“You,” she says, then takes a deep, shuddering breath. “You make me wet. You—you hurting me. It makes me wet.”
For a second, I can’t even speak. Finding a girl this beautiful, this brilliant, this purely, truly masochistic—it’s more than I ever thought I would have. It’s more than I ever hoped for, and I love it, and I love her, and her cunt is the stuff of dreams.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” I finally say, and kiss another bite mark. Gently, dragging the tip of my tongue across its width. She’s trembling, and it’s absolutely fucking intoxicating. “I’m the luckiest man in the world. I’ve got a girl who gets off on pain just as much as I do.”
I run my hand up the back of her thigh, spotted with bright red bite marks, impressions so deep my orthodontist could have identified me. She pushes back against my hand, arching her spine, spreading her legs.
I pull her panties tighter between her legs, tap a finger against the fabric. “Is this what you want? You want me to touch you?”
“Please, Daddy.” Her voice is stretched so thin she sounds like she’ll break.
“Do you want me to fuck you?”
“Yes, Daddy. Please.”
“Do you want me to hurt you?”
She shudders, her spine arching, pressing her hips back at me. “Daddy, please. I need you to.”
I untangle my fingers from her panties and peel them down her legs. I leave them at her knees. “How should I hurt you, then?”
“However you want.”
“I know that,” I say, and pinch her thigh. She flinches. “I want to know what you think I should do.”
Silence. I wonder if she’s thinking or stalling.
She says, “I like when you bite me.”
“What else?”
“Your hands,” she says softly.
“What about them?”
“You know how to hurt me without hitting me.” She swallows.
So do I.
“Your hands—they’re strong. They, uh.” Her voice is shaking. “Pressure points.”
“Pressure points?” I can barely keep my head straight, and she wants me to find pressure points.
She nods, her hair rustling against the vinyl floor.
I wrap my hand around her ankle and stroke my thumb over the swell of the joint, then press the tip of my thumb into that soft spot just below the bone—press it hard—and she hisses out a breath. “Like that?”
“Yes.” She’s breathing hard. I’m staring at her cunt, shining in the low light. “Can you—” Her question drops into a groan when I oblige her by doing it again—this time on both feet.
When I let go again, she’s barely coherent. Please and Daddy are the only words I can make out. That’s fine; that’s all I really need.
But I say, “Sorry, sweetheart,” anyway. “What are you asking for?”
“I need you,” she pants. “Please. I need you to fuck me. Daddy, please, I—”
“Did you bring any condoms?”
She’s quiet. I know she didn’t pack any.
Then she snaps out, “Fuck.”
I’m grinning so broadly I can barely keep it together. “It’s all right,” I tell her, and bite her ass again, and she’s not even trying to be quiet. “I brought some.”
“Oh my God, thank you.”
“Stay put.”
She does. I’d put a condom in my wallet that morning, and I slide it out before I take my pants off.
“How are your knees?”
“Okay,” she says. “The ground is really hard.”
“Good job, baby,” I say, chuckling. “You’re doing great.”
“You’re such a butt.”
“I’m not the one with my ass in the air.”
“Unrelated.”
“Fair,” I say, “but I really like having your ass in the air.”
“Is that how you’re going to fuck me?”
“Maybe. Have some patience.”
She sighs heavily, and I pinch the back of her triceps. She twitches and kind of squeaks, then cranes her head around to stick her tongue out at me.
I press my fingers into her cunt again, and this sigh isn’t at all like the last one. It’s relief. I say, “I love this little pussy. You know that? I love how tight it grips me. Even just my fingers. This little cunt is fucking perfect, baby.”
She whimpers.
“I think I want to make it come. Would you like that?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
I pull my fingers out of her and push my thumb in, my fingers fluttering over her clit. She twitches at the change of motion, then spreads her knees a little more, giving me more room to work. “I like knowing this is mine.” I bend down and bite her waist. She cries out, jerking against me. “I like knowing I can make this little cunt come whenever I want. Isn’t that right, baby? Whenever I want.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“I want it to come,” I tell her. “I want my little pussy to come.”
