Stern Daddy

by Ava Sinclair

  I brush my hair out, deciding no girlish braids are needed to complement this outfit, which screams conservative schoolgirl. After I’ve changed, I follow Mina downstairs. Breakfast is being served in the atrium, a large glass room filled with exotic plants that perfume the air. Outside, frost covers the ground, but here the warm air wraps around me like a blanket.

  Silas Stanton is sitting at the table. He’s reading the Wall Street Journal. Old-fashioned, he said, and I try to think of how many people I know besides my grandfather who don’t just read the paper online. There’s a place setting beside him. He looks up, and when he sees me standing in the doorway, beckons me over.

  In the light of the room, his eyes, which seemed darker last night, are a lighter shade of blue. His light brown hair is perfectly styled, and he’s wearing a three-piece suit. He looks like he’s stepped from the pages of GQ. In the haze of last night’s confusion, I hadn’t really allowed myself to study him, but now I realize he’s not only handsome, but achingly so. My mind flashes back to the spanking, to being over his knee, and a warm feeling runs through me.

  “Good morning, Lindsay,” he says. “Do sit down. You have a very busy day ahead.”

  I take the seat beside him just as an older woman enters with a covered tray. She sets it before us and lifts the domed lid. The only thing I’ve had since the day before was one cookie, and the smell wafting from the tray instantly makes my stomach rumble.

  Brioche French toast thick with buttery syrup, savory sausages, and fluffy eggs sit on a round platter. There’s juice and French-pressed coffee.

  “How are you, Mrs. Kim?” Stanton asks. The older woman smiles as she fills our plates.

  “Very well, sir. And you?”

  “Good… good…”

  Mrs. Kim smiles at him before turning to me. “And is this enough for miss?” She’s filling my plate, and I tell her I’m fine before she can add any more to the two pieces of toast and two sausages she’s given me.

  “Eat up,” Stanton tells me. “You could use a little weight on your haunches.”

  I flush scarlet, not at all comfortable that he’s mentioning my still-sore haunches. I keep my eyes on the plate as I slice into the toast. It’s delicious and decadent and I allow myself to enjoy the meal. To my right, Silas Stanton eats in silence. He’s folded his paper, which is by his plate. When we’re finished, he claps his hand and Mrs. Kim scurries from wherever she’d gone to clear away the dishes.

  “So, how did you sleep?” he asks.

  “Okay, given the circumstances,” I say.

  “Yes,” he says. “I can see why you might have found it difficult to nod off, but it’s my experience that a good, cathartic cry is almost like a sedative for some women.”

  “Are you in the habit of making women cry?” I ask.

  “Habit? No. But I’d be lying if I said I’ve not sent more than one deserving woman to bed with a spanked bottom.”

  The frankness of his comment has me too stunned to speak. Is he teasing me? I can’t tell. His handsome face is also a poker face.

  “Enough of this, though. We need to talk about your day.” He checks his watch. “And what kind of daddy would I be—sugar or otherwise—if I didn’t see to your education. So you’ll start with lessons.”

  I take a deep breath. I’ve tried emotion. Now I must appeal to his practical side.

  “Mr. Stanton,” I begin. “I’m sure you’re trying to teach me some sort of lesson, and I can appreciate why. But I can’t just… stay here. I have responsibilities. I have to earn an income.”

  “Yes. And before this all happened, you worked for me.”

  “So I’m fired?” I ask.

  “Quite the contrary, my dear. You’ll still get your pay. Look at your tenure here as a reassignment. You have different duties now. You’ll earn an allowance for completing your schoolwork and then for the chores you’re assigned afterwards.” He rises from his chair. “Come with me.”

  It’s hard not to feel like a child as I follow him from the atrium. He doesn’t look back. He has the confident stride and posture of someone who expects to be followed. A leader. Masterful. The warm flush I felt earlier returns, and I realize that under my dress, my nipples have grown tight