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All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design: Willsin Rowe
Hot To Trot © January 2011 Barrie Abalard
eXcessica publishing
All rights reserved
Hot To Trot
By Barrie Abalard
Prologue
When he brought his head closer to hers, he whispered, “Do you know what I’m going to do to you later?”
He noted the goose bumps on her bare arms. His erection strained against his charcoal flannel trousers as he reached for her hand.
“What?” she said, lowering her gaze until he said, “First, you’ll strip for me.”
“Umm.” Her eyes widened.
“After you’re naked, I’ll use those black stockings of yours to tie your wrists to the bed. Face up. I’ll do the same with your ankles. You’ll be spread-eagled, helpless, and waiting for me to—”
He stopped, drank a little wine. So did she. He wondered if she was getting just as turned on as he was. He continued.
“I plan to suck your nipples until they’re so hard, they ache. Then I’ll move my mouth lower. You’ll be under strict orders not to come.”
He leaned forward, their faces now only inches apart. “Though I’ll make it damned difficult for you to obey.”
“Suppose I can’t help it?” she whispered.
They each took another sip before he replied. “In that case, I’ll be forced to punish you.”
His wife shivered. “How?”
“You know my flat-backed wooden hairbrush?”
Her mouth formed an "O" for a moment before she swallowed visibly. “The brush. Damn, that’ll smart.”
He wanted to throw down cash for the meal they wouldn’t eat and carry her home so that he could ravish her. Screw the tease—his cock was about to burst. “Of course it will hurt, and, because it will, I’ll have to tie you, butt-up, to use the brush. And once I’ve reddened your bottom sufficiently—“ He stopped, waiting for her to ask. He didn’t have to wait long.
“Yes?” she replied, panting a little.
“Let’s just say I’m going to enjoy a part of you that I’ve never taken before. You’ve been hinting you’d like to be…possessed back there. Or am I wrong?”
She quickly drained her glass, then said, “You’re absolutely correct, sir.”
“I like the ‘sir.’ Keep it.” He poured a fresh glass of burgundy, touching his glass to hers. “To a fresh start, ’Cakes. Happy third anniversary.”
“Right back at you, Dyl.” Leaning toward him again, she murmured, “I’m almost ready to come, just hearing about your plans for my backside. You know how much spanking turns me on. And the thought of you slipping into my back door—well, my panties are soaked.”
He caressed her palm with a finger, knowing that doing so heightened her arousal. She bit her lip, whimpering.
“Of course, I’ll take plenty of time to ensure that you are ready for me. I want you to enjoy being ‘possessed,’” he said.
Her eyes became cloudy. “This is it, Dyl? No more fooling around on your part? A real fresh start?”
“Sugar,” he said, “there’s only one woman’s back door I want to open, and it’s yours.”
Her cheeks lit with fire. She bit her lip again before speaking. “Do we have to stay for dinner?”
“My thoughts exactly.” He looked around for the waiter in order to get the bill, only to see Tiffany instead.
Tiffany? Whatthefuck?
She was standing at the entrance to the dining room, and she was frowning at him.
He shook his head once, slightly, hoping she’d take the hint. Instead, she slapped her hands on her hips and raised her eyebrows at him.
I told her it was over. Why is she here?
He glanced at his wife. Her face was red, but not from lust. He watched a full glass of ruby liquid fly through the air, splashing his face, his shirt, his brand-new suit.
“So much for a fresh start,” she spat, emptying the rest of the wine in the bottle on his head. “Don’t bother coming home tonight. I’ll have the doors barricaded. And don’t call me. My lawyer will call your lawyer. Anything you have to say to me can be filtered through her.”
“But…” he sputtered. “You don’t have a lawyer.”
“I will by tomorrow night,” she said, her tone no-nonsense.
He watched her walk away. His wife paused when she reached Tiffany, as if she might spit on her. But she didn’t. She simply shook her head before moving on.
Tiffany was heading toward him now, but he saw only his wife, walking away from him. The wife he loved and had so foolishly lost because of his wandering eye. He admitted he deserved every drop of wine, every smidgen of humiliation. But even so, he’d never wanted to spank—and fuck—Patti so much in all his life as he did in that moment.
