"Of course, of course I will."
"I've been so bad," she said. "I keep thinking of your little girl." She rose on her knees. Her face was lost and pleading. She reached down and undid her jeans. She pushed her jeans and underwear down over her hips and put her hands on his legs. She swallowed. "I know it's crazy." Her voice trembled. "Would you spank me, Oliver? Please?" He didn't say anything, and she placed herself across his lap. He felt foolish. He raised his hand and slapped her lightly. "Harder," she said. "Please." He slapped her harder and felt her sigh. She lifted and waited for the next blow. Soon she was whimpering and breathing harder, crying out when he struck. As he spanked her, the cries became more intense. He began to want them; he felt as though they were his—or theirs. When she collapsed, weeping, he stopped and lifted her from his knees. He stood and carried her to the bedroom. He lowered her to the bed and lay next to her, caressing her slowly.
Her face became calm. "So good to me," she said without opening her eyes. He took off his clothes and hovered over her. Her mouth was partly open, expectant. He couldn't think any more. He plunged down and into her. She quivered and took him, let him fuck her as hard as he wanted, arched under his bite, and held him while he made her his.
"Are you all right?" Oliver asked, ten minutes later.
"Does the Pope wear funny hats?"
"Suzanne?"
She rolled against him, her breasts soft on his upper arm. "Yes?"
"God, Suzanne. That was different." She put her hand on his chest and rubbed slow circles, the way she'd done when he'd had a headache. "I've been on the receiving end—a while back. But I never dished it out like that."
"How did it feel?"
"Kind of strange, at first. Then it felt good."