Ménage by Carolyn Faulkner

Part Une
    ’mere and sit on my lap, bare-bottom girl.”
    “C Finally, I heard those low, soft words from
    behind me that set me free. My hands unclenched
    from atop my head, and I drew a sharp breath from the pain in my shoulders as I dropped my arms to my sides on the way to that welcoming embrace.
    Brian always smelled wonderful to me – except when he
    was sweaty from a run. Settling myself comfortably on my side with my aforementioned bare butt snuggled against the rough denim of his jeans and my forehead tucked against the side of his neck, I inhaled deeply, smelling layers of leather from his vest, sunshine, and fabric softener flavored with my – and his – favorite cologne. Two large, well-muscled arms closed around me, holding me tightly but pleasantly. I marveled, not for the first time, at how comfortable it was to be held against him like this, considering his iron hard 6’4” frame seemed at first glance given more to professional wrestling than succor.
    My eyes were pressed tightly closed against the warm flesh of his neck and I sighed deeply as he delved a large paw into my hair, brushing it gently away from my face. Even the steady ka-thump-ka-thump-ka-thump of his heartbeat seemed tailor made to reassure me.
    Warm, soft lips pressed a light kiss just below my jaw line, and I felt the rumble of his low growl as I heard the words. “You know why you were sent to the corner, now, don’t you?”
    Not particularly anxious to respond, especially when I know I’m wrong, I squirmed within the safety of his arms, finally nodding slowly. He waited a moment, and I knew what he was listening for. “I’m sorry, Brian. I didn’t mean to be bratty like that.”
    A broad, strong hand rubbed just the right spot of tension out of my back. “I know, Honey. That’s what corner time was made for – bratty little girls.”
    An indelicate snort came from across the room, behind
    Sunday’s sports page. “No, that’s what a session over your lap is made for, Brian. You’re too easy on her.”
    As if in response, my vulnerable posterior was immediately covered by Brian’s palm. I stayed carefully still, waiting. Andrew was much more of a disciplinarian than Brian was. Together, they struck a nice balance. Had I sassed Andrew, I would have spent 30
    minutes in the corner with my hands on my head and a well— blistered bottom to cry about, I had absolutely no doubt about it.
    Despite the differences in their size – Andrew was of a more average height and build – they both wielded either hand or implement with wicked expertise against my two nether cheeks.
    Brian’s silence was a matter of concern, as if he were
    mulling over Andrew’s contention that he was too lenient with me.
    I began to resign myself to the idea of a thorough spanking when I heard, “I think you have a point, Drew.”
    Thick fingers contracted on my tender flesh, and I held my breath, expecting any second to be told to assume the position, face down over his lap. “Gabrielle, go make a mark in The Book.”
    I did as I was told quickly, glad for the reprieve although it was simply a delay of the inevitable. Next week’s Friday session with the two of them was going to be a bad one if it was only Sunday and I’d already earned 20 strokes. Andrew caught me on my way back from the office, where my beautiful leather bound punishment book was kept in the desk the two of them shared. He pulled me against him, saying, “You’ve been out of sorts today, Love. Feeling ok?” I nodded. “It must be PMS, then.” Drew patted my bottom and ducked when I swung a playful smack at him. It amazed me – the two of them knew my body better than I did. “Is that one of the new dresses we bought?”
    Of the two, Drew paid more attention to my physical
    appearance than Brian did. He had surprised me when we were first dating by actually ENJOYING a shopping trip, and making helpful, constructive comments about what I looked good in. Made me wonder