Sold as a Domme on Valentine's Day

by Juliana Conners

  Directly recovering from my near miss, I unwrap myself from the bedding and run into the hallway, following the sound of old blue eyes. It’s coming from my winter coat, which is still piled up in the hallway with my snow boots.

  Quickly, I pluck my coat from the floor and grab the phone from one particularly deep pocket. I slide the “answer” bar over just in time. One more ring and the call would’ve been forwarded to voicemail.

  “Hey, Dad,” I say, out of breath.

  I suddenly feel a sense of shame, remembering what I had just been doing. Dad still thinks I’m his innocent, good little girl who doesn’t even know about sex. He doesn’t even think I wear dresses like this. What would he think if he were here?

  I blush, knowing exactly what he would think. He would be shocked that his “little princess” would wear something so revealing. Sometimes I don’t quite know what gets into me.

  “Hello, Princess,” he says. “Sorry for calling so late.”

  He sounds relaxed. Tired. Maybe even a little sad? Or is he a little buzzed?

  “It’s not late at all, Dad,” I say, glancing at the clock on my phone as I head to the kitchen. No more hot chocolate, but some milk and cookies would make a great snack right about now. I’m a curvy girl, and proud of it. Someone’s gotta feed and nurture these hips. “It’s never too late to talk to you, you know that.”

  He doesn’t say anything, so I keep talking.

  “What’s up?” Briefly, I let my attention wander to the ski trip we we’re taking tomorrow. His little Christmas present for me, to make up for missing my birthday last month. “What time are you picking me up to go to Aspen tomorrow, Dad?”

  As I’m talking, I’m open the fridge and grab the milk. I then open the cupboards for my favorite milk glass and favorite Christmas cookie plate. The one we always used to use for Santa. I figure that since I have to live life knowing there is no Santa, my consolation prize would be getting to eat cookies off his plate.

  Dad sighs, and that sigh is enough to have me pausing in my reach for my favorite bag of imported Danish cookies.

  “Are you opening cupboards? I hope you’re making healthy choices when it comes to snacks, honey.”

  “Dad,” I groan, not wanting to hear about one of his pet topics of how I should eat better. “Better” meaning, in his eyes, “a whole lot less.”

  But as he clears his throat in that slightly awkward yet still confident way I’ve heard him do before, I realize he’s about to talk to me about his top favorite thing of all time: why he has to stand me up.

  “About that trip, sweet pea,” he begins, “I’m sorry, but…” He doesn’t even need to finish his sentence. I know what he’s going to say before he says it. I flip open the tab lid on my cookies and grab a bigger handful than I initially planned and put them on my plate.

  “You’re not going to be able to make it,” I finish quietly.

  I spread the cookies out on my plate, deciding to look around for some frosting. Normally the fact that he’s busy with work — with a new secretary or intern, depending on which he’s hired recently — doesn’t bug me. He’s done it so much, for so many years, I stopped caring. Or at least I thought I did.

  But tonight, it bugs me. Big time. Maybe it’s because of the disastrous date-not-date with Kyle, but I’m feeling more emotional. More vulnerable.

  “You’re busy with work, right, Dad?”

  Cupboard after cupboard comes open, but there’s not a drop of frosting anywhere. I hate the quiver to my voice, and the sour tremble in my lips, but I guess I really needed him to keep his word this time. To be there for Christmas, but he isn’t. Not this Christmas, or any others.

  I sniff, sucking back tears I don’t want to fall. I mad at myself for getting this upset when I should have known better than to expect him to actually go on the trip with me.

  “Oh, don’t cry, Princess!” My dad sounds genuinely hurt. Distraught.

  At least he’s not saying anything about how many more cabinets I’m opening.

  I hear his leather chair creak, and I briefly wonder whether he’s alone when he’s calling me, or if he is taking a break from being with his fling of the week to call and cancel on me.

  “Listen. I am really, really sorry,” he says. “But I have to cancel on you.”

  I laugh-cry. “I know.”

  I swipe away a fat tear from beneath eye, making sure it won’t fall, before reaching for a cookie. After opening every cupboard, I finally find a jar of something to dip it in. It’s not frosting. It’s hazelnut and chocolate spread, but it will do. I sweep the cookie through the sugary goodness and then take a bite.

