1 Chapter 1

I hear the muted creak of the floorboard just outside the door. I sit up straight in the desk chair, cross my legs and lay the cold leather riding crop over my thigh. Hasiba opens her bedroom door, slowly at first, letting in just a sliver of light from the hallway.

“I assume you know what time it is,” I say.

“Yes, ma’am,” Hasiba replies softly, still safely on the other side of the door.

She is only three years my junior, though she refers to me formally. It’s part of our new arrangement. As is her curfew. Most nights it serves to keep her out of trouble. I don’t know what happened tonight.

“And what time is it?”

“Eleven fifteen, ma’am.”

“We agreed you would be home when?”

“Ten o’clock, ma’am.”

“Stop hiding out in the hallway, girl, and come in here where I can see you.” I watch the sliver of light on the bedroom floor grow to a large triangle that frames the shadow of the lithe young woman entering the room. “Close the door behind you.”

The room darkens again and I hear the click of the latch. All around is deathly quiet except for Hasiba’s steady breathing. I turn myself toward the sound.

“Seventy-five minutes, girl,” I say. “Seventy-five minutes between the time we agreed you would be home and the time it is presently. What shall we do about this discrepancy?”

My eyes have adjusted to the dim light of the bedroom now. I can see her head is lowered, her eyes studying the floorboards and the rug at her feet. She chews at her lower lip as she contemplates my question. She chooses to offer no reply.

“Strip,” I say.

Hasiba seems hesitant to do as I ask. At first she stands frozen, blinking in the darkness. I wonder if she’s stalling out of shame or if she’s been drinking again and it’s dulled her reactions. I stand up and make my way to her, riding crop tucked under my arm. She quickly disrobes.

“Seventy-five minutes,” I repeat, as I close the distance. “Seventy-five minutes I’ve been forced to worry over you.”

I move in behind her and press against her naked flesh. I can feel her trembling, see her nipples standing at attention in the pale light, and I have to admit that it gives me a bit of a thrill knowing I have her undivided attention now. I wrap my right arm around her waist, holding the crop loosely against her leg so that it rests on the outside of her calf.

“Seventy-five minutes I’ve been waiting for you, while entertaining grim scenarios in my mind.” I drag the crop slowly upward so that the nasty end is parked right behind her knee. “Do you know what that’s like?”

I tap Hasiba lightly behind the knee and her entire body jerks.

“No, ma’am.”

I press my nose to her cheek and inhale deeply. She smells of gin. “Seventy-five minutes I’ve been forced to think about you drinking too much.”

I snake my left arm around her now, splaying my fingers across her tummy to hold her tightly to me as I switch sides with the crop. I drag the business end of crop midway up the front of her right thigh. Again, she shudders.

“I only had—”

Another tap of the crop, sharper this time and with more leverage, cuts her excuse off instantly.

“Spare me your lies, girl. I can smell it on your breath. Seventy-five minutes I’ve been thinking about you drunk and driving your car into a ditch somewhere.”

With my hand on her stomach, I feel her breath hitching.

“Seventy-five minutes I’ve been thinking about you pinned under a ton of smoldering, twisted metal. Or worse yet, pinned under some boy. Some boy who’s had too much to drink and won’t take no for an answer.” I spin Hasiba around so she is facing me. “Do you have any idea what that’s like?”

“No, ma’am.” Her breath hitches again. She still won’t look me in the eye and it only serves to spurn me on.

I grab her by the wrist and pull her to the foot of her heavy, wooden, four-poster bed. I feel the culmination of my anger, with my blood rising, pounding in my temples. Hasiba trips along beside me. It pains me to have these feelings of frustration and anger about her, someone I love so deeply, but this is our relationship now. “Lean over and grab the foot board, girl. Arms out straight.”

“Please, ma’am,” she whimpers. Too little, too late. I’m already past the point of backing down.

“Now.” I don’t shout. I don’t have to.