by Smith, Maren
She wanted his pants off? Fine, but that meant his belt came off first. Slithering out of his pants loops in two sharp yanks, and before he put more than a wary thought to it, he had it doubled in his hand and was laying the first of three solid snaps across her wriggling bottom.
She gasped again, sharper this time. On the second crack of leather to skin, she arched her back, bucking and grinding her hips in an expression of pain every bit as instinctive as the decisions moving him now.
“Daddy!” she cried, but he gave her the third whipping stroke even harder than before.
“Do not,” he repeated, “tell me no. Not when we’re in bed and especially not when you don’t mean it.”
Her knees banged the washing machine, but her only response was another shrill gasp, followed by a low, near guttural moan as he bent and bit, sinking his teeth into one of the fast-flushing marks his belt had made. Spreading her legs wide, he went in. That first taste was heaven. She opened to him like a flower, the folds of her parting to the lash of his tongue. Her knees and forehead both clanged against the metal of the machine as she rolled her hips and curled her toes.
“Oh!” she panted, pushing back against the sucking, licking, and punishing nips of his mouth.
He was gentle, but he was hungry. He liked the sense of power her wanton cries gave him. She danced for him as if she just couldn’t bring herself to hold still. Her thighs shook; her whole body shook—for him. The more he feasted on her, the more pronounced that shaking became and the more fervent his desire grew.
He broke away from her succulent flesh. Yanking her up off the battered washing machine, he dropped her to the floor, head down, hands behind her back, lovely ass striped with belt weals propped up in the air as she scrambled to get her knees under her.
He held on to her bound wrists so she couldn’t squirm away. It was the tether by which he pulled her back into position and sank his fingers into her. Two fingers had been a nice fit last night, but Little girls who tell Daddy no get three fingers and no mercy tonight.
As far as punishments went, it was utterly ineffective. The harder he pumped her, the louder she cried and wilder she became, trying to ride his hand. He smacked his fingers into her until the sharp, staccato sounds of it seemed more like spanking than sex. Until her sweet pussy milked him, twitching and clutching at him, shaking like her legs were shaking. Until that hard, involuntary shudder ripped her delicious body taut and the slick heat of her sex spasmed, saturating his hand with the force and fluid of her orgasm.
“No,” she moaned, half sobbing. “Oh, I wanted you in me.”
She wasn’t giggling any more, but her pussy was too wet, too swollen, and too damned delicious for him to care.
He didn’t take his pants off. There wasn’t time for that.
“When Daddy says, not before,” he growled, letting go of her hands and grabbing hold of her hair instead.
He wasn’t sure if the shrillness of her cry was due to that shift in his grip or to the length and girth of him as he shoved himself inside her. His fingers had opened her, but she was such a little woman and he was, well… he was Ommin. And it was the first time he’d ever put himself inside a woman. She was so hot, so wet, so unbelievably tight—like a molten fist that spasmed all around him as he sank as deeply into her as he could go.
“Oh!” She arched on him, forced to take every inch.
She wasn’t protesting.
He pulled out, just so he could slam up into her again and feel once more every luxurious spasm of her body as she welcomed his invasion.
His arm wrapped her hips, hugging her tight. Letting go of her hair, he caught her throat instead, holding her securely. She could struggle if she wanted, wiggle, squirm, arch her hips in any way that might lessen the pressure as he began to thrust—hard, slow, as deep as he could make himself reach—but little girls who wanted Daddy’s cock did not get to protest when they got it.
And he liked this.
He liked every nuance of this.
He liked when she squirmed—sometimes as if she really did want to get away, most of the time, as if she couldn’t feel enough of him.
He loved the sounds she made, the pitch and tone of each one growing in volume and desperation, from breaths to pants to mewls to cries as she neared her next climax.
He could feel the beating of her heart all along the length of his cock.
He could feel the fluttering of her muscles as she bucked and rolled and ground her hips back against him.
Her fingers were clawing at his belly, her bound hands preventing her from grabbing him as he pulled out of her or yanking him back in close again.
“Come on my cock,” he begged her, needing to feel that ultimate rush. That ultimate proof that she wanted this.
Wanted him.
“Come on Daddy’s cock,” he commanded, every inch of his body vibrating to the rushing fury of his own building pleasure. It was washing over him, a tidal wave of force and fury centered in the piston thrusts of his hips as he took her.
She threw her head back against his shoulder, arching into his embracing, shouting out as the spasms came again. “Oh!” Her body locked on his cock, milking him for all that she was worth. Taking him.
Accepting him.
Welcoming the furious rush of ecstasy that tore through him, like nothing he had ever felt before and draining him absolutely dry. He had nothing left to spill into her. The frantic pumping of his hips exhausted itself, and soon it became all that he could do not to fold straight over on the floor, collapsing on top of her like only so much useless meat.
It was a long time before he came back to himself enough to realize he was shaking. Growling, too. His throat felt raw and tight from it.
He must have bitten her shoulder. He could make out the mark of his teeth in her softly bruising skin.
And he’d forgotten the condom again.
God damn it.
She made a sound, and it was that sound that snapped him back to himself enough to realize he was still holding her throat.