  “You’ve got a lot of important work to do.” I don’t mean to, but a bit of venom shoots out with my words. A sizeable amount of bitterness sits on my lips despite the sweet hazelnut and chocolate coating my tongue. “I guess I know why you let me keep your ticket here for you. Just in case you couldn’t make it, right?”

  He sighs. Groans. “You have every right to be upset with me, Princess. You do. But this really is important work I’ve got to get done. If I want a whole new batch of clients going into the new year, I have to get this paperwork done before Christmas.”

  I hear another sigh, and this one sounds nothing like my dad. A lot like a woman’s, though. I let the sound sit there.

  “I don’t want to go by myself though.”

  If I wanted to spend Christmas alone, I’d just stay here. I swipe another bit of cookie through the dip and eat. I’d go to a bar and pick up a guy. Maybe two and make them open me like a present and stuff me like a stocking.

  I can’t even believe these thoughts are popping into my head. I guess I feel mad enough at my dad that I want to do something wild and crazy to get back at him—not that he’d even know, though. And even if he did find out it’s not like he’d care.

  Dad’s words break up my thoughts like paper in a shredder. “So, invite a friend, sweetie.” A pause. “Maybe that Mariah girl.”

  He clears his throat, flipping through something on his desk. “Your grades are barely keeping you from being expelled. Maybe if you treat that bookworm to a good time, she’ll help you study.”

  I’m kind of surprised he remembers my BFF’s name, let alone anything about her. He’s right —Mariah is good at school, which I suck at it. My eyes wander to the dining table I never use. It’s supposed to double as a study table, but I never use it for that either. The books I bought for the semester are still stacked where I left them. Still wrapped and covered with their purchase receipt.

  “Okay.” I pause, plucking another cookie from the plate. “I’ll invite Mariah, but I’m buying her and myself some new clothes and ski gear, Dad!”

  He says nothing, so I keep pushing my luck. “You owe me at least that much after skipping out on my birthday, and now my ski trip.” I grab my glass and fill it with milk. I drink it deeply, quietly.

  “The make-up for the make-up,” I say, wiping off a milk mustache that coats my upper lip.

  “Whatever you want,” he says. “Whatever will let you know how sorry I am for having to break my promise.”

  “Okay then,” I say because the only good thing about having a neglectful, workaholic father your whole life is that he has plenty of money to throw at me in apology, so I’ve learned to take what I can get. “Thank you, Dad.”

  “You’re welcome, sweetheart.” I can hear him pulling away from the phone. Disengaging from me. “Have fun with your little friend. I’m sure you’ll enjoy Aspen much more with her than you will with me anyway.”

  I sigh. “Sure, Dad.”

  “Got to go, Princess.” I hear a giggle coming from somewhere. “Got to get those clients before Christmas.”

  “Bye, Dad.”

  He hangs up almost before I’ve even finished speaking.

  For a minute, I eat a few more cookies. Drink more milk. Do something to try to get my emotions centered before calling Mariah. It won’t take much for her to worry about me. But
I know a call to her will cheer me up. One good thing to come out of having a shitty, rich dad is being able to take your best friend on a ski trip to a nice resort in Aspen.

  Chapter 5

  Jane

  When I feel as collected as I’m likely to ever be, I stride back to my room and flop on my bed. I dial her number, which is stored in my “favorites.”

  When Mariah picks up, she sounds breathless. A little out of it. But, like me, it seems she’s trying to sound “put together” when she says, “Hey, Jane! What’s going on, girl?’

  I give her what she is expecting. A sugary sweet giggle. Something full of energy. “I was calling to ask you the same thing, lady! What are you doing? Studying?” I pause, feeling the wetness in the back of my gown.

  “A little,” she says.

  In her voice, I can hear embarrassment. Excitement. Something about it sounds nearly sexual.

  “Well, stop it,” I say.

  I pin my phone to my shoulder and go in search of an appropriate suitcase. But not before flicking on the light in my bedroom. “You can study some other time. It’s Christmas break. Time to have fun with your friends.”