And, thanks to his damned wandering ways, his chance to spank and fuck her had vanished forever.
Chapter One
I didn’t mean to lie on my job application.
I’m Patricia North, and I write documentation for the Boston software industry. Because I was unemployed, I was sitting in one of DD Technology’s conference rooms, being grilled by two fellow technical writers.
Then, the conference room door opened and he looked inside. Who? My ex-husband, Dylan Decker. Seeing him for the first time in five years shocked me silent. I’d heard that he was somehow affiliated with the company, but seeing as how we’d parted on very bad terms, I didn’t investigate his affiliation any further.
He cast his usual spell on my female interviewers. One was older than me, one younger, but both melted as soon as they laid eyes on his chiseled build, his sexy smile, and, when he stepped into the room, his tight butt. I hadn’t forgotten that he filled out his pants nicely, thank you.
The problem was, he never forgot it, either. That’s what had landed us in divorce court.
I sat there, a bit appalled to see Bonita and Betty giggle like lust-struck teenagers. “Why, Dylan, what brings you by?” Bonita patted her curls and stuck out her chest, emphasizing her biggest charm. Not that she was large enough for the Deckerhead. As I recalled, you had to be at least a C-cup for this good ol’ boy.
At least I’m successful in that department. I straightened my back, the better to highlight my own assets.
“Dylan, how are you?” Betty, the older one, never lifted her gaze to his face, focusing all her attention on his jeans, or rather, what was in them. Dylan never needed to stuff his pants to look impressive. “We must rate pretty highly, to get a visit from a company founder,” she cooed.
Oh my God, Dylan founded the company? I was feeling stupider by the minute. I knew I should have looked into exactly what his “affiliation” was.
He preened under their verbal petting, and I swear I saw his head swell. The head that contained his brain, not the one in his pants. Although, when we were together, he always did a lot of so-called thinking with the other, smaller head.
“Betty, how are you doing? Bonita, will you be in the meeting for the RTW project at two?” He flashed his smile again, peering seductively over the tops of his trendy, narrowly-rectangular eyeglasses.
Both the women nearly drooled while I sat there, stunned, wondering if he’d recognize me. That’s when I realized I had lied on my job application. I’d checked the “No” box next to the question, “Do you know anyone who works for DD Technology?” And I’d known that Dylan had some connection to them. Boy, when I make a mistake, I do it up right.
“Either of you seen Harry?” The real reason Dylan had stopped by became apparent.
“Not me,” Betty said.
Both women batted their eyelashes so furiously you could’ve caught a cold from the breeze. Dylan smiled. With a, “See y’all,” he closed the door.
He hadn’t even noticed me. I didn’t know whether to be pleased or disappointed. Maybe I wasn’t sexy enough for him any more. Or young enough.
That was a sobering thought. Better not go there.
Both Betty and Bonita turned to me, sighing.
“Those green eyes!” Betty said.
“That black hair!” Bonita gushed.
“That…body!” Betty blushed and rubbed the finger where a wedding band could have been.
“Isn’t he cute?” they chorused.
I had to come clean. “Betty, Bonita,” I began, “I made a teensy little mistake on my job application…”
After fixing the mistake—not that anyone at the company would have known, with me using my maiden name since the divorce—and interviewing for three more hours, I drove home in rush-hour traffic. One thing traffic’s good for is fantasies, and things were so snarled I had time for several arousing scenarios involving my ex. Whether I wanted him in my thoughts or not, he seemed to be super-glued in them.
Damn, I wished I’d ordered that cute little “commuter vibrator” I’d seen advertised from my favorite sex toy web site. Then I might have actually looked forward to sitting in traffic on Route 128, the toy buzzing merrily inside me.
Dylan Decker. Five years later, and, even angry with him, I still wanted him to answer my booty call. I shook my head but couldn’t dislodge the images playing in my mind. His crooked nose, courtesy of a nasty fist fight, was only slightly less appealing than his natural-born crooked smile. His thick, black hair was such that women couldn’t resist touching it. Then there were his piercing, sea-green eyes. Eyes that always made me feel like a naughty girl.
Mr. Decker adores naughty girls.
