My goal for 2019 is to write a new ebook, so I've been playing around with some ideas for the last few months. This is an introduction to Violet, who I'd planned to have as one of the characters in the Starting Over series. We'll see what happens. It should be entertaining enough for now.
“You can't charge us for this!! It's your stupid security checkpoints that are the problem, not me,” I yelled at the attendant as the plane we were supposed to be on backed out of the gate.
“Ma’am, you will have to speak with customer service about this. Their desk is…”
“I don't give a fuck where their desk is!”
My boyfriend, Jason, was starting to get impatient, and he touched me on the arm. “C’mon, Violet, it's not worth fighting. Let's just get another ticket.”
I angrily pushed the clipboard off the desk sending all of the woman's papers flying to the floor. “Have fun picking those up,” I sneered.
Jason wasn't happy. When we were far enough away from the woman, he turned towards me. “I should pull your panties down and spank you right here in front of everyone,” he warned.
That got my blood boiling even more. I narrowed my eyes at him. “Don't even think about it.”
“I told you we were going to be late. I told you to get up earlier, not to mess around and make us late. I told you what would happen!”
Now I was irritated with him, too. “You know what, fuck off,” I spat.
Jason and I had been dating for 5 years, since meeting through a website for people into spanking and/or BDSM. It was hard enough to find dominant guys, and even more of a challenge to find one willing to take on someone with a strong personality like me, so we ended up staying together despite our constant bickering the last year or so. It was tough for me to submit to him, and as a Mexican-American woman, I was hypersensitive to men trying to tell me what to do, especially a boyfriend. I hadn't even let Jason spank me in the last couple of months. In fact, the last time he tried I ended up hurting him instead of the other way around. He hadn't felt comfortable enough to try again since then.
I hadn't pushed him this far in a while though. He was pissed when I told him to fuck off, and decided to snatch up my wrist and haul me off to the family restroom.
“What are you doing? Let go of me… you're not going to do this here! I won't let you.”
He said nothing but continued to drag me along, keeping a stoic look on his face as he tore open the door and pushed me inside.
“Let me out of here,” I argued. “You are NOT going to spank me! I'll scream!”
“I warned you what would happen and your little stunt a few minutes ago just confirmed for me that you need a good one. It's been too long…” with that he propped his foot up on the toilet and lifted me over his knee with ease.
“Jason! Stop!” I begged though I wasn't struggling much yet.
“Be quiet,” he ordered, flipping up my dress and tugging my panties down below my butt cheeks.
“Wait! Stop! Help!” I nearly shouted.
He didn't answer but instead planted a few hard swats to my bare bottom.
That's when I started to squirm, and that's when all hell broke loose. Jason tried to keep me still, but I put up too much of a fight. So he dropped his foot to the ground, keeping a firm grip on me. “Stop fighting and accept your punishment like a big girl,” he scolded, tightening his grip and holding onto my arm so I'd stop trying to block his smacks.
I was sweating from all the fighting and anger, so as he peppered my bottom with his strong hand it stung ten times worse than normal! Then he made the mistake of putting his left arm in front of me to get a better grip on my hands, and I had this genius idea to sink my teeth into his forearm, biting into the flesh with as much pressure as my jaw would allow.
He yelped and let go of me. “Are you serious?” He asked, finally letting me go. My dress fell back to cover my aching bottom and I tugged my panties back into position as he rubbed his arm that was now slightly bleeding.
Jason was a construction worker, though, so he was used to much more than just a small little bite. It couldn't have physically hurt him that much. I think what really hurt him was the fact that I'd done it.
“You know what, get your own flight,” he said, then left me in the bathroom alone, rubbing my bottom.
Now I felt pretty crappy. A woman with a toddler and a southern drawl like Dolly Parton pushed the door open to ask if I was okay. “Should I call security?” she asked.
I shook my head. She probably thought that Jason was a violent abuser, but there was no way possible I could openly explain to her what had actually happened. Instead, I let the two of them have the toilet, and I stalked away to find and apologize to Jason.
He was nowhere to be found, not at the customer service desk nor sitting at any of the gates that were going to NYC. He knew I didn't want to ride the plane by myself -- did I really push him to leave this time?
I knew my anger was a problem. It'd been a problem since I was a preteen when the men in black uniforms and badges saying ICE barged into my apartment and took my parents away, leaving me in the care of my 18-year-old brother who had no idea what he was doing. The only way he was able to protect me from the dangers that lurked outside was by teaching me how to defend myself, with and without weapons.
