She swore she’d never even let her cell phone leave her purse or even be in the front seat while driving again. She’d never disobey. Honesty would be her policy from this day forward.

  “It’s enough.” He tossed the belt to the floor, pulling her off the pillows to stand in his arms, her nose in his chest. “You’ve had enough. I can’t do anymore. You scared the hell out of me tonight. I don’t know what I’d do without you. You can’t take a chance with something this important to me; do you understand?”

  She nodded her head in his chest, her tears making his skin slippery. “Yes, Sir. I won’t.”

  “I know you won’t, baby. I know.” He cupped each cheek of her bottom, rubbing gently. She had no doubt that he hoped he was easing the pain, but instead, it seemed to aggravate it. She moaned, twisting her hips, desperately trying to move away.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Come on, let’s get you in bed. I’ll put some lotion on it. You’ll feel relief soon.” Walking with mincing steps, she slid face down across the bed lying on the cool sheets.

  Emerson fumbled in the nightstand pulling out the tube of Vitamin E lotion with aloe. He lightly massaged it into her backside, the cooling feeling like a million dollars.

  He snapped the cap back down and curled into her back, wrapping his arm casually around her body, cupping her breast in his hand. “Tomorrow is Saturday. I’d like you to spend the day sitting on your very sore hind end writing your research paper. It’s due to me by bedtime Monday evening, but if I were you, I’d get the majority—if not all—done this weekend. I’ll drive you to work and pick you up.”

  “Yes, Sir.” The inconvenience of this would be such a struggle, but more than that, she dreaded telling the women at work, and her friends, that he’d taken her driving privileges away. She cringed just thinking about it.

  “What was that for?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t play that game. You stiffened; I felt it. Why?”

  She looked over her shoulder at him, hissing when she rolled onto her back, the silky sheet feeling like sandpaper on her inflamed tissue. “I was thinking about…” She bit her lip, hoping he wouldn’t be upset with her for caring what others thought. It was always a bone of contention for them; he didn’t quite understand her need to be accepted by the herd. “The women at work…and my friends…trying to explain that I’m grounded from my own vehicle is embarrassing. I’m just not sure how to explain it to them.”

  His eyebrows furrowed and he pinched her chin between his fingers. “Listen to me. Their opinion doesn’t matter. Pleasing me is to be your focus. But when it comes to explaining it to them, you’re to be honest and forthright. I don’t want any lies about the muffler not working or not renewing your registration on time. Do you hear me?”

  She gave him a tiny nod. His warning coming this close to her punishment had her ass squirming in the bed with worry.

  “You’ll tell your coworkers and friends that you called me on your cell phone while driving your car, and out of concern and anger at your disregard for the law and your life, you’re being restricted from that same vehicle by the man who adores you. Period.” He paused before continuing. “Besides, you don’t answer to them. Not a single one of them signs your paycheck or pays your rent.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Women just seem to have this pack mentality, much more than men. You do not need to have their approval on every aspect of your life. You don’t even need to be part of their pack.” He shook his head, dumbfounded.

  He didn’t get it. Probably never would. Women, from the time they are little, they need the acceptance of their girlfriends on their outfits, boyfriends, and yes, their way of life. If you don’t fit well with the pack you’ve chosen, you are cut off pretty quickly and painfully. Then you’re forced to find a new pack or change your ways.

  Most of Chelsea’s friends knew their background and that Emerson had been a priest. They also knew that he was overly protective. But not a single one knew that he spanked her. She hadn’t even shared that with Anna.

  Anna had been a close friend to Chelsea from the first month she had moved to Amsterdam with David. Anna had been born in America but moved to Amsterdam as a young child, so she understood the adjustment it took moving to a country not knowing the language or customs. She had been a very good friend to Chelsea through her separation and divorce from David.

  Although Chelsea had easily fallen back into her submissive role with Emerson after all those years apart, she’d been the person in charge of her relationship with David. It was she who paid the bills, took care of the repairs, made sure the cars were fixed, and did all the inside chores as well. David didn’t schedule an appointment or go out for a beer with friends without checking with her first.

  So explaining to her friend that she’d been grounded and couldn’t drive for two months. Well, she wasn’t looking forward to explaining that to Anna—at all.

  Chelsea knew that Anna’s dynamic with her husband, Gustaaf, was more like the relationship she had with Emerson. Anna would rush home to have dinner prepared for Gustaaf because he expected it within a short time of arriving home from the metro. On more than one occasion, Chelsea had witnessed Anna calling him to inform him that they were going to a café after the movies, assuring him that she’d be home before ten at night—which seemed to be her curfew.

  But their relationship up to that point had been one where Anna admired Chelsea’s ability to do whatever she wanted being in charge with David. Transitioning to her new relationship with Emerson and having to explain that she had been grounded—let alone had her ass blistered—for her infraction was a whole different ball of wax.

  “I see those wheels turning, girl. Don’t defy me on this. You will not drive—at all, and if I feel you’re resistant, I may question your closest friend. What’s her name?…Anna. I’ll ask her if she’s heard about your grounding and dangerous behavior.”

  “You wouldn’t!” She pulled away from him, more than shocked that he’d even think about doing such a thing.

  Would he actually do that?

  “Don’t dare me, little one. You’ll lose, guaranteed.”

  “Emerson! Please…oh God, please say you won’t!” She grasped his muscled upper arm in her hand, pleading, her whining voice begging.

  “I’m not promising that. Your behavior and my intuition will dictate how I proceed.”

  When she opened her mouth to speak again, he put his finger on her lips and shook his head. “No more. It’s time for you to sleep. You’ll be busy tomorrow.”

  She furrowed her brows, flipping onto her side, the anger beginning to simmer just under the surface. It felt like he’d crossed a boundary, stepping into an arena that was supposed to be controlled by her—not him. What and how she related to her friends was her domain. Wasn’t it? And she didn’t dictate what he said or did with his friends.

  But in all honesty, I don’t control any aspect of his life.

  His hand squeezed her right buttock harshly. “If you need a reminder already, then I didn’t do a very good job. Should I get the bath brush—I hear it’s pretty brutal? Maybe you need a third spanking tonight before your attitude is adjusted. Is that what’s happening?”

  Dear Lord, no!

  “Uhm, no, Sir. I’m good. I have no attitude. I’m…I’m just tired…and very sore. Very, very sore.”

  “Mmmm. I have no doubt that your little ass is sore. It’s your mood I’m questioning. I’d go to sleep pretty quick, not chancing any more negative effects for your rump tonight. Sound like a good idea?”

  “Yes, Sir.” She pulled in a deep breath, willing herself to regulate her breathing and fall asleep having had enough excitement to last her a month. The thought of additional repercussions had her trembling inside.

  Chapter 12

  Climbing the stairs with his arms full of groceries, he fumbled with unlocking the door, tossing his full blue and white Albert Heijn supermarket bag onto the counter, digging into his pants pocket for his phone. “Hello.”

  “Em, are you okay? You sound out of breath?” Father Bill McKenna’s voice was laced with concern.

  “I was just coming through the door with some groceries. I’ve been to the local market.”

  “Ah. Well you asked me to call you after Bishop Kearney came for the May Crowning with the children and the press.”

  “I’ve been dying to know what happened. Tell me.” Emerson tossed the milk into the refrigerator and the ice cream into the freezer, leaving the rest on the counter until he’d finished his conversation. Grabbing a cold bottled water, he sat at the table, kicking his sneakers off and resting his feet on a chair opposite him.

  “First, I contacted the television station as you’d recommended, holding my breath that the Bishop wouldn’t refuse our invitation. But, as always, you were correct. I told his assistant and within ten minutes, the Bishop had returned my call. Emerson, the man gushed with praise for our parish.”

  Emerson laughed at hearing the glee in his old friend’s voice. “I told you. It works like a charm. The man is like Narcissus—he never misses an opportunity to see his reflection. Or in this case, he never misses an opportunity to see his face on his own flat screen TV.” He mumbled, “Bastard.”

  “Emerson, he’s still our Bishop; don’t show disrespect.” The elderly priest, God bless him, had a heart of gold, and because of that, couldn’t see past the protocol and politics of the Roman Catholic Church to see the long-fanged teeth of the wolf in sheep’s clothing that was Bishop Kearney.

  “And this is where you and I disagree, Sir. I don’t believe in showing respect to someone who mistreats the elderly, widows, the poor, and children. The man is a viper and deserves God’s wrath. You mark my words, we’ll get to see the punishment of our Lord on his head.” Emerson grit his teeth, holding back more colorful words from his pure-in-heart friend.

  “That may be so, son. But until God sees fit, we’re held accountable for our actions toward him. We’re to show love, even to the evil and the tax collector.”

  “Yes, Sir.” It galled him to agree, but he knew that the man’s wisdom and kindness knew no bounds and he couldn’t imagine ever being as kind as Father McKenna.

  “As I was saying,” Bill chuckled, “I wish you had been here to see it yourself. He stood holding a boy from kindergarten in his arms for the pictures. Then inserted himself next to the statue of the Queen Mary and smiled widely for the cameras.”

  “Did you do as I said?” Emerson held his breath hoping against hope that he’d had the courage to follow all his instructions.

  “I did, boy! You would’ve been so proud of me! I casually said to the reporter with the cameras running that Bishop Kearney was very excited to approve the renovations for a new school for St. Theodore’s, making quality education available to more children in South Philly.”

  Emerson slapped his leg, laughing until he had tears in his eyes. “You did, Bill? Please tell me that you asked to have this posted to YouTube. I need to see this. I just have to see the Bishop’s face.”

  “I did! You’ll find it quicker than I’d be able to, no doubt. Bishop Kearney stuttered and sputtered, before loudly saying, ‘Yes, yes, of course. The concern of the Catholic Church is for the inner city and its poor, and St. Theodore’s has been a refuge to the burdened and tired of this city for way too long. I’d be glad to have my name on a project that would enable the children to grasp golden opportunities in their future.’”

  Emerson closed his eyes offering thanks to his god. It was an answer to prayer for his people and his parish. “We may get to see this school come to pass after all these years.”

  “And it’s totally to your credit, Father Emerson.

  “I’m not Father Emerson Riley anymore.”

  “You know as well as I do, my boy, that Canon law says that even after you leave the priesthood, you’re still a priest. You’ll be Father Riley until you die or leave the Roman Catholic Church.”

  Emerson responded, “I can’t give mass or confession according to the same Canon Law.”

  “True, but that’s because it’s in the church sanctuary. You would be able to do so in the missionary field or in a hospital, anywhere that someone may need last rites. Don’t look for trouble, Em; there’s enough to be found all on its own.” Bill chided him gently, but the rebuke stunk nonetheless.

  “That trouble may have found me already.” Emerson paused, drumming his fingertips on the table, wondering if he should tell his friend, finally deciding that he needed to confide in someone. “I will be sending a letter to the Pope as soon as I write it, asking for permission to marry Chelsea.”

  “You did? Congratulations to the happy couple.” Bill cleared his throat, his voice becoming somber. “Don’t get your heart set on this, Emerson. The Pope has never given dispensation for marriage to a priest. Canon Law forbids marriage. The Church believes celibacy is forever.”

  Emerson sighed loudly. “I know. But it just…it pisses me off. They won’t give priests the ability to marry, but because of dwindling numbers, they’re allowing Episcopalian priests and their wives the ability to serve in Roman Catholicism. How is that fair, Bill?”

  “It isn’t, my boy. It isn’t. And more than that, imagine going to your lonely bed as a priest when your assistant priest is sleeping down the hall with his wife. God, I just don’t know how they do that. It’s cruel and inhuman if you ask me. Which you didn’t, but I know I wouldn’t want a married Episcopal priest and his wife in my rectory. It makes me shiver thinking about it.”

  He swore he could see Bill shaking his head. The older priest had a difficult time watching some of the new procedures and rules the Church had made in recent years, wishing for the old days. But the Church had changed. It was shrinking with the oppression and weight of celibacy, a lack of faithful followers, especially in America, and an inability to care for the priests and nuns in their employ. Many were leaving to find employment elsewhere, assuring security in their old age.

  But having the ability to marry and still serve their communities would at least give the faithful priests and nuns an ability to find a modicum of happiness in their lives.

  “You’re right about that, Bill. Having married priests with their wives residing with celibate priests is cruel and inhuman. It is these points that I’m making in my petition to the Papacy.”

  “I hope he gives you dispensation. I really do.”

  While talking, Emerson pulled up the draft of his letter to the Pope. “I do too. I haven’t asked Chelsea yet. I want to wait until the Pope has made a final decision.”

  “Seems wise. When are you sending it?”

  “This week. I’m almost done writing it. I just wanted to take my time, not miss any fine points to my arguments.”

  Father McKenna chuckled. “You’re careful thoughts and planning certainly worked for St. Theodore’s—not just this time, but many times—without fail. It’s a system that has worked in your favor time-and-time again.”

  “That’s my hope. And now I need to find that damn video on YouTube to watch Bishop Kearney grovel, hiding his teeth. Does my heart good in the middle of church politics to see someone like himself have the game turned on him.”

  “You know, I hate admitting it, but I felt peace with it too. This community deserves this school, and I thank God, for his favor.”

  “And I as well. Take care, Bill. Call me next week. I look forward to any updates. If any shit occurs before then, call me immediately.”

  “Oh, I will, don’t worry. And you as well, update me on your papal letter and engagement. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  Chapter 13

  Standing in the foyer of the newspaper she worked for in the Netherlands, De Telegraaf, Chelsea waited for Emerson to bring her home. It’d been six weeks, and she’d be glad when her grounding ended. But in many respects, she would miss riding to and from work with him. Many she knew took the metro, but she preferred the quickness of driving to work. She assumed it was the last vestige of their American culture.

  His little Fiat pulled up to the curb and she climbed in, sliding her bottom on the cream leather before slipping her bent stocking covered legs gracefully into the car and firmly closing the door.

  Turning, she caught him staring at her shoes, his gaze inching slowly up her legs, the bulge behind his dress pants growing. When his gaze finally met hers, she smiled knowingly at him. He loved her legs and spent many nights licking and kissing his way up and down them, nibbling on her calves and the hollow behind her knees, taking refuge between them to suck on her pussy.

  “Good evening, Father.” His hand went to the collar he’d placed at his neck—to please her.

  Her sex charged to life.

  She reached out, running her forefinger along the black and white strip at his neck, the vestiture of the faith, the symbol of purification and celibacy. But for her, it was a symbol of his dominance and authority, and his love for her. A visible strip of cloth that reminded her that he’d left it behind, choosing her, loving her first and foremost this time. And touching the collar or seeing it sent a trill through her body. A sexual victory that had her sex weeping, ready to be impaled by…

  Her Priest.

  “Slip your panties off.” He put the car into first gear, easing into the traffic, winding through the busy streets of Amsterdam.

  She looked quickly out the window, bicycle riders and buses surrounding them, easily looking into the small vehicle. “But—”

  “Now.”

  She swallowed against the lump in her throat.

  Shit!

  Shimmying her skirt up almost to her pussy, she glanced through the windows before slipping her fingers in the waistband of her panties, lifting her hips a bit to slip them quickly down her thighs. She looked to her right once again, continuing their glide downward toward her ankles. She exhaled in relief that no one had witnessed—she hoped.