My wicked thoughts forced me to recall my desire to be soundly spanked by Dylan, the way he used to, not to mention my still-unfulfilled desire for sizzling, sweaty, backdoor sex that would blow off the top of my head.
If it weren’t for his cheating ways, that last fantasy might have been fulfilled the night of our third wedding anniversary. I mean, you really have to know—and trust—a man to allow him to tie you up and take you anally. For all my seeming bravado, I’m chicken when it comes to revealing my more colorful desires. I’m the woman who couldn’t manage to order a vibrator to use in traffic, even though no one else would ever know about it. Well, other than the order clerk.
Thinking about Dylan had me wriggling in my seat, entertaining X-rated thoughts about the car’s stick shift. I know, pathetic, isn’t it? I thought about how I might convince my almost-boyfriend, Richard Whiting, to come home with me that night after our trail ride. It had been such a long time since Dylan, a time of fixer-uppers and casual disasters I laughingly called dates. I’d experienced two halfhearted relationships, and a couple of one-nighters with Mr. Wrong and his twin brother, but no one had been in my life or heart since the divorce. Richard would be the first since Dylan, if everything worked out as I hoped.
I arrived home and flipped through my mail, wincing to see more bills. Tech writing jobs had been scarce around the Boston area since the financial crash, and I hadn’t worked in seven freaking months. I needed a steady income to continue living in my modest five-room ranch west of the city. Truth be told, I’d live in a cardboard box as long as I could keep my horse, Flash. Horses are money pits, and I wasn’t exactly born with a silver spoon. Mine was more like a tin one filled with moonshine.
I flopped on the couch, taking time to pet my calico kitty, Sweetums. She assumed the position that permitted maximum access for her belly rub while I mulled over my situation. With a bachelor’s in technical writing and eight years experience in the business, I hadn’t expected to be grilled as if I were applying for double-secret security clearance at the CIA. I pondered whether I wanted to work at a company where my ex was one of the top executives. But money wasn’t occupying my thoughts as much as it should have.
Instead, men and sex were.
After giving Sweetums a final pat, I changed into my barn clothes, nuked and gulped down a Lean Cuisine, then headed out to see Flash and Richard. After months of teasing, I prayed he’d finally take me on a real date. I needed distraction from the ex-husband I’d discovered I still wanted.
Well, that wasn’t quite accurate. My body still wanted him. My heart said, you gotta be kidding.
I couldn’t help recalling our college days, him at Georgia Tech and me at Northeastern in Boston, and how we’d never had sex often enough, except for the phone kind. We married once we both graduated and, as the Boston area hummed with job opportunities, he moved to be with me.
The first year, I’d been deliriously happy. The second year, we fought more, and he started coming home smelling of perfume. The third year, I nearly left him—until he convinced me we could make a fresh start. Our third anniversary was supposed to be it. Then Tiffany showed up, and I was outta there.
Since then, I’d tried hard not to know who he was sleeping with, other than Tiffany. I used to hear rumors, though, from my so-called friends. I suspect half of them have slept with him.
As I turned into the driveway leading to the barn, I wondered if he ever took up riding, the way I finally did. We both grew up in northern Georgia. In our families, asking for something as extravagant as riding lessons would have been met by hysterical laughter, or maybe even a session in the woodshed for showing impertinence.
I unfolded my five-nine body out of the Miata I’d bought to salve my ego after the divorce. It was a bit too small for my height, but men looked at me when I drove that little black car, and I liked it when men looked at me. At my age, the looks didn’t come as often as they used to. Being over thirty sucks.
Richard was leading BlackJack, his dark bay ex-racehorse, into the barn adjacent to the indoor ring. I savored the man’s trim body and dark good looks. He could easily play an upper-class hero in a Jane Austen novel.
Richard had come into my life when he moved his horse to the same barn where I kept Flash. He taught riding, though he wasn’t my instructor. I trained with an older woman who had patience to burn with awkward adult beginners, like me.
Richard and I rode together sometimes, joking, chatting, making out once or twice in the tack room. He was probably the only man besides Dylan that I would let into my bed on the first date. If we ever managed to have a date.