“Yes,” she breathes, “yes, Daddy.”
I lean down, get right in her face. “If this pussy doesn’t come for me, it’s not going to get to come for a week.”
“Fuck,” she grinds out. “Fuck. I want to—I want—”
My other hand slides into her hair and tightens into a fist. I jerk her head up. “You better, little miss.”
Her face is red and her whole body is trembling; the threat of punishment has thrown a wrench into it for her. There’s pressure now, more than just disappointment.
“Talia,” I snap. “I’m about to give up on you.”
“No, Daddy, please, please, don’t—” She’s almost in tears.
“Then do it. Come, or you won’t for a week.”
“Please.” Her voice is hitching, cracking.
“You need more of an incentive? Two weeks? Hmm?”
And then—it happens. She comes, hard, with a growling shout, her whole body shaking and curling and stretching and her forehead pressed to the ground.
I slide my fingers out of her. She shivers and slides down into a heap on her sleeping bag, her panties still caught around her knees. I crawl up the length of her body and stretch out next to her. Kiss her forehead, eyes, lips. Whisper, “Good girl, baby, good girl.”
She smiles and sighs and her breathing evens out into sleep a lot faster than I anticipated, but that’s okay. I’m exhausted, too. I unzip the sleeping bags and turn the floor of the tent into one big bed, and I curl her into my chest, and I fall asleep.
***
I wake up to Talia’s mouth on my cock, sunlight pouring onto us like honey. I stretch my legs, point and flex, and slide my hand into her hair. She hums softly, vibrating down the length of me. I curl my fingers into a fist in her hair and she lets me take control of her movements, lets me control the speed and depth, her eyes glazed and soft when I pull her off my cock with a pop, her breath steaming in the chilly air, lets me push her right back down, her nose pressed into my stomach until her shoulders hunch, her back curls, and I pull her off again.
“Good morning, sunshine,” I say, holding her up by her hair. She grins at me, slides her teeth over her swollen bottom lip. “You gonna make me come?”
“Yes, Daddy.” Her voice is hoarse with sleep and desire.
“You gonna swallow it?” I ask. “You want me to come down your throat, little miss?”
“Yes, Daddy,” she says again. “Yes, please.”
I push her back down onto my cock, and we both groan a little, and she lets me fuck her mouth until lightning skates up my spine and my muscles curl up and I come, holding her head, pressing her face into my groin, until I’m empty, until my limbs and eyelids are slack. She slides me gently out of her mouth and crawls on top of me and wraps around me like a koala and I pull the sleeping bag covers up over us, her head resting on my chest, her ear pressed to my hammering heart.
Talia lets me catch my breath before she starts to fidget, and we finally get up and pack up the tent and head down to Mount Washingt
on, munching on Clif bars. She’s easy and relaxed in a way I rarely see at home, and when I reach across the console to squeeze her thigh, she laces her fingers with mine.
The woods outside are a riot of color, green and gold and fiery red, and I’m jealous of my brother and this annual show he gets. But he doesn’t get this, this beautiful girl I have next to me, who’s watching the world outside her window as we wind through the mountains. He doesn’t get to watch the sharp line of her jaw or the strong line of her neck. He doesn’t get to watch her legs work as we climb the rocky side of the mountain, or see her smile as she turns back to look at me, or touch the tangle of her hair when we stop for a water break.
The hike is long and hard and beautiful (sort of like Talia, if we’re being candid), and when we’re standing at the summit, looking out across the horizon, her tucked up under my arm, I press my lips to her hair, and I think:
I’m going to marry this girl.
It feels a little bit like falling, and a lot like landing on both feet.
Stay tuned for more Sean Poole shorts!
Keep turning to read the first chapter of HOLD ME DOWN,
the full story of Sean and Talia’s romance!
