Page 26 of Trapped with the Mountain Man

“Careful, young lady,” he warns, “or I’ll put you over my knee for talking back to your elders.”

My breath audibly hitches. His words snake through me, leaving my throat dry and somewhere else wet. It’s the sort of thing that no man I’ve ever been with before would dare to mention, and therefore something I’ve never considered.

I glance down at Hunter’s hand. It’s big and muscular in a way I didn’t realize hands could be. His palm is flat against the blankets, fingers curling slightly into the soft fabric. I imagine how it would feel digging into the soft skin of my ass instead. How his palm would feel as it made contact. Would it be a playful slap or a stinging punishment? Would he soothe me afterward with his touch and reward me for enduring the pain?

I am reduced to a desperate puddle beside him, and he hasn’t even touched me.

Hunter seems to read every thought as it dances through my head. He draws his conclusion aloud, smiling devilishly as he says, “I take it you’re into spanking then?”

“I-I, uh…” I stammer.

I am now.

In fact, I think it’s all I’ll ever be into again.

My humiliation grows as the seconds tick by without a proper response. Hunter watches me carefully.

“I’ve never…” I half-explain.

Hunter laughs quietly. His expression shifts and an unmistakable look of affection blooms over his face. He shifts back on the bed with his feet still on the floor beside it. Reaching for my hand he urges me forward. When I realize that he’s coaxing me across his lap, I stiffen. The idea of a spanking may have elicited some sort of primal, positive response from my body, but my brain knows better. It’s going to hurt. There’s no reason something like that should be enjoyable, I reason.

Yet my body urges me forward.

“Don’t worry,” Hunter says, sensing my hesitation, “I got you.”

He’s asking me to trust him, and against all of my better judgment, I do. I may not trust him with all the emotional bits that brought me here, but I trust this man completely with my body.

I lay across his lap, my left cheek pressed against the soft fleece blanket beside him and my legs drawn together but stretched across the sheets on the opposite side of him. The thin fabric of his t-shirt is all that covers my upturned ass from Hunter’s view. I am acutely aware of the hem dancing along the bottom curve of my butt.

I’m holding my breath, both out of paralyzing fear and strange anticipation of what comes next.

When Hunter finally touches me, it’s a stroke of my hair. He brushes it to one side, away from my face, and then trails the length of it down my back. The firm weight of his palm settles between my shoulder blades in soothing circles. It’s the weight of the hand that I cannot feel, the one somewhere near my lower half, that keeps me on edge and makes the breath swell in my chest.

His right hand finally makes contact a few seconds later. It lands gently on the back of my thigh, just above my knee, and softly caresses my skin all the way up to the hem of my shirt before taking the opposite path down my other thigh. He does this several times, stopping along the way to knead his fingers into the muscles.

By the time Hunter drags the hem of my shirt up to expose my ass, I’m putty in his hands. I’m begging for any touch he will give me. Still, my muscles tense at the knowledge of what type of touch will come next.

“Relax,” Hunter commands, gripping my ass in his hand and kneading the tense muscle beneath.

After some considerable effort, I finally manage to let go of the tension there.

“That’s my girl,” he says quietly.

Something erupts inside of me at his barely audible praise.

His girl.

At this moment, I belong to him. My body is his. If he only knew the million ways he was ruining me for all other men. The way I already knew I would picture his face when someone else was inside of me. The way I would ache for him whenever I smelled the forest or the rain. The way I would his gravelly moans would forever echo in some corner of my brain, irreplaceable and unreachable all at once.

Even strewn across his lap, feeling his hands on me right now, I had already begun to miss him.

When he finally spanks me, it’s a playful swat that draws me back to the present as if he knows that I’ve strayed off into some uncertain future. He rubs a hand over the tingling skin, erasing the effects with his palm. I arch myself into his hand, pleading for more.

More attention.

More distraction.

More of him.

---