by Smith, Maren
He let go of her hair only when she bent her head to unfasten the buttons on her jacket. She would have left it in a heap on the floor, except he was neater than that. He made her fold it and put it on the coffee table, and while she obeyed, he shifted himself to the middle of the couch, bringing himself to perch upon the edge, with his long legs drawn up to make a very capable lap. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, and her fingers never once stopped wringing at one another when he snapped his fingers and pointed to the floor by his right knee.
“Stand right here.”
Standing, fingers still fidgeting, she closed the distance between them with a single small step and stood where she was supposed to.
“Take off your shirt,” he told her. “Before I leave, I’ll take care of that stain and get it put in the wash.”
She looked down at herself, startled, and then a flicker of something else moved across her face. She hesitated, and Ommin wasn’t such a social outcast that he didn’t know why. She thought he was going for a cheap thrill. On the one hand, he was going to see her boobs, and yes, somewhere deep inside him, Ommin the Perverted Sharkman was rearing his horny head. But it wasn’t just her boobs that he wanted, and it was important to him that she know that.
“Look at me,” he said and, twisting at her fingers, she did. “That guy you interviewed at the station, that’s still me. If you want to take a step back, I’ll understand, I won’t pressure you to do otherwise, and I won’t be mad. But if you want to take a step forward, then I’m going to have to ask you for a little bit of trust.”
She strangled her fingers just a half second longer, and then bent her head again and quietly unbuttoned her blouse. “Bra too?” she asked, as she slipped the garment off her shoulders.
“No, that stays on,” he said as he took her blouse from her and tucked it up beside him. “The skirt, on the other hand—”
She looked down at herself, and her blush deepened to a slow, cherry red.
“—that’s coming off, too. Coffee table,” he directed when her wide eyes found his again.
She hesitated, but not as long as she had over the blouse. Then her hands crept to the side zipper and the skirt came down. She folded it neatly, probably to delay the inevitable for as long as she could. The skirt was only so big, though. Eventually, she had nothing left to fidget with, and so ended up right back in that spot he’d ordered her to at his right knee.
“Do you know why I told you to strip down to this?” he asked.
She was back to wringing her fingers. “B-because you want to see me half naked?”
He almost said no, except he’d be lying if he did. Ommin caught himself, and then decided not to correct her. “Because I want you to know that this is what’s going to happen when Daddy has to spank you for real. I don’t want to be in a relationship where every time I say no, you start pushing to see how far you have to go before I’ll spank you. When this Daddy says he’s going to spank you, unless you’ve been a good girl, I need you to know it’s not going to be the kind of spanking you’ll want. And considering your reaction just now, I think maybe you need to know that too.”
Her nipples were tight little buds, jutting against the confines of her bra the way his cock was pushing against his fly. She’d also shivered again while he’d been talking, and goosebumps now peppered all up and down her arms.
“I’ll take you seriously,” she promised.
“I know you will.” He patted his lap. “Over my knee.”
As playful as she’d been when she’d been down on her knees before him, that was how hesitant she became as she stood contemplating his lap. Britney was slender and slight, and compared to that, his lap was more than sturdy enough to hold her and the whole of his hand could almost cover her entire bottom.
She wanted a spanking. He was going to give it to her.
The trick was, giving it to her in a way that made her still want to call him Daddy afterward.
Visibly steeling herself to endure, Britney lowered herself into position over his knees. She wiggled until she was comfortable, at which point he promptly shifted her across his lap, spreading his legs just enough so that her feet lost contact with the floor.
“Oh!” She grabbed his ankle for balance.
“No kicking,” he told her, “and keep your hands down, unless you want to make this worse.”
He’d read that in a sample chapter earlier, but that was also where the sample chapter and his education in how Daddies gave spankings ended. Still, it wasn’t rocket science, was it? And God, did she ever have a round and bouncy butt, every curve of which was amplified by the baby-blue, hip-hugging boy shorts she was wearing.