  There’s deafening, nerdy silence. I don’t even have to be in her head to know she’s running through lists of what she’s got to do to remain on the Dean’s List. I choose my suitcase and pluck a few nice dresses and sleepwear from hangers while I’m there. Holding them over one arm, I move to my bed.

  “What are you doing over break? Anything exciting?” I ask. I unzip my suitcase and quickly add my dresses and lingerie into the empty belly. Particularly my pink baby doll negligée. “Because I just got off the phone with my dad, and he’s being generous as usual.”

  Mariah doesn’t respond to either piece of information, but I don’t care. I’m making my way to dresser drawers and grabbing more clothes. Fuzzy pants, sweaters, bras, and panties. All cute, all in preparation for some attention, if I’m lucky to get it. My hands full of clothing, I make it back around to my suitcase.

  “He bought me a ticket to Aspen! To the ski resort there,” I add, hoping this will get her attention. Get her out of her head, which I know for sure is where she got stuck. Sometimes Mariah can be too smart for her own good. She needs to let go and live a little.

  “Great,” says Mariah, sounding genuinely happy for me. “Have fun.”

  Neatly and swiftly, I fold my underwear and bras and put them on top of my lingerie and dresses. “I’m not going alone, silly.”

  I giggle, thinking about what it would actually be like for us to vacation together. How cute I could make her look on the slopes. That’s if I could make her wear something like some of the clothes I’m currently folding and putting into my travel bag. I love Mariah, but a t-shirt and jeans is usually as stylish as she gets, and I want to make her look stunning. “You’re going with me.”

  “Oh, no,” she says. “I couldn’t… I mean, I have studying to do for next semester.”

  I let her ramble. Like with my dad, I’ve heard this all before from her. It’s an old excuse. I’m tired of it. I want to say so, but I channel that energy into gathering warm socks. The last bits of clothing, before I head into the bathroom to grab my makeup and other toiletries.

  “I have to get ahead in this book for my humanities course before classes start again,” Mariah is saying. I sigh. Roll my eyes, feeling annoyed and sad.

  “Please,” I say, feeling like pieces of my heart are about to be pissed on the carpet. “My dad can’t use the ticket he bought.” I march back to my bed, putting my makeup bag in the open space I’ve left. “Says he has to work. I can’t go alone. And we’ll have so much fun together!”

  A pause. In it, I feel my loneliness rear its ugly head. My frustration at not having a dependable man in my life. I spend a few precious seconds there, before forcing myself to smile. Put on a happy front for her saying, “So please say you’ll come with me.”

  “Listen” — oh, God I hate this! She’s going to say no. She sounds just like my dad when she takes that tone with me! — “I wish I could go with you to Aspen, Jane, but I can’t.”

  “Oh, okay.” I’m trying to hide my disappointment, but I’m failing miserably.

  I can’t keep the sadness from my voice. I’m miserable, and I want Mariah to know it. I know I’m being selfish. But I want somebody to give a fuck after the night I’ve had.

  “I already promised my mom I’d be home for Christmas,” Mariah mumbles. It’s low enough I think Mariah’s hoping I don’t hear her, but I do. I can’t put on a big fake happiness show for one more minute.

  “You always do everything for everyone else, Mariah, but what about you?”

  All Mariah has is a sigh for me, so I go ahead and talk over it. Suddenly, my fingers clench around the phone. Ball up into a little fist, as I jam the top of the suitcase down on top of my clothing.

  “Are you ever going to care about your needs?” I know I’m using words to manipulate her and it isn’t fair, but I’m so desperate to have her come with me. I zip up the suitcase, even when it tries to get stuck on me.

  Mariah doesn’t answer.

  “Well, if you’re not going to care about you, I will.” To calm down, I take a deep breath and haul the heavy suitcase off my bed and to the space near my door.

  “Come with me.” Somehow, now that I’m all packed, I’m not as sad. “Come skiing. Get some fresh air. Make memories with your bestie.” I press my mouth on the phone. Sexily. Needfully, knowing Mariah can’t refuse me when I’m cute. I have that effect on people, regardless of if they’re a guy or a girl. “Come on, Mariah. It’ll be fun.” I pause, putting every stray bit of sweetness I can muster into the next word. “Please?”