He let go, grateful to see he hadn’t shut off her breathing or even squeezed enough to leave the imprint of his fingers on the milky paleness of her neck.
“What did you say?” he asked.
“P-please un-untie m-my hands,” she whispered again.
He’d taken it too far. She’d felt so good in his arms, but he’d hurt her and he’d taken it way too far.
Unable to look at the mark his teeth had left, Ommin forced himself to let her go. He released her in slow degrees, untying her hands and lowering her gently until she could support herself.
She folded over limply, bracing herself on hands and knees, panting. Her eyes were shut. She said nothing, but he knew she would soon enough.
For the rest of his life, he would always remember how good it had been to hold her, because it wasn’t ever going to happen again. Because, he was Ommin and of course it wouldn’t. Good things like this never happened to him.
“Mmm.” Moving with somnambulistic slowness, she reached down between her legs to lay her hand over her pussy.
She rubbed.
He should apologize, but how did one even begin to find the words for what he’d just done? Hesitantly, not sure if he should even touch her, he lay his hand on her back, willing her to be comforted.
“My shoulder hurts,” she whispered.
He caressed her, so appalled at himself that he almost couldn’t bear to look at her. And when he did, he almost whiplashed himself with the double-take that got his attention. She was spreading her pussy lips open with her fingers. On purpose.
For him.
“Again, Daddy,” she sighed. “Do me like that again.”
Ommin stared at her, shaken to the core all over again.
“Again,” she softly begged, though she looked boneless and practically half asleep.
He swallowed hard, and then he grabbed her. He yanked her up off the floor, hugging her as close as she could come. Her head
rolled back onto his shoulder as he rocked her. There was probably something in the rules about Daddies not letting their Littles see them cry, so he buried his face in her hair and made sure she wouldn’t hear the shift in his breathing or feel so much as a single tear fall upon her. One or two might have landed on the toothy bruise darkening on her shoulder.
“Again, Daddy,” she whispered, her back to his chest, limp as a doll in his embrace, already falling asleep. “Again…”
He loved that about her.
Chapter 7
Ommin lay beside Britney in her bed, because it was a lot more comfortable than the floor. She was naked. So was he now. After carrying her to bed and laying her down, he’d tried to be stern with himself. He’d tried to be respectful, but he just couldn’t make himself leave the room so she could sleep in peace.
There were no chairs in her bedroom. There were chairs in the kitchen he could have relocated to her bedside without any difficulty, but he hadn’t wanted to be gone that long. So, he told himself he’d just sit beside her, just so he could watch her sleep. Just in case she woke up and decided that everything that had happened in the laundry room had been a mistake after all. If she did and he was just sitting at her bedside, then at least he won’t have compounded his sins.
But sitting by her had proved impossible. Not when lying beside her was an option, so he could be right there, watching her sleep from mere inches away rather than feet.
So, he’d lain down. On top of the covers, to keep it respectful.
At first.
But slipping under the covers so he could share her warmth taunted him with its proximity.
If he kept his clothes on, then it wouldn’t be as terrible as if he were naked and they were skin to skin. That would have been too much. That would have invited disaster and he was already fairly certain he perched on that particular cusp as it was. Because he was him; and she was her; and she could have had anyone she wanted, and he’d fucking cried after having sex. He was pretty sure when that made it to the ten o’clock news, his superhero status would be permanently revoked.
But it wasn’t on the ten o’clock news yet, and even as he carefully folded back the sheets, already he’d been kicking off his shoes.
Because nobody got into bed with their shoes on.
And then it was weird lying down in someone else’s bed with socks still on.
And since he was now every bit as naked as she was, that pretty much said everything it needed to about his willpower where holding Britney was concerned. He was done giving himself edicts about what he would and wouldn’t do in regards to her.
So, he lay there, skin to perfect skin, watching her sleep in a way he was pretty sure any sane person would find creepy as hell, and wanting nothing more than to will every detail of her face to memory. Just in case.
He was gently brushing her hair back from her face so it wouldn’t tickle her nose when his cell phone rang. Crap. He wasn’t even sure where his phone was, but he never got the chance to shut it off before her eyes snapped open. He froze, but they were stomach to stomach and face to face. There was no way she could not have noticed him.
“Hey,” Britney said, her initial startled expression melting into a sleepy smile.
Melting himself now too, he almost smiled back. “Hey, yourself.”
His phone rang again.
“Who is it?” she asked.
Someone who was about to get their head bitten off for disturbing this.
Rolling over, he threw the blanket aside and searched the mess he’d made of his clothes on the floor until he found his phone.
She wolf-whistled when he bent to pick it up.
“Hello,” he said into the phone, giving Britney a Look. It was hard to pretend to be annoyed when inside he was this tickled.
“Is this Mr. Jones?” the woman on the other side said.
And there went pretending.
His hackles immediately rose. “Yes,” he said, having every expectation this was another reporter. In which case, he really was going to bite someone’s head off. Maybe even literally. Sharkman style.
“Hi, I’m a nurse at Kaiser hospital. We have a Mr. Jim… Liquidman here and he’s ready to go home.”
