t reply if she wanted to; instead, she stares at him wide-eyed, breath coming in short, shallow little puffs that strike warmly against the side of his hand as he cups her cheek. His expression softens into a smile that is nearly gentle.

Running one finger lightly down her cheek already warmly flushed, he enjoys this small victory. It is not so easy as it used to be to strip away her composure.

She exhales softly as he cups her cheek, and leans almost unconsciously into his touch.

When he leans in closer, and his mouth brushes against her temple, she thinks that maybe she was wrong about what sort of night this will be; maybe he’ll kiss her and hold her like a lover and – almost – an equal, instead of giving commands and assuming compliance because she's not allowed to refuse anyway.

And maybe, she thinks, with a noise caught somewhere between a sigh and a purr as his lips burn at the soft skin behind her ear and her hands tighten over his wrist where he is brushing feather-light caresses over her breast, she likes this best after all.

“And now, about your punishment,” he murmurs, the hand at her cheek drifting down over the back of her neck, his fingers stroking lightly through the short, downy hair.

She has the unpleasant sensation of being jolted from a particularly lovely dream, and pulls away, pouting.

"Do we have to do that now?" she asks, and the tenderness lighting his eyes, taken in combination with the undeniable fact that she's always tended to wake up in a bad mood, lends her the bravado to throw a touch of grumpiness into her voice.

He pulls back, and his eyes grow teasing as he smoothes her hair back into place.

“Do you really think you'll enjoy it any more later?"

With a sigh and an expression that verges on sour - he takes immediate note and adds it to the list - she shakes her head. But her agreement with his logic is really beside the point, because he is already helping her to her feet, extending a hand to steady her as she climbs carefully backwards off the couch.

When he leads her across the room to his desk with one hand at the small of her back, she blinks, surprised. Is he going to produce that ridiculous frilly apron and have her polish the surface wearing nothing else?

If he does, will he at least remember to lock the door this time?

Not that she'd put it past him to forget on purpose; she discovered long ago that he possessed very much a 'do as I say, not as I do' approach when he impressed upon her the importance of keeping their closer-than-strictly-professional relationship discreet.

Anything more than a respectful nod and a brief - very brief - smile from her was too demonstrative for the workplace, yet somehow it remained perfectly within the realm of an appropriate professional relationship to have her skipping around his office half naked, bright red beneath the startled gazes of anyone who happened to wander in for a chat.

Men and their bloody double-standards.

He releases her, and she tries not to fidget nervously when he begins to rummage through the drawers of the heavy, ornately carved and immaculately polished desk. She thinks idly that she could probably find whatever it is that he’s looking for much sooner – after all, she reorganized everything for him not long ago. But just as she makes up her mind to offer, he straightens up.

“Bend over the surface of the desk, please, and pull up your skirt.”

She stares at him blankly.

“Excuse me?”

He looks as though he wants to laugh.

“I’m sure you heard me the first time.”

Hesitantly, she moves to obey, bracing herself against the cool, polished wood surface, and keeping one eye carefully on him.

And now his hand is closing roughly over the back of her neck, and she's muffling a startled squeak of pain as her forehead connects painfully with the wood.

“Eyes down, please,” he requests gently, stroking her hair back into place where he has mussed it, apparently untroubled by her vicious glare up at him.

After a moment, with a sigh of defeat, she fastens her gaze on the table surface, melting into a dark blur from close proximity.

What on earth is he looking for? And furthermore, why on earth does he have to look for it here? What could possibly be wrong with waiting the twenty, maybe thirty minutes it would take to commute to one of their flats instead of bending her over his desk, where anyone foolish enough to still be here at nine in the evening might be treated to the sight of her

Just goes to show, she thinks, a little smug in spite of her annoyance, that she must have thrown him off guard, if he's going to this much effort to return the favour. He knows how she hates it when he does this at work, listened and gravely acknowledged her concerns that hopping into his bed was part of her job description, and she was easily replaceable, both as an employee and a lover. He had assured her at the time, and many more times since, that she was far from replaceable in either context, but that he understood her discomfort, and would endeavour to keep professional and personal relationships from blurring together wherever he could.

And he's not in the habit of doing things she hates this much unless he's trying to make a point.

And finally, he's not in the habit of making points unless something has seriously disturbed him. Particularly, finding his biddable little female well able to seize control by force when she wants to.