Twice, Richard had hinted that he’d spank me, if I pushed him far enough. I wanted to keep pushing him to discover whether he was all talk, because I craved a man who would take control. Dylan had controlled me sexually and spanked me, to our mutual satisfaction, but it had been mostly for fun, not real discipline.
Of course, Dylan deserved to be horsewhipped for the way he cheated on me. My behavioral misdemeanors weren’t even in the same order of magnitude, although I suspected he’d take my discipline for them seriously. If he were my disciplinarian, I mean.
I hurried to retrieve Flash, my draft crossbreed, a pleasing mix of Percheron and Quarter Horse. Tonight was one of my nights to ride him. I shared his ownership with another woman, Roberta Aucoin, in order to cut expenses. Flash, an enormous white horse with the cutest feathery fetlocks (like the Clydesdales’ feet in the beer commercials), had the sweetest disposition ever. However, the person who named him Flash had a sense of humor, because the name Old Joe suited him better. Not that he wouldn’t run—he loved to—but he looked like he wouldn’t. His hooves were the size of dinner plates.
I’d owned him only a short while, but I’d already fallen madly in love with him. Flash reminded me of all those farm horses I used to ride bareback whenever I could trade mucking out the stalls of my childhood neighbors for a ride on the horses. The horses had been so big that wrapping my legs around their sides had been impossible—I needed to rely on balance to stay aboard. And that balance came in handy once I began riding Dylan, who bucked when he fucked like the wildest stallion around.
I led Flash into the grooming stall opposite Richard and BlackJack. As usual, Richard was way ahead of me in the process—as the more advanced rider, he always completed his chores faster. Also, as usual, I was grateful I owned a sweet horse like Flash and not one like his Jack, who enjoyed nipping every chance he got. Jack bit my thigh once, and let me tell you, horse bites hurt. I remained wary of “Satan,” which was what Richard called Jack when the horse acted evilly.
“Hey, North.” Richard, laconic as usual, nodded to me. I watched him saddle the horse, pondering my life and desires further.
Because I worked with bossy, testosterone-filled, über-geeks who alternately patronized and pursued me, I needed to control my presence in the work world. But behind closed doors I needed to abandon my control-freak urges. In other words, I craved a real man, one who would protect, cherish, and yes, correct me. I thought I’d had such a man with Dylan, but his adulterous ways had broken my heart.
I strengthened my resolve to make a move on Richard later in the evening. Tonight had to be the night, if only because I desperately needed sexual distraction—seeing Dylan had made me damned horny. For the moment, though, I’d simply chat. “I interviewed for a job today. I think it’s pretty promising.”
He shrugged. “Let’s talk about it later.”
“Is something wrong?” His seeming indifference bugged me.
“No. I just want to get outside before the sun goes down.”
What he said made sense, but I felt a little annoyed all the same. Lately, Richard seemed withdrawn, and I wondered why. My impatience bubbled up, stoking my pissed-off state. An inability to wait for the right moment had started way too many arguments in the past. I knew it wouldn’t do any good to ask him directly—I’d just have to wait and see.
We finished the workout portion of our rides an hour later. Richard had practiced some fancy dressage moves in one outdoor ring, while I cantered Flash over some two-foot fences in another. My first big horse show was coming up, and I needed all the drilling I could get. Flash was fine—I was the idiot, losing my balance three times but somehow hanging on. After that, we gave the horses a breather by heading out for a brief trail ride.
“Now, Patti, what’s your news?” he asked, wiping a bit of sweat from his forehead.
“I interviewed at DD Technology today. I hope they offer me a job.”
“Sounds great.” He peered over at me. “But you don’t seem happy. What’s the problem?”
“I don’t know if it’s a problem, but my ex-husband works there. He’s one of the founders. Maybe it wouldn’t be a good idea to take the job.”
Richard pulled Jack up short. “Patti, I can’t believe you would turn a wonderful opportunity into a problem. Don’t you need a job? And the money?”
“Yes. And it’s a good job.” I gazed into the distance, frustrated by his not understanding that working for my ex might cause complications.
“So, if they offer it, take it. Always go for the money. That’s what I do.”
I said nothing. Richard sighed. I’d heard him exhale like this before, when he was training a clumsy rider. Not a happy sound. I pursed my lips.
“What’s wrong now?” he asked.
