by Olivia Fox
Daddy’s Law
Olivia Fox
If You Think Naughty is Nice…
Before you dive into this delicacy, click link below for a free foray into the magical world of California’s Lost Coast Daddies.
GIMME DADDY
Chapter One
Six Months Ago, Briarville, CA
Looking back, I had to admit stealing a car wasn’t the brightest thing I had ever done.
I was the bad girl.
User.
Hell-raiser.
Thief.
Stealing a car and wrecking it was just supersizing the pattern of bad judgment calls I had been making since I graduated high school. But to say my doing so would surprise fellow citizens of Briarville, not to mention my family, would be a lie.
Let’s be real. I didn’t get smarter when I drank.
That night, rum and Cokes were my ride, and Forest McGuff was my driver. Forest was sweet, a little dumb, and worked at the auto body shop for my sister’s boyfriend, Jax.
Once I got it in my head I wanted to take the Camaro for a spin, it wasn’t hard to convince him, rubbing my horny mess of a hot body all over his, to take me for a joyride.
Ever since I could remember, I got what I wanted out of men. They were all the same. They lusted after me, and I exploited them. It was a symbiotic relationship, which proved over and over again how magical love was.
Not.
McGuff passed out on the armchair as soon as we got inside the garage, but not before putting the keys to the Camaro Z28 in my palm.
Sweet.
I climbed clumsily behind the wheel and headed out of town toward the river. Squinting, I tried to make the passing headlights keep from doubling, and when I had the foggy road to myself; I straddled the centerline so I didn’t drive off the road.
Why was it all men were the same? I used them, and they used me.
Well, except for one. Dad. But dads didn’t count, obviously. Come to think of it, my dad pretty much gave me everything I wanted as well, he just never used me.
These thoughts were suddenly interrupted when I slammed into a telephone pole. “How the hell did that get there?” I asked intelligently before passing the fuck out.
When I woke up, the headlights of the Camaro were still on, illuminating the Z’s totaled hood and curious cows stood lined up in front of it to gawk at the stupid human.
“You all right? You hurt?”
I blinked into the sharp bright of the industrial-sized flashlight. “Get that damn thing out of my eyes!”
“She’s fine all right. Her usual spitfire self.”
Oh shit. The second officer to speak was none other than Charlie. He and I grew up together, and sure as shit he’d be reporting this to Buck.
Buck was my childhood bud, currently stationed in Special Ops overseas. He was the only person I’d ever wanted to live up to. A rock-solid, and I mean very solid, guy I could count on who never gave up on me.
Dammit. This might be enough to make him finally throw in the towel.
“If you blow positive, you are in a heap of trouble, little girl.” Charlie held out the Breathalyzer with one hand and, with the other, reached for my elbow to help me out of the car. I tried to bolt but, in my inebriated state, plopped my ass smack-dab onto a fresh cow patty.
“Nice try,” said Charlie. “Looks like you’re really up shit creek now. Stand up and we’ll get you something to sit on in the patrol car. I just washed it.”
Crap. It looked like; finally, I was going to get the punishment I deserved.
Chapter Two
Six Months Ago, Ghazni Province, Afghanistan
WTF? I just wanted to fly home, take her over my knee, and spank her. That was the first urge I had when I heard what happened, and the impulse didn’t go away.
Dad kept me posted during his phone calls from home. Small-town gossip traveled as far as Afghanistan. Charlie had filled him in on Roxy’s great adventure and relayed he would keep an eye on her while she was in the clink.
I never felt so helpless as when hearing about Roxy being sentenced to jail for her second DUI while I was downrange.
I’d get out of the military before she got out of lockup.
Airforce CCT—combat control team. No idea why the fuck they called it a “team” because a CCT was one person. Dudes like me were dropped all over the world, the first to battle. We were one-man attachments—highly specialized airmen trained in elite warrior skills, jumping into the fight to either save peoples’ asses or destroy them.
Warfare did not allow distractions like badly behaved little girls who needed disciplining. Couldn’t think of that while downrange. She’d made bad decisions, I got it. My inability to protect her from them drove me crazy.
I would deal with Roxy when I returned home.
After I had a chance to chill. Calm down a bit.
It had been two months, and I wasn’t fucking chill.
If I were to deploy myself upon her ass now, she wouldn’t sit down for a week. For the majority of my overseas tour, if I wasn’t in battle or on the way to one, my mind drifted to her. Wondering what guy she was seeing. Whether or not she was still obsessed with pizza and board games. If her dainty figure still resembled a honking goose every time she blew her nose.
That was the Roxy I remembered before proving myself worthy of air force special warfare school. Who knew what she was like now?
My whole reason for entering the service was to make something of myself so I would be worthy of her.
I was looking forward to small-town boredom again. “Regular life.” Not sure I’d ever be able to feel normal again after Afghanistan.
My pal Charlie let me know my time at the local police academy could be reduced, given the specialized training I received in the military. I’d be graduating the police academy two months before Roxy got out, leaving plenty of time to get Mom and Dad settled into a local assisted-living facility.