He touched her bottom, because of course he did. He had to. And it wasn’t misogynistic at all that he did so. Spankings by their very nature involved butt touching. Plus, she’d asked for this.
Still, as he measured the flat of his hand against the seat of her panties, like the very last pea rattling around the bottom of a serving pot, his only thought was: I’m touching Britney Collin’s backside. And he wouldn’t even go to jail for it.
He rubbed. He wouldn’t go to jail for that, either.
Gearing himself up, he raised his arm and gave her a soft, experimental swat. Her bottom cheeks bounced, and Britney jerked, although not in a ‘that’s too hard’ sort of way, but more like a ‘what, that’s it?’
“Oh,” she said, the lightness in her tone not quite masking what his ears could only interpret as disappointment. “That wasn’t so bad.”
It wasn’t bad at all. His hand felt nothing but electrified by this utterly forbidden, intoxicatingly erotic act, although his ears did take exception to the disappointment. Glancing at the back of her head in time to see her shoulders droop, he readjusted himself to mean business and tried again.
This time, the sharp crack of his hand bouncing off her delectable ass popped like a small firecracker. She gasped and grabbed his leg all over again. Her back bowed, an act that made her hips also arch, lifting her round bottom as if in a silent, slightly squirming plea for ‘oh yes, more, just like that please.’
Ommin gave her exactly that. More. Lots more. He peppered the whole of her ass with swats and smacks of varying force, all depending on the breathiness of her gasps, sighs, and the wriggling of her hips.
It was magical. In growing wonder and satisfaction, he watched as the flesh around the elastic bands of her underwear turned the most beguiling shade of pink. Imprints of his fingers flushed all around the blushing edges of her bottom. He made it his mission to paint those fingerprints in, to erase all trace of milky whiteness from the curves of her round flesh and the tops of her thighs. And the more he painted, the more she writhed.
Her gasps became mews. Her breathy sighs turned to grunts and squeals, both of which she attempted to mute, first behind closed lips and then behind gritted teeth. And the more enthusiastically her bottom wriggled, then bucked, and finally ground in franticness upon his knee, the more enthusiastically he spanked her. His swats fell faster. And then harder. And then harder and faster both together, until her feet were fighting not to kick and her toes scrambled against the floor, digging against the woodgrain.
“Oh!” Her hands were fists, grabbing at the excess fabric of his jeans in an attempt not to snap back behind her in ever-increasing desperation to thwart his aim.
Because that would be a no-no. He’d only been reading about spanking women for one day, but already he knew that much.
His hand was starting to hurt, but he wasn’t about to stop. This was way more fun than he’d thought it would be. The entire surface of her bottom blazed with a heat so fiery hot he could feel it right through the thin cloth of her panties. Her legs were scissoring now, flashing him peek-a-boo glimpses of the cotton-clad furrow of her sex. The full, fleshy lips were swollen with desire, the way he was swollen. Hard as a damn post. Pushing back against the confines of his jeans in its own wayward attempt to do a little touching of its own.
“Oh! No!” Her hand snapped back, palm up in defense of her luscious ass.
Catching her wrist, he pinned it to her hip, out of his way. As if that additional bit of naughtiness were all he’d been waiting for, he hooked the back of her panties and skinned his target bare.
She yelped when he started again, vigorous smacks of his open hand flattening her cringing bottom cheeks until her feet were kicking up, her trapped hand flexed and clawed at the air, and she all but danced upon his knee in the thrall of a pain as fierce as only well-spanked women knew it could be.
She tossed her hair, throwing back her head and crying out, “Daddy! Daddy, no!” She burst into tears. “I’ll never touch your penis again!”
Not… quite what he was going for.