  Silence follows, but it’s a good kind of silence. Mariah’s fidgeting in it. Fluttering excitedly around in it, and I leave her there. But not without continuing to list benefits of a mountain vacation; fresh air, exercise cute guys and more opportunities to show off your curves, but finally I get an answer. One I’m not expecting.

  “Yes.” She breathes, excitedly.

  “What?” I’ve started undressing so I can get in the bath.

  “I’ll go.” The wide smile I can hear in her voice makes me smile, too “I’ll come with you to the resort!”

  When she says that, I lose my mind. I kick off my dress, panties, and bra, and let myself celebrate. “Whoo-hoo!” I squeal, dancing into the bathroom. “That’s my girl!”

  I turn on the water for the bath and drop in one too many bath bombs. Hibiscus and strawberry, my favorite.

  “What time will you pick me up?”

  “Be ready to leave by 7 AM, girlie,” I say. “That’s when I’ll be outside waiting for you.” I swish my free hand through the hot, foaming water. “And don’t worry. We’ll stop for coffee on the way.” With that, and a bit of celebrating from Mariah, I hang up and get ready to enjoy the second and last bit of pleasure for the night.

  My bath.

  Chapter 6

  Alex

  There’s nothing that goes better with a soak in the hot tub than a Jameson on the rocks. Which is exactly what I’m having, even though I just finished up my beer at the bar.

  Jordan’s nursing a white Russian. Slowly, thank God. Amazingly, he sobered up in the time it took us to finish checking into our suite and change into swim trunks and get down here.

  But it doesn’t look like Jordan will stay sobered up for long. He’s always been a lightweight.

  With all the bathing beauties coming in and out of showers, saunas and steam rooms, and in various states of “undress” he looks happier that a pig in shit. He’s going to keep drinking along with every beautiful figure he “devours.”

  I turn away from him briefly, nudging my brother. “Pretty beautiful view, hey, bro?” My excitement softens immediately. One look, and it’s clear Paul’s out of it. By his posture, it looks like he’s feeling confident and content, but he doesn’t seem to be really looking at anybody. Not appreciating all the
semi-naked eye candy, which was the point of him being here.

  For a moment, I contemplate getting his attention. Then I remember how futile that is. How he’s probably just going to end up being pissed off again, so I just let him continue with whatever mental masturbation he’s doing. Whatever it is, it must go great with draft beer.

  “So, this is where all the goddesses go, eh, Alex?” Jordan’s tracking a particularly busty woman. She’s wearing a leopard-inspired swimsuit, and believe it or not, she actually has some leopard ears on a headband to go with it. “And the ones with freaky tastes, too.” He whispers, making a growling sound like a wildcat and a matching hand gesture. “I’d like to tame her kitty. I bet that hair’s wild down there.”

  I stretch, trying not to picture what he’s just put in my head. Leopard-Girl with a bush so thick you end up eating half of it.

  “If you like digging for treasure that much, then be my guest,” I say, and run my tongue over the roof of my mouth, feeling phantom curls of hair already stuck on me. “Not for me. She’s gotta be clean-shaven.” I roll my shoulders and sink down toward a jet of water. It’s almost too weak to massage anything, but if I had any of these women in here — like that beanstalk over there with bluish-black hair and a frilly polka dot bikini — pressed up against the jet, it’d be enough to get her off.

  Beneath the frothy surface, I’d slid my huge dick into her swollen folds, and I’d pinch her nipples between my fingers. They’d be extra sensitive because of the hairpins I would’ve clamped on them the night before.

  “She wouldn’t be a woman then though,” Jordan surmises, bringing me back out of my pseudo-fantasy. The clinking and the cracking of a bottle cap seal follows. He’s finished his white Russian and has traded it out for a beer. One from the six-pack I insisted Paul bring for a bit more fun.

  I take a hefty swig of my whiskey, pulling the amber liquid through my teeth. “Look,” I say, suddenly very serious about smooth, shiny pussies, “if I wanted a beard” — I gesture below my chin, — “I’d date a man, and while I like to use a swing set from time to time, I don’t swing that way.”