But that still doesn't explain what he's rummaging for, knocking things about until she's going to have to spend another hour reorganizing his desk again.

She is in the process of trying to figure this out through careful reflection upon the little hints of his words and behaviour – he’s so entirely methodical that he’s easy to figure out if she pays enough attention – when her train of thought is derailed, and sent flaming into a hillside at the sensation of his hand sliding up the back of her leg and under the waistband of her nylons and knickers.

He pulls the flimsy material down to the backs of her knees, and she and shivers as he traces the curve of her bottom lightly with one finger.

When the first line of stinging, white-hot pain flashes across her bottom, it takes her several seconds to realize that the yelp of pain that fills the air came out of her, or that it has melted into a breathless, pleading moan. She is dimly aware of pushing back against his hand when he runs it soothingly down the backs of her thighs, and of her protesting noises when the caress stops abruptly.

A brief, sharp whistling sound that she missed the first time fills the air, and the next instant, she buries her face against her arm to muffle another noise of pain.

“My dear, I believe we can do without the dramatics,” he laughs gently from behind her. “I know exactly how hard that was, and it was not hard enough to warrant this sort of outcry.”

“Maybe we should put you on the receiving end, and see just how much it hurts then,” she shoots back, peering over her shoulder in attempt to get a glimpse of what exactly he is hitting her with.

Whatever it is, it stings like hell.

When his eyes catch hers on him, he smiles, and strokes her cheek softly, brushing her bangs almost tenderly from her eyes.

“As I told you before, you aren't going to have another opportunity for that kind of silliness.”

Another swat, just as the pain from the first two has begun to fade into a pleasant warmth across her backside that almost makes her arch into the third as a caress.

By the ninth or tenth, he is striking harder, and she thinks he must know that she is numbing with each blow, must know exactly what her limits are from all the practice they’ve had together, and adjusting his force accordingly. After all, it’s no fun if she can’t feel it, right?

And he knows exactly how much harder to hit, to make it hurt just enough that she wishes it would stop, but doesn’t.

The blunt-edged unyielding length of whatever it is that he’s using – she’s fairly certain it’s that wooden ruler he keeps on his desk but rarely uses for anything – is biting almost cruelly into the tender skin.

Nevertheless, she is trying desperately to muffle a series of pleading gasps and moans against her arm, and squirming a little against the surface of his desk. She can feel herself growing gradually wetter, can feel her arousal coating the tops of her thighs, and she wonders if he has noticed. Probably. These sorts of things don’t escape him anymore than anything else.

She might be able to keep a tighter hold on composure if he would only stop talking to her, reminding her of exactly what he's punishing her for. But his voice brushes almost continuously against her ear, vivid descriptions of what he had wished to do to her wrapping around her and making the ache of need almost unbearable.

Furtively, she slides the hand that is holding up her skirt carefully around and in front of her, praying that he won’t notice – or maybe that he will notice and deem further punishment to be necessary – as she strokes through her own wetness and seeks out the bundle of nerves buried there.

As he continues to rain down quick, sharp swats, she finds herself being pushed forward ever so slightly with each one, bringing her fingers into firm, delicious contact with the most exquisitely sensitive part of her, and before long, she is moaning helplessly into the surface of his desk.

Although she can't see him, he is watching in fond and gentle amusement, a strange flicker in his eyes that suggests something entirely different and might have something to do with the urging of his own body to flip her over and hold her down and take her, because even though he loves hearing her make these sounds and seeing her so completely unreserved and in the middle of utterly, utterly losing it, it's playing havoc with his self-control to watch her.

He allows himself the small pleasure of sliding one hand over her bottom, between her thighs, and exploring her deeply as she shudders hotly around his fingers; drawing out her release with quick, sure strokes.

When she stills and expels a shaky breath, he leans over her, grips her shoulder tightly and turns her slightly to face him. He wipes his fingers, still damp, across one cheek flushed brightly with excitement and embarrassment in equal parts.

“Wendy. Did I give you permission?”

She draws in a shaky breath, and moves to wipe off her cheek. He stops her with a tight grip on her wrist, lifting one eyebrow slightly to indicate that he's waiting for an answer.

“No,” she finally says, almost a sigh more than a word.