Stopping, Ommin caught her hot bottom in his equally hot hand, holding and rubbing until the mercifully brief storm of her sobs abated. He squeezed, gently bringing back the tender squirms and breathy moans again. The tips of his fingers wandered, playing along the dip of her thighs, skimming down into shadow between with every up and downward caress. Getting closer and closer to fires of a wholly different kind. The wet kind. The kind he couldn’t help wanting to touch. Fingertips drifting closer, once more taking his cues from her, he managed to wait until she sighed and shifted her feet apart, opening her thighs and tilting up her hips in shy offering.
Slipping down into the crack of her blushing bottom, he brushed the plump wet furrow of her pussy. She was slick. She was hot. She was the first woman he’d ever touched like this, but if there was a learning curve, he knew he’d aced it when she stiffened, soft breath catching, hips twitching, legs jerking as if trying to snap shut. They never fully did, but he swatted her for it anyway. One last hard clap of his hand to the center of her hot butt.
“Bedroom,” he ordered. “Right now, young lady.”
Her face was blushing almost as fiercely as her bottom when she pushed up off his knees. Averting her eyes, she tried to pull her panties back up, but stopped when he said, “Don’t you dare.”
Biting her bottom lip, she shyly, beguilingly, took her underwear the rest of the way off. Standing there in only her bra, she touched her legs, her hips, her belly with shy hands that never once tried to cover her nakedness from his view. He could smell her arousal, but as if unsure quite how to express that feeling, she stood before him as if too embarrassed to move and took off her bra.
She touched her breast, lightly plucking the tip of one already tightly budded nipple as he stood up.
“Bedroom,” he ordered again, but only because he didn’t know the way, and she deserved better than to be laid out right here on the living room floor. How he managed to keep his hands off her as he followed the beckoning sway of her hips upstairs and down the hall to the white-carpeted master bedroom, he had no idea. With every step, his desire became a living, breathing, primal thing. He wasn’t just following her across the threshold and toward her bed, he was stalking her. And when she paused at the foot of it and turned to him for further direction, he let her feel just how hungry a predator he could be, catching her in his arms, filling his hands with her luscious ass and lifting her clean off her feet so she had no choice but to grab on to him for balance.
He drank her gasp of surprise from her lips. He devoured her, kiss after famished kiss, laying her down on her back on the bed while he covered her body in kisses—from lips to breasts, to belly, to thighs. His hands learned every curve and caress of her. His tongue sampled a taste from every part before suckling kisses and tender nips of his teeth left his mark upon them.
Hooking his hands behind her knees, he spread her legs wide and pinned them all the way up to her chest. He loved the smell of her, the taste of her. The buck of her hips and the high-pitched squeaks she made as he made a feast for himself between her wildly shaking thighs. His tongue lashed her, the heat of his mouth closing over her clit to kiss and lick and suckle.
Until she lost herself. Until grabbing hold of the bed no longer anchored her, and she grabbed on to his hair instead, pinning his laughing, attentive mouth in place. She came loud, and she came hard. Grinding herself on his fingers and his tongue until he’d wrung every last shuddering spasm from her.
Keeping his dick in his pants almost killed him, but he wanted so badly to make sure she got what she needed, without crossing any lines, and forever shaking from her mind any and all previous Daddies who might have come before him.
“Just FYI, Daddy,” she whispered, panting, limp, and so exhausted that she couldn’t seem even to open her eyes once he lay her legs back down again. “I am totally down for butt stuff when I’ve been bad.”
He really…
… really…
… liked that about her.
Chapter 5
Ommin awoke in his own bed with the scent of Britney still in his nose, the taste of her still on his tongue, and his cock still hard as a rock. It might have been a piss-hardon at this point, but he doubted it. He also woke up in his own damn bed, because he’d known, honorable intentions aside, he would not have stayed off her if he’d stayed at her house last night. No way. No how. Because, with a woman like Britney—all naked, warm, willing, and half asleep beside him?—of course, he wouldn’t.
No one would.
So, he’d waited until she was asleep, then quietly texted, ‘Thank you for a magical night’ on her phone, and then called a cab to take him home.