Long enough to graduate as a cop and prepare to teach someone a lesson. To make her see she was meant to be my little girl, and I was her daddy.
Countdown to Roxy’s Release
Sixty days, seven hours, nine minutes, three seconds
Back in good ole U.S. of A.
Still not sleeping through the night.
Still on high alert.
Times I masturbated to orgasm today: three.
Day wasn’t over yet.
Jack-off topic: Hearing Roxy finally say to me, “Fine, I’ll behave,” after punishing her for putting herself in danger and making me watch her parade herself in front of every hot-blooded male in this town every damn day of her life since hitting puberty.
I was a warrior trained in saving lives. I would make her pay for putting herself in danger at a place and time I couldn’t rescue her.
She’d see how restrained I’d remain while making her stutter, whimper, and hide her face.
Countdown to Roxy’s Release
Twenty-nine days, eleven hours, thirty-three minutes, fifty-one seconds
Times I masturbated to orgasm today: four.
If she didn’t suck my dick soon, I was going to pull it off from so much jacking.
Jerk-off topic: punishing Roxy until she called me “sir” while I disciplined her. Teaching her who’s boss. Hearing her say, “Sorry, Daddy, I’ve been bad.”
Me telling her how pretty she looks on her knees.
Oh fuck, five.
Roxy’s Release Countdown
Six hours, five minutes, ten seconds
Times I masturbated to orgasm today: six.
I needed to make sure I was in control when I picked up my princess.
>
Jerk-off topic: me pulling her hair and dragging her to the bedroom. “Time for Daddy to punish his naughty little girl.”
It was finally the day both of our lives would change.
I was a competitive person; I hit whatever target I aimed at. Roxy would submit and be mine. Forever.
I waited long enough, serving overseas to save all of my regular and combat pay so I could afford to buy my parents’ home and move them into a beautiful, comfortable place where Mom would be safe and Dad could be with her.
I could now afford to take care of the girl I had grown up with, it was time to teach her I was made to be her Daddy Dom and always put her first. She’d thrive under my discipline and reward. It was what she needed.
If I knew Roxy though, she would buck and kick against her restraints before learning to follow orders.
She wouldn’t like losing her freedom.
Not one bit.
Not when she learned she was leaving the slammer only to land in another kind of lockup.
Daddy Penitentiary.
Chapter Three
I could testify orange was definitely not the new black.
Note to self: burn every piece of orange clothing I had as soon as I got my clothes out of storage.
For the first few weeks of my sentence for drunk driving, I spit fire. It probably protected me. I gave off such a hostile vibe, other women in the slammer left me completely alone. My reputation was of a badass without me having to prove it, other than the fact I didn’t speak.
To anyone.
Except my shrink. Those appointments I couldn’t weasel out of as they were supposed to help with my “rehabilitation.” By the second month, I surprised myself by actually looking forward to my sessions. My counselor asked me about my background and family history, and when I shared my sister Chloe’s experience of being diagnosed with bipolar disorder, she explored further and diagnosed me as having unipolar mania.
It meant no extreme lows, but I made up for their lack with high-flying mania: self-centered concerns and attitudes (stealing from my family, not to mention a stranger’s car), inflated self-esteem (pretty sure I was always the best-looking, sexiest B on the block), and extremely poor judgment and reckless behavior (having sex with every cowboy and football player in the tiny town of Briarville and drinking like a fish every night, which landed me my second DUI). My therapist also let me know the disorder could lead to impulsive spending sprees, usually during manic episodes.
Guilty. As. Charged.
At first the meds made me feel groggy and slow, but when my shrink dialed the dose in right, I knew what “normal” felt like for the first time ever.
Boring as shit. Thoughts slow as a snail. 1/1000th as sexy.
On the pro side, it was actually possible to sit quietly and listen, versus popping off at the mouth. The most welcome change was being able to sleep through the night, and I no longer craved alcohol, which had been my only way of calming myself down at night. Pretty sure I could put up with my boring Brenda self just to get a good eight hours sleep.
Insomnia had been my constant companion since upper elementary years. You know what they say about those kinds of friends.
I ditched that bitch, and I’d take these fat-making pills for as long as they helped me sleep. So long as they kicked the high-strung, constant worry I felt about most things right in the ass. I’d become a fan of better living through chemicals—aka my meds.
After half a year of my life slowly slid by in lockup, here it was, the day of my release. I thought it would never arrive, and now that it had, I was scared I wouldn’t be able to handle it.
For starters, I had no place to stay.
Details.
The not so small fact that I was eminently homeless had me worrying practically 24/7 during my stay in the clink.
As these thoughts whorled in my head, the metal door opened to the inmate-release area out of view from the street.
Buck was standing there like a Viking statue. Waiting for me.
“What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be jumping out of an airplane somewhere?” I asked, caught off guard in part because I still wore the clubbing outfit I had on when admitted to jail. The getup was totally out of place in this sterile, slightly shabby institution. Not to mention, it was now way too small. Mania was good for one thing, if nothing else: burning calories.