“You seem so distant lately. I thought you were my friend.”
“Stop your pouting this instant. You know I can’t stand it.”
I stuck my lower lip out farther, hoping for a certain response. “What are you going to do about it?”
“I’m not in the mood to play games tonight.” Frowning, he slapped at a bug.
Damn, I’d almost blown it. I stopped my pouting and shot him a sultry look. “How about some dinner together after we finish at the barn?”
“Okay. Do you need advice or something?”
Oh, yes, I need some “or something,” Richard. More than you know.
I nodded.
“If we’re going out, we’d better turn back. I’m teaching an early lesson tomorrow.”
My mood lightened considerably when we returned to the barn. I finally had an opportunity to get close to Richard and make my desires known. That is, if my lily-livered soul could pull it off.
Forty-five minutes later, chores done and horses put away for the night, I primped in front of the tarnished tack room mirror, waiting for Richard. He called me from the hayloft. “Patti, come on up here so I can show you something.”
My hopes rose when I thought of what he might want to show me. The barn’s owners tended to look the other way when boarders used the loft for more than just storage of horse bedding and feed. I climbed the ladder and hurried over to the farthest corner of the loft, where Richard was sitting on a bale of straw. I stood in front of him, hands clasped behind my back, and batted my eyes in a come-hither manner. At least, I hoped it looked that way, and not like I had a speck in my eye. My flirting was rusty.
“Here, sit next to me,” was all he said. I did as I was told and turned to him, blood rushing through my worked-up body. I closed my eyes and waited. Taking the hint, he enveloped me in his arms, his lips covering mine, his tongue demanding entrance, which I gladly yielded. Thrills of heat rippled through me as he teased and probed.
His hands wound themselves in my hair, then slid down my neck, my shoulders, and my back, pulling me to him. When he pressed his muscular body to mine, I moaned. When he drew away, I clutched at him. Years of nothing but mediocre sex will do that to a woman.
“That was nice, but I thought we were only friends,” he breathed into my ear. Despite Richard’s words, his hand began a sneaky insinuation under the bottom edge of my sweater. His warm fingertips brushing the skin of my stomach made me shiver.
“We are friends. Can’t we be more, though?” I asked as his fingers snaked toward the bottom edge of my bra.
“If that’s what you want.” He gently pushed me back, his hands seeming to be everywhere at once. His lips wandered down my neck, then back up to my earlobe. I didn’t notice he’d unhooked my bra until his mouth landed hotly on one breast.
Sweet Jesus! He suckled, firmly latched, while the tip of his tongue teased my nipple. Just the way Dylan used to do. When he wandered to the other breast, his tongue and lips left a trail of fire. Excitement rocketed through me.
My breathing quickened, and the fresh smell of hay filled my senses as I pulled back, causing his tugging on my nipple to grow stronger. He bit the nipple sharply three times. I squirmed with the delicious sting as if his hands were in my pants.
Which, shortly, they were.
“You’re a naughty girl, you know that?” He breathed in my ear as he began to unsnap my jeans. He pushed them down, pulled me toward him, and slapped my butt twice. It stung so nicely.
“Ooo,” I said. “Is that for pouting?”
His middle finger invaded me, his thumb teasing my wet little clit. “You like being spanked, huh?” he asked while I cried out, moving my hips in time with his fingers. Flipping me partly on my stomach, he smacked my bottom, harder than Dylan had ever spanked me with his hand. After five wallops, I was desperate to rub away the sting. I complained, “Stop, it hurts, it hurts.”
“In that case,” he muttered. I opened one eye and noticed he’d produced a condom. My first glimpse of his cock proved he wasn’t hung in the manner I preferred—thick—but hey, he would do. The straw chafed my smarting sitting area when he turned me over and pressed me onto my back.
Disappointment washed through me when I realized he was donning the condom. Although I was wild to screw, I wasn’t ready, not even close. He’d barely touched me between my legs and, as much as I wanted to be thoroughly fucked, a quickie in the hay loft didn’t appeal. Call me a romantic, but I desired a long, slow ride some place private, with at least one orgasm. I had high expectations for my first time with Richard. Difficult as it was, I stopped him as he hovered above me and looked him in the eye.