He was proud of himself for that. When next he talked to Britney, he could hold his head high, confident in the knowledge that, while he might be horny as hell right now, he hadn’t been a jerk, an ass, or (judging by her responses) a rotten lay.
What if you never talk to her again, his subconscious whispered. ‘Once you go fish, you never go back’ was not a saying anybody knew and for a very good reason.
Arousal dying a slow and discouraging death, Ommin lay in bed for a long time, staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom, and trying not to let himself get depressed. If last night was a fluke, then so be it. He’d roll with that blow when and if it came, because that was just the way his life went, and it was his own damn fault for not keeping that in mind to begin with. Britney was gorgeous. She was fantastic. She had been a great time and he’d remember her for—
His cell phone came buzzing to life on the bedside table beside him. The screen lit up.
It was Britney.
Ommin whipped over to grab it so fast, his erection didn’t have time to bend. He stabbed the mattress and damn near killed himself.
Grabbing between his legs with one hand, he also grabbed the phone and, although the pain of it made him sound half strangled, he answered on the third ring. He was proud of that. “Hello?”
“It’s dead!” Britney all but sobbed into the phone.
Pain forgotten, Ommin rose onto his knees. “What’s dead?”
Because while it wasn’t entirely off the table, it was a little early in the relationship for him to want to hide bodies for her.
“My car!” she wailed in a voice that didn’t quite sound normal for her. Rather, it seemed a little too high pitched… a little too childish, even before she cried, “How will I get to work tonight if I don’t have my car? Daddy, help!”
She’d called him Daddy. His heart warmed. He smiled.
Plus, no actual bodies were involved.
Reaching for his pants, he headed for the bathroom to take care of business while he got the minor details. “All right, honey, calm down.”
“Okay,” she said, making an audible effort to calm.
“Deep breaths,” he said.
She sniffled. “Okay.”
“What’s it doing?” He muted the phone so she wouldn’t hear him peeing.
“Nothing,” Britney said. “I’m turning the key and it just sits here and doesn’t sputter or click or anything.”
He unmuted long enough to ask, “Are you late for work?”
“Not yet. I’m late for shopping though. I was going to get a coffee and breakfast.�
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“Okay, well, go back inside. Make coffee and breakfast instead. I’m on my way.”
She was still calling him Daddy.
He hung up the phone before breaking into an impromptu dance of pure joy. Once that was out of his system, he hurried to get dressed. No time for coffee; he’d grab some once he got to her house. Pocketing his wallet and housekeys, he grabbed what few tools he had (none of which were meant for working on cars, since he didn’t own one, but which he could hopefully make due with) and then he was out the door.
Or at least, he would have been out the door if he hadn’t opened it to find Liquidman standing there, dressed exactly as he had been the day before, with a flat of four coffees and a bakery sack balanced on his arm. How long he’d been standing there, was anyone’s guess, but from the looks of it, he’d drunk two of the coffees and was munching on a croissant when Ommin almost ran into him.
“What th—” Ommin jumped back.
Jim recovered from his surprise first and brightened with a smile. “Good morning!”
“What are you—” Catching himself lest he sound half as irritated as he suddenly felt, Ommin quickly grabbed both door and threshold before the smaller man could barge in past him. If Jim even noticed, his grin never showed it. “How long have you… Were you waiting for me to get up?”
“Only about forty minutes,” Jim said, then hefted the bakery bag. “Croissant?” he enticed, with extra emphasis on the ‘quah’.
“Thank you, no.”
“There used to be blueberry scones,” he said, then sheepishly admitted, “I ate them. Coffee?”
Ommin opened his mouth to refuse, then reconsidered. What the hell. “Sure.”
Jim grinned, happily backing up so Ommin could shut and lock his apartment door. “Where are we going?”
“I,” he emphasized, “am going to a friend’s house. Her car won’t start.”
“Is this the same friend”—Jim waggled his eyebrows, falling into step beside him as he headed for the stairs—“that you met for coffee last night?”