I'd also gone to therapy more times than one could imagine. They were all the same though -- telling me to breathe deeply or forgive the government for snatching my parents away. They even tried to get me to channel my rage into other things, but only one therapist was successful in finding something worth my time, which is why I worked for a small civil liberties firm as their computer genius and hacker. Most places wouldn't hire a purple-haired anarchist, but my current social worker had set me up with something good, so long as I kept my anger under control. I did the best I could and so far hadn't gotten fired. I even managed to have bigger companies trying to recruit me (but I'd loyally stayed at my smaller company, fighting off those big corporations).
“Miss? Can I help you?”
I looked up to see a young man in a blue United Airlines shirt and khakis. I'd made it to the front of the customer service line.
He changed my ticket without charging me any extra because I can be sweet when I want to. Then I trudged towards the gate, still no sign of Jason. What was going to happen when I arrived home?
To kill time, I called my best friend Molly.
“I think you need to find a neutral third party,” she answered after I explained the Jason fiasco. “What about my old spanker, Gabe? You would do great with him!”
I'd met Gabe once and he was the epitome of exactly what I fought against. He was an ultra-rich corporate lawyer who only wore expensive suits and catered to the capitalist agenda. The last thing I wanted to do was let someone like that dominate me.
I told this to Molly, but she just said, “at least talk to him first, then decide. I'll text you his number.”
I didn't bother even opening Molly’s message until after I got home and Jason was pretending to be asleep so he wouldn't have to talk to me. Well, maybe he was legit sleeping. But all of the guilt was eating me up and I couldn’t sleep, so I sat in the living room sipping on a glass of wine with Friends reruns playing in the background. On my third glass, I figured, what the hell, and wrote several different introductory messages, finally settling on one and holding my breath as I awaited an answer.
Hello, Violet. Of course I remember you. I would be happy to chat more and figure out an arrangement that suits your needs.
I didn't know how to answer -- was I supposed to call and talk to him over the phone? Or request an in-person meeting?
Instead of thinking more about it, I decided to walk to Molly’s apartment, ignoring the fact that I was a little drunk and it was nearly 1 am on a Tuesday night. Molly worked evenings, though, so happily let me in and handed me a bottle of wine while she rolled a joint for herself.
We talked and giggled all night, playing Grand Theft Auto and singing along to 90s pop music. I think we even prank called Gabriel, who had thought it was something work-related and barked into the phone when he realized it was only a prank. And sometime after 4:20 am I passed out, phone dead, and didn't wake up until 3 pm the next day.
“Fuck! Molly! I missed work!” I shrieked, digging through my bag for a charger. I plugged it in and as soon as it came on, hurriedly checked my work email, ignoring the thousands of text messages that came in at the same time. “Fuck fuck fuck…” I muttered seeing the disappointed email from my boss. He was not pleased that I didn't call or show up for work.
I quickly showered and borrowed some of Molly’s clothes, hailed a cab to my office and ran through the door with only apologies spilling from my mouth.
“Violet, this isn't the first time this has happened,” my boss scolded as I sat at the conference table across from him and my supervisor.
“I know, I'm soooo sorry, please give me another chance! I'll make up the work this evening… I'll do anything!”
He shook his head and my supervisor chimed in: “You missed the board presentation. We were counting on you to cover the social media stats and donation page hits. And we even had the extra 10 minutes planned for you to show how you're able to legally snoop around on our clients. The meeting was a disaster and frankly, the board isn’t convinced we have the money to cover your salary.”
I gulped and looked back towards my boss with pleading eyes. “We tried to explain your importance, but unfortunately there wasn't anything we could do to convince them otherwise.”
“W-what are you saying?” I stammered.
“Violet, it's not just this one incident -- it's the purple hair, the anti-establishment attitude, the clothes…. and I still don't think they're over what happened in Arizona.”
“Ughhh but that was almost a year ago!” I groaned. Who would've known that going to a protest would've caused so much trouble? I mean, yeah, I did get charged with assaulting a police officer, but it wasn't that big of a deal… actually, the Arizona incident was the first and only time I'd met Gabriel -- he was the one who pulled the strings to get me off with only probation, which had probably saved my job at the time. Too bad they were going to fire me anyway.
My supervisor went with me to clear out my desk and turn in my keys, then I was left on the corner with a half-empty cardboard box that held memories from the last 3 years: photos of Jason and me, my framed diploma in computer science, a snow globe my mom sent me from her hometown in Oaxaca, the handcuffs my co-worker had used to teach me how to pick a lock. There were even newspaper clippings from the various protests we'd gone to, and one headline that read “anonymous strikes back: hackers reveal truth about wealthy hedge fund manager.” All these memories, all this hard work, and for nothing.
As I stood there on the corner, tears threatened to spill and I had a fierce headache from the hangover. How could I have fucked up so much?