Ommin blinked, abruptly robbed of his annoyance as he tried to puzzle out why he ought to care. “Jim’s ready to be picked up?”
“The police gave us your number,” the woman on the phone said, as if that should make a difference. She then followed it up by saying, “We can’t release him except in the custody of a family member or friend.”
Oh God. Ommin didn’t quite roll his eyes, but he did sigh and glare at the ceiling. “Right,” he said.
Well, the guy had brought him coffee and croissants.
Plus, the only reason he’d been hit in the first place was because he’d offered to take him to Britney’s and spare him the cab ride.
“All right,” he said heavily. “I’m on my way.”
Disconnecting the call, he looked at his phone, wishing he’d never gotten the silly thing.
Now he had to put his clothes back on and leave.
“What’s wrong?”
Turning, he saw Britney sitting up in bed, the sheet wrapped so it concealed all the parts of her that he wished weren’t covered, hugging her knees to her chest. “Remember that guy I told you about?”
She mimed popping like a balloon, complete with finger waggles that simulated a water-droplet shower falling all over the bedspread.
“That’s the one,” he said, trying not to smile. “He’s ready to be discharged from the hospital.”
“Oh.” She brightened. “Okay, I’ll drive.”
“You don’t have to. I can take the bus.”
The last time someone had offered to drive him somewhere, he’d been hit by runaway bank robbers. But she was already rolling out of bed in search of fresh clothes.
“I don’t mind,” she cheerfully argued. “It’ll give us more time together. Plus, I’m faster than the bus, and we can get burgers on the way. I’m starving.”
Burgers did sound good.
And she was right, even with a stop at Causwell’s for food, he definitely got there faster than the bus. They even picked up an extra burger and fries for Jim.
“Because hospital food sucks,” she said, and Ommin paid for everything. He wasn’t about to let Britney drive and pay for him too. And Jim had got breakfast that morning, anyway.
Within forty minutes of the phone call, they pulled into Kaiser Permanente parking garage. Busy as the hospital was, they circled the lot five times before they found a freshly vacated parking space. Inside the emergency room, it was even worse. Standing room only, with more than forty people waiting to be seen, filling up the waiting room chairs and resting on gurneys that lined the hallways. Fortunately, they were just picking up.
“You’re here for the weird guy,” a nurse on duty said when they stopped at her desk to ask for directions. “Yes, I know where he is. Through these doors and straight down the hall. Last room on the left.”
Ommin could feel the look she gave their backs as they walked off in the direction she’d pointed. That didn’t bode well. On the other hand, how often did this (or any) hospital receive patients capable of spontaneously bursting into puddles? He supposed he could forgive her reserve regarding the unexpected ‘weirdness’ that was Jim.
Crowded as the place was, they found Jim by himself in a medical examining room meant for three. Hooked up to an IV drip, he was also on a heart monitor with a bright red, flashing display and some pretty strange readings. Ommin wasn’t a doctor, but he’d seen pulse patterns on TV before and none of those looked anything like Jim’s. Still, whatever was wrong with his heart must have been normal for him, because they’d shut the volume off and no one was hovering over his bedside in a panic.
“Hey,” Ommin said, as he and Britney walked in.
Jim lay where he was on the examining table, a puddle of drips on the floor all around his bed. His clothes
and the white paper beneath him were visibly wet. He stared at the television mounted on the wall opposite of his bed, the station turned to the news but the volume muted.
“How you feeling?” Ommin tried again.
By way of an answer, Jim picked up the remote attached to his bed and turned the volume on the TV on.
“This is just amazing,” the male broadcaster was saying to his female companion.
“It sure is, Mike,” the female replied. “For everyone who hasn’t yet seen it, the footage we’re about to play is that of local superhero, Ommin the Sharkman, when earlier this morning he stopped two men fleeing the scene of a bank robbery…”
With a click, Jim shut the volume off again. Staring nowhere but at the TV, he sighed. Heavily. Through his nose.
“I hope you don’t think I had anything to do with that,” Ommin said, while the news footage of him yanking open the already crashed car door just as the police showed up played across the television screen.
“No,” Jim said calmly. “No. I know you didn’t. No more than I did, anyway. It’s just…” Brow furrowing, he rolled his head on the wet examination paper, casting a frustrated glare to the ceiling. “It’s just not fair, you know.”
Ommin started to nod, but Jim cut him off.
“Don’t,” he said sharply. “Don’t pretend that you know, because you don’t. I lost my bike today.”
Yeah, Ommin could see bits of it on the footage currently being shown on the news. It was scattered all over the street, including underneath the car where, in the black of the shadows, he could just barely make out movement—Jim slowly pulling himself back together again and gargling.
“I lost my bike,” Jim sadly repeated, “and I got splattered into a million droplets all over the pavement, six cars, nine bystanders, and you. And you ate me.”
Ommin wasn’t looking at Britney, but he could feel the force of her incredulous stare switching from semi-liquidy Jim to him. He didn’t look at her either, but very subtly shook his head. He’d feel guilty about lying to her later. Right now, it was far more important that Jim not see him lying and that she not know he’d eaten another man’s toes.
