by Ben Joseph
Jonas waited patiently, reading his paper as she tried to disconnect from a conversation on the phone.
"Yes, yes. I took care of it already. Yes, I can pay you back this afternoon, all one hundred of it. No... no problem, you'll have it today. Look, I have to go. Bye for now."
She broke off the contact and turned to him with a smile. He put down his newspaper and looked at her dead-on, and he did not smile.
"What was that about? Who do you have to pay back, Eden?"
"Just a friend, nothing special. It really isn't important."
"I call one hundred dollars important. And borrowing money is also not what we agreed on, now is it, girl?"
"No, it isn't. But it was just for a day, and I can pay it back so easily."
"If it was only for a day, then you should have held on to your impulse for that day. It was for a concert, wasn't it?"
"Yes, Daddy."
"And drinks with your wonderful friends after, wasn't it, girl?"
"But I have to have friends. You aren't being fair."
"You need friends who pull you up, and not friends who sweet-talk you into a world of late wakeups, hung over mornings or even days, and tell you that it's all good, or whatever you tell each other. There's something here you should see, but right now we have business to take care of, and you know what that is, don't you Eden."
"Yes, Daddy. You're going to spank me for breaking the contract."
"That's right. And how many times am I going to spank you, girl?"
"It's up to you. You punish me the way you see fit."
"Good answer. Since you broke two rules, about borrowing money and about drinking, you will get two sets of fifteen each. Now take down the skirt and panties and bend over the chair."
She was quick to respond, and was bare-bottomed and in position within seconds. She knew the routine and it never paid to challenge him.
Her long, slim legs were always a sight to behold for him, and she was aware of it. As she arched her back, positioning her bottom to receive the walloping he had in store, her heart raced with anticipation.
She heard the rustle of the belt as it slipped through the trouser loops. Then the smooth, slick sound as he doubled it in his hand. The waiting, even for these few seconds was deliciously exciting. She wished see could see him prepare to whip her. Maybe next time.
A whoosh, a slight breeze on her exposed skin, and then came the slap of leather on her bare bottom. She relished the bite, knowing that it would reach a crescendo soon enough.
A second slap, crossing the first, landed on the fat part of her tight derriere. She murmured a low response, relishing the sensation.
After ten spanks, and he was getting his stride, the pain grew stronger. She stifled her yelps with difficulty. He admonished her.
"No complaining, and no moving aside. You have to practise self-control."
Twenty strokes. Almost there. Oh, just end it, please. Her bottom was ablaze. Twenty-seven. The pain, the all-involving pain. Thirty. She slowly stood, and as she was about to rub the pain away, he called to her.
"Not yet. Two minutes in the corner, hands behind your head. I want you to understand that you have a deal to live up to and there are consequences to be paid. Now stand right there until I give you permission to relax."
She went to the corner, just to the side of the window. He picked up the paper and was about to read it when he decided to inspect his handiwork. Her bottom was crisscrossed with welts and even some faint signs of bruising. He gently, oh so carefully and tenderly put his hand on her skin. She quivered, and then relaxed as he passed his hand over the same skin he had just afflicted. She had her reward.
When her corner time had elapsed he took her hand and led her to his chair. He sat down and pulled her down to sit on his lap. Then he reached around her as he thumbed through his paper, looking for the article he saw before. He found it and opened it before the two of them.
"There it is, top of the fold, entertainment section. Your play, From Valley to Peak, by Eden Stihl, opening to a first-rate review and a great crowd. Now, what do you say to that, Eden?"
She turned around to face him with a huge smile, straddling him and wrapping her arms around him.
"Thank you so much. Thank you, thank you."
The progress she had made in the past year was astounding. In fact, the changes in both their lives was a sight to behold.
Twelve months earlier...
He woke up one minute before the alarm clock, shut it, and did the basic routine: brushed his teeth, splashed some cold water on his face and dressed for his regimen. Down the fourteen stories of his hotel, run up, two minutes of push-ups. One more set, then a shower, shave and dress for the day. His closet was filled with French cuff white shirts, and charcoal grey shirts. A choice of cufflinks and tie pins, along with some floral pattern ties, afforded him a variety of colour. This being Wednesday, he prepared himself eggs, toast and juice. Having somebody prepare this meal would mean depending on them, which he detested.
Behind his back they called him Blowtorch Balin, but he knew about the nickname years ago, and it pleased him. They all took him seriously whatever the situation. On the job, his employees nodded at him in greeting whenever they saw him. On the street, people got out of his way. It had nothing to do with his size, which was average. He just had that air about him.