I was such a jerk. I hadn’t seen Buck in years, and the first thing I did was sass him. “I mean, sorry, it’s just a huge surprise to see you here. I didn’t even know you were back.”
“For two months now. Honorably discharged and fresh outta the police academy. I knew today was the day you were getting out, and I have a few connections on the inside. I was able to figure out when you'd be released and thought you might like a ride.” His voice was grumbly, the tone like single malt whiskey, and the sound made my stomach swoop and my pussy clinch.
“Doesn't answer my question. What are you doing here?”
“Watch your tone with me, little girl. I’ve waited six months to see you get safely out of there. Not being able to keep you safe, not knowing if you were eating right the entire time. I'm here to take you home.”
His stern concern caught me off guard. “Well, you must have missed the memo. I don't have a home. I know my family doesn't want to see me, and I lost my apartment. That’s what happens when you treat people like shit for long enough.”
“Maybe I didn't make myself clear. You're coming home with me.” He grabbed my wrist and pulled me out the door. He didn't hurt me, but there was no escaping his grip, which felt like an iron clamp around my forearm.
Ridiculously, I skittered after him on five-inch heels while wearing a cocktail dress with cleavage down to my belly button and a hemline, which stopped just under my now ample ass cheeks. Great, Roxy. You really have a knack for dressing for the occasion.
“You can't just take me to your house. In case you weren't aware, taking someone captive is called ‘kidnapping’ and it’s illegal. Besides, I don't have my stuff.”
“Not important. What matters is you'll be safe with me. I can buy whatever you need.”
Buck and I had known each other since elementary school, and it was a little bit weird having lustful, floozy flashes flame throughout my body, brought on by the guy I used to build Tinkertoy castles with. He was a far cry from that little boy now. Every inch of him screamed masculinity and muscle and honestly. It wasn't the worst thing I could think of being dragged off to his home.
“Look, I'm on parole. One of the things I learned in jail is I’ve got to equip myself to be independent and take care of myself. I don't need you to rescue me!”
Maddeningly, his gigantic shoulders bounced up and down with his laughter at my statement.
“What?” I asked, unable to hide my outrage.
“It's funny you think you actually have a say in this. Where have your choices gotten you so far, Roxy?”
Okay, he had a point.
Six months in jail had spun my head right around and helped me see how selfish I had been since my mom passed away. I had inflicted harm on the people I loved most all because I couldn't accept Mom had died. I was so very angry. I lived and breathed fury.
Okay, fury fueled by frickin’ mania. Who knew? Being a belligerent bitch wasn’t necessarily my fault, but it didn’t excuse my behavior toward others.
“You're right,” I said. “I thought I knew so much, when really I didn't know anything at all. My stupidity landed me in jail, but I honestly think it might have been the best thing to ever happen to me. I was just so full of anger, you know?”
Mortifyingly, I began to cry. It wasn't the pretty, “dabbing at the edge of your eye with a hanky” type crying either. It was an outburst of tears coming from deep inside my chest. I couldn't do anything to stop the sobs, and my nose began to drip.
Super attractive.
“Shhhh, come on and let Daddy take care of you, baby girl. You've had it rough. You just nee
d a break is all.”
Buck opened the door of his Dodge Charger and actually scooped me up like a helpless maiden and set me down on the seat. He pulled a pack of tissues from his glove compartment and held one up for me to blow on. Oh God, all of my defenses were down. No makeup, my hair wasn't done, and I was wearing this ridiculous, too small dress in the middle of the day. What else did I have to lose? Honk! I blew vigorously into the Kleenex.
I was weak and emotionally spent. I blew it all out—all of my regret, all of my sadness, and all of my shame.
Oh sure, they would be back for a visit. But for a moment, I felt empty. Calm. Safe.
He stood up to his full six-foot-five height and smiled down on me. “Better?”
I nodded feebly, and he kissed my forehead. His tender kindness made me melt, even if I was still unsure of what the hell we were doing. Buck had never shown an ounce of interest—as in boy likes girl interest—toward me before.
Oh, trust me, I had tried. None of my wiles ever seemed to penetrate his armor. This was curiouser and curiouser.
“Well, okay then, let's go home,” he said.
“Your house is so pretty with the new paint job.” The outside was a typical Victorian without the fancy gingerbread detail. The square lines were masculine, painted gray with cream-colored trim. It had a huge front porch with two glide rockers placed just so from which to enjoy the small-town goings-on.
We stepped into the foyer of Buck’s house. Of course he explained he just bought it from his parents with his savings from the military so they could use the sale proceeds for their residence in a quality assisted-living facility. He was always so sensible. Fresh from overseas and already a police officer. Entering the military when he was hardly old enough to vote. I thought he was boring at the time, but today, walking onto the gleaming hardwood of his immaculately clean floors, he was safe and reliable—two qualities I used to think of as dull. Now they had great appeal.