Talia Benson has always been independent, unafraid to go after what she wants, regardless of setback, injury, or failure. But between her father's conditional tuition payments and her mother's nagging concern over her emotional state, Talia's suffocating.
So when Talia meets doctoral student Sean Poole, she can't figure out why she wants him to control her. Why she wants him to boss her around. Why she wants him to hurt her.
Talia learns the hard way that not all control is created equal, and sometimes submitting is the most empowering thing in the world.
Available now through Amazon and Barnes & Noble.
HOLD ME DOWN
————————
A Carolina Girls novel
Sara Taylor Woods
CHAPTER ONE
When I graduated from high school, my dad offered me a deal I couldn’t refuse: all I had to do to secure a debt-free adulthood was major in business and graduate from the Darla Moore School of Business.
Three years later, I was absolutely miserable.
And if it was just the classes that were terrible, then okay. But, even as a junior, I had yet to make any friends in the department that I spoke to outside of classes. There was something foreign about me, or about them. Floppy-haired frat boys in pastel shorts and boat shoes, slavering at the thought of calculating Excel pivot tables, clamoring for the opportunity to discover and exploit target markets?
Kill me.
But the good news is no matter how much you hate your major, you still have to take electives. My freshman year, I stumbled into an intro-level Anthropology class, and fell head over heels in love.
So I kept taking classes. And I didn’t tell my dad.
The Zooarchaeology class I took the fall semester of my junior year with Dr. Rennicks was my second one with him. He was one of those genuinely cool professors who sat on the desk because he liked to be comfortable, didn’t bother with PowerPoint, and hung out with students between classes. Which is why, in the second week of the semester, when he caught me after the end of class and asked if I was busy that afternoon, I didn’t even try to keep the smile off my face. My commercial law class had sucked out all my chill.
“No, this is my last class of the day.”
A guy I’d seen in his company before was already loitering in the doorway, playing with his phone. Rennicks said, “An old student of mine is in town for the game this weekend, and some of us are going to grab some food in a little. You in?”
I shrugged, which hopefully came off a lot cooler than I felt. “Sure,” I said, like this wasn’t the greatest thing that had happened to me all semester. “Where?”
***
Forty minutes later, I pulled into Oaxaca Grill’s nearly empty gravel lot. I was clearly the first one here, but I went inside anyway. This one of my favorite joints, cheap and delicious, if a little shaky on the air conditioning. Inside, it was decorated like a bad hangover: strings of shamrocks and glittery candy canes and grinning jack-o-lanterns, strands of little Corona bottles and jalapeno pepper lights, Mardi Gras beads, Mexican flags. I loved it.
I didn’t have to wait long before the door dinged and disgorged a boisterous stream of men into the vestibule. They clogged the entryway while we waited for the hostess, and Rennicks finally worked his way up to me.
“Hey, you made it,” he said brightly, like he was surprised and pleased to see me. It made me feel all warm and squishy, which in turn made me feel ridiculous. But in a school with almost forty thousand students, it was nice to know your favorite professor didn’t consider you part of the faceless undergraduate mass.
“I didn’t know how many, so I didn’t put in for a table,” I said. “Plus there’s like, nobody in here, so it probably doesn’t even matter.”
“We’ve got, uh…” He wiggled his fingers, scanning the group and counting, while two of the guys behind him bumped fists over something. “Nine.”
“Eight?” I suggested.
“We’ve got one more coming.” Rennicks looked at his watch. “He’s teaching a class right now, but should be on his way any minute.”
The waitstaff pushed us some tables together and everyone sat down, laughing and talking, shoulder-jostling each other for menus. The only one of them I actually knew was Rennicks, who sat across from me. Today’s end-of-class loiterer, Cooper, was on my right, and on my left was the one empty chair, because no one wants to be the guy who has to sit next to someone he doesn’t know.