“Ah. I'm glad you agree, and my memory isn't simply failing.” He chuckles softly. "Now, it seems to me that you're enjoying this far too much."

She shifts uncomfortably against the desk. Enjoying, maybe, but that doesn’t mean that her backside isn’t burning painfully, or that the fabric of her skirt isn’t rubbing against what she suspects are going to remain noticeable marks for several days.

Or that she isn’t going to have to have the bloody thing dry-cleaned. Hell of a time she’ll have, explaining this to the kindly old man she takes her things to.

“What are you going to do?” she finally asks, and he doesn't know whether to frown or laugh at her slight smile, eyes cloudy and lips slightly parted in anticipation.

"Wouldn't you rather wait and find out for yourself?" he asks, gentle and nearly playful.

"No," she pouts, and this time he does frown.

Almost before she realizes that he is going to grab her, she finds herself pushed face-down onto the desk again.

"Try to recall who you're speaking to," he tells her, far less gently, amid more sounds of rummaging.

Bloody hell. She'll definitely have to reorganize again after this.

When she tries to pull back from the smooth, varnished surface, still warm from her quick frantic breaths and quick frantic movements, she feels him lean over her from behind, his weight resting heavily on her, one hand effortlessly closing over both of her wrists and pinning them tightly against the desk surface, above her head.

“M-Mr. Carpenter?” she calls hesitantly, her voice shaking slightly as her pulse races madly at the soft, almost inaudible sound of a zipper rasping open behind her.

“Yes?” he asks in a voice that is pleasant if a little strained, sliding her skirt up around her waist again, and then grasping her hip with his free hand and pulling her back more tightly against him.

She tries and fails utterly to suppress a breathless moan at the feel of his length, hot and hard and smooth against her thigh as he moves against her, stroking through her slickness lightly and teasingly. He laughs softly and breathlessly as she wriggles back against him, pleading without words for him to move this along, and quickly.

Instead, he pulls back slightly and presses closely against her backside, seeking out the tighter passage. She freezes, barely breathing, and makes a noise of deep protest as he pulls away.

He laughs, dropping a brief kiss at the top of her head.

"Be patient, my dear."

She can faintly hear the sound of a jar snapping open, and a soft sound as he replaces it on the desk. She fidgets impatiently, and seconds later, gives a startled, breathless moan as his fingers, slick with lubricant, slip into her. He shakes his head fondly as she wriggles back against his hand, and pats her bottom gently before pulling away and gripping her hips.

The head of his length presses against her again, and with a long, throaty purr, she pushes back against him as he applies a gentle, steady pressure.

But soon enough, gentleness falls to the wayside, as it tends to with him just as soon as she's come to expect it.

And when his hips grind roughly against the bruised and aching skin of her backside, it's just a shade short of excruciating. She notices dimly the texture of cloth against the backs of her thighs, and is horrified and humiliated in a detached sort of way that he could even be bothered to disrobe that little bit.

But these things soon fade before the sensation of his breath, hot and rapid, against the back of her neck and stirring her hair; of his voice in her ear, not whispering love, but something close enough that she knows means the same thing anyway; of the exquisite, electric fullness when he thrusts back into her in hard, fast strokes, because from the sounds she's making, there's no need to hold back.

And finally, when she feels that she needs to give herself just that extra little push over the edge or go mad, she tries to bring her hand down, to bury her fingers in the source of that pulsing ache. His laugh against the side of her neck is short and rough as he tightens his grip over her wrists.

Almost as soon as he laughs, the sound melts into something between a groan and a sigh, and she feels him flood her with heat, and collapse briefly on top of her.

But only briefly.

Soon, and far sooner than she would strictly like, he pulls off of her and helps her stand.

She stares in bewilderment and dismay as he instructs her to go and clean up, and then hurry back, ready to work.

It’s not over, is it?! He couldn’t be so mean!

As though following her train of thought, he smiles with deceptive gentleness, and presses a light kiss to her forehead.

“Didn’t manage to finish that time, did you, dear?”

She blushes brightly, scrambling to pull herself together, and shakes her head.

His smile widens.

“And that,” he says, very kindly, brushing her hair from her eyes and smoothing down her skirt, “is the punishment.”

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End Notes: So, let me know if my pairing tags aren't showing up. I think that might be happening to me lately, with the way I'm apparently tricking people into reading a pairing they hate. ;)