He stood behind his desk as he took in the morning news. Ten minutes later, at precisely seven-thirty, he set that aside and was answering his mail. His phone lit up with a call, but he ignored it after seeing who was calling. They could wait. The entire world could wait. Everything had its time.
Her alarm clock went off and she buried her head in the pillow. After ignoring it as best she could, she fumbled for the tab, silenced it and went back to sleep. The day, and whatever it would bring would wait. She was still listening to whatever last night's wine had to tell her. Right now it was saying that her hangover had priority. Then she felt it.
Her stomach rebelled, clenching, thrusting, doing its normal reaction to having ingested two bottles too many. She flung off the sheets and staggered to the toilet, barely in time, and kneeled in front of it.
Finally she pushed off from the rim of the toilet bowl, washed her face, brushed her teeth and pronounced herself ready for action. A tee shirt found on the floor, a pair of jeans not too long in the hamper would do the job. Then she checked her messages. The first one was from Monday. She checked her watch, and it glowed Wednesday. Two days gone, absent without leave. She cursed to herself and hoped against experience that none of the messages were important.
"Eden, Mary Scot here, please call me. We need your answer by this afternoon. Thanks, bye."
That was 10am, Monday
"Eden, Mary here again, please call us at Triple T Agencies, we have a solid offer for your script, but we need your okay, okay? Call back TODAY."
That was 1pm, Monday
"Eden, where the hell are you? We need an answer today, as in by five today, or the offer is withdrawn. Call me."
That was four-thirty.
"I guess we can't rely on you. Too bad, kid. Oh, and by the way, find yourself another agent. You know, one who doesn't mind clients who spend half the week drunk."
There were other messages, from her aunt, desperate and threatening at he same time, and from her friends, laughingly asking if she was still alive. Of course, none had bothered to actually come to her door to find out. And her aunt, bless her, only kept giving her money to get into rehab, without understanding that it was easier to buy another case of wine than to commit to a change of lifestyle.
She muttered a curse at her demanding agent, who had dared suggest that she get her life under control. Who cares? She had her friends, her music, her recreational aids (as she termed wine, booze and drugs.) How can anybody cope with life otherwise? She opened her fridge, maybe there was some milk there for Captain Choco.
No such luck. But there was a half bottle of flat beer, and that would work fine. She looked around determinedly for her smart phone and found it easily enough. A look for what her friends were up to, a few random thoughts on nothing in particular, and eventually getting some work started on her next project. She looked at the clock, out of curiosity.
1pm. Well, at least part of the day could be saved.
He stood by his window, thirty floors up. A quarter of a mile away the building was going up, and on schedule. His forearm rested on the cinderblock construction just to the side of his desk. His office staff, the three girls who had been with him for at least five years, knew its purpose and either smiled when looking at it or trembled, just a little, inside. Nobody else knew what it was for. He went through his mental files, recalling every detail of the construction. He trusted the contracting company. With good weather, it should be finished in half a year. With bad weather, it would still be erected on time. He insisted on it. His phone beeped, and he answered.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Jonas, it's JJ for you, she said it's urgent."
He thought for a second, gave one last look at the half-erected structure and punched in the line.
"Yes JJ, what can I do for you?"
"First, good morning, and how are you?"
"Good thanks, and yourself?"
"I'm good."
"What is it, JJ?"
"My niece. You remember her, right? Eden Stihl?"
"I do, go ahead."
JJ stalled a minute, from the difficulty of the topic and the idea of opening up to Jonas, which could be compared to a strip search at customs.
"It's getting worse. The closer she gets to being somebody, the more she drinks and screws up her life. It happened again, Jonas. Here she was, ready to accept this fancy shmancy award for screen writing, and splat. She gets drunk, and I mean barfing, retching drunk, not five minutes before the event. And I had to stand in for her."
Jonas just sighed and made a sound that signalled his disgust and impatience, and then answered, "Why does this surprise you, JJ? The horse left the barn years ago and is in another time zone. Sorry for being so blunt, but I warned you."
"Yes, you did."
"You call yourself accommodating, and understanding, and all those comfortable, lefty slogans, and it got you and her in this mess. Look, I have things to do. Why did you call?"
In an era where ending a sentence in a question mark was common, Jonas made even his questions sound like declarations. JJ barely put up with him, except when necessary. The arrangement pleased him.
"I need - she needs - something more serious. I've tried everything with her... rehab, revulsion therapy, hypnotism. Nothing gets through to her, nothing. Jonas, I don't want to get a call from the police morgue some night..."
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