Introductions were made. Chips were brought. Everyone ordered beer—except for me. I ordered water. The guy next to Rennicks (Hunter?) brought his sweating bottle to his lips and said, “Designated driver?”
“No,” I deadpanned. “Minor.”
He choked on his beer.
Rennicks slapped him on the back, and the guy on his other side (Steve? Maybe?) shouted, “Pooley!”
Everyone turned around, so, with, okay, maybe a little more eyeroll than was necessary, I did, too.
Uh.
Pooley was hot.
Hot like, Thor moved to Portland and got a job in a logging company hot. Blond hair pulled back into a little knot. Beard. Plaid button-down, solid tie. Flat front chinos, broken-in workboots, and—
Jesus. Legs for days.
He strode across the restaurant, a grin slowly spreading across his face. He walked around the table and Hunter managed to get his cough under control before he stood up and embraced Pooley. They pounded each other’s backs like rutting silverbacks.
“How’ve you been, man?” Hunter asked when they let go.
“Living the dream,” he replied. His voice was deep, smooth, like expensive bourbon. I wanted to get drunk on it. “My defense is in April.”
Hunter whistled in sympathy and sat down as Pooley came around to claim the empty chair next to me. I stared at the bowl of salsa in front of me, because I had no idea what to do with my eyes. The chair creaked under Pooley’s weight, and I felt it when he turned his attention on me.
And here I was, in ripped-up jeans and a sloppy bun, held together with bobby pins and prayer, because of course I was.
He extended his arms, reseating the fall of his shirt.
He said, “I don’t think we’ve met before.”
He started rolling up his sleeves. Tattoos, black lines and bright splashes of paint, in a slow revelation of skin.
My mouth was dry. Like the freaking Gobi. I said, “No, I don’t think so.”
He paused his forearm striptease to extend his hand. “I’m Sean Poole.”
I made myself look at him. Blue eyes. Of course. But dark, like the last gasp of twilight. I shook his hand, but it didn’t quite fit in mine. His index finger lay against my wrist, resting against my pulse.
I wanted to crawl out of my skin. I wanted to crawl into h
is lap.
And I really, really wanted that beer. “Talia Benson.”
One corner of his mouth crept up, and he took his hand away, returning his attention to his sleeves. My eyes followed, like a good little girl. “Nice to meet you, Talia. How’d you get suckered into hanging out with this bunch of degenerates?”
“Uh,” I said. “I’m in, um…” Those arms, Christ. I forced myself to look at his face. Not any better.
“She’s in my zooarch class,” Rennicks supplied.
I winced. Stupid Sean with his stupid forearms and his stupid eyes making it impossible for me to even carry on a conversation.
But he didn’t even look over at Rennicks. He just repeated, “Zooarch,” kind of thoughtfully. Was I being quizzed? Judged? Mocked? The whole conversation made me feel like I needed to justify my class choices to him, this guy I didn’t even know.
The hell with that. Embarrassment hardened into rebellion. I gathered the tatters of my dignity and said, “Yeah. Zooarch.”
He looked over at me without lifting his head. I looked away like I had been caught doing something naughty, my gaze jerking around the room like a mosquito stuck in a spiderweb. I looked at the windows, the bathroom sign, the kitchen pass-through. Anywhere but those eyes. He said, “Anthropology major?”
“Accounting,” I said.
“No wonder I haven’t seen you around.” I made the mistake of looking at him again. He was grinning. “I’d have remembered you.”
I blushed and looked away. Then I blushed harder, because it takes a lot to make me blush. It takes a lot to unnerve me, in general, yet there he was, effortlessly unnerving the shit out of me.
I liked it.
A lot.
He finished rolling up his sleeves and said, to the table, “Y’all ordered yet?”
“Drinks,” Hunter said. “We were waiting for you to grace us with your presence.”
“Well,” Sean said, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his head, “here I am.”
Lord. Bodies like that should be illegal.
Speak, Talia.
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