T is for Trust

To answer Federica’s question, what would his own quid pro quo be, Arlin dug into the deepest corners of his conscience. It’s not that he’d never done some soul-searching in spanking matters before; that would be unbecoming of a member of academia. What is in there for him, besides the immediate adrenaline rush? How does spanking benefit him, the disciplinarian, especially in Federica’s seemingly one and done case? Does she expect only a spanking, or was there a sexual innuendo lurking? After all, in her letter, Dear Santa was facefucking Mrs. Santa as part of his decompression activities after his worldwide tour, the other being snorting cocaine off Mrs. Santa’s clavicle. The cocaine phrase Federica hastily scratched out, but Arlin was able to reconstruct the words. In Federica’s world, Santa was a super rocker slash party animal, a virile stud? Was he, Arlin, up for the job? He was twice the age of Ettore the bartender or those Swiss Guards, both of whom she called cute. Was sex ever on the table, or did he misread the signs? How Federica’s teasing question turned into a self-doubting trip down the rabbit hole?

When Arlin observed her at breakfast, an uptight yogurt eater, or spied at the Murano shop, when she non-metaphorically let her curly red hair down, she was a woman he lusted after, not a woman he wanted to spank. Why did she have to ruin it by bringing up mistakes and punishments and absolutions and gymslips, all the words that made his palm twitch? He had enough of it at home, with his bratty and playful wards, or nieces, or whatever name of the day the girls would come up with to tease Uncle Ar and make him reach for the paddle or take off his belt. Federica was his Roman Holiday, and he wished to keep it at that.

Though the two things, lust and spanking, often went hand in hand, or in Arlin’s case, a very firm hand, Arlin sought intriguing Federica not for her spankable arse. To unravel the mystery, to peel the proverbial onion, layer by tearful layer, the same way he would take her clothes off, layer by layer, unwrapping the most magical gift underneath: a naked woman.

Right now, this woman, very much clothed in a burgundy skirt suit made of soft merino wool, which Arlin brushed against a few times, and a flirty silk scarf around her neck, perfect for tying her wrists later, cocked her head to the side and with a lopsided grin repeated her question.

“What would be your quid pro quo, Mr. James?”

To err is human, errare humanum est, a well-known part of a quote, used so often to justify wrong and forgetting the second part: to forgive is divine. Did she know the gravity hanging on her question? Will she forgive him for the wrong answer?

“Trust, Federica. I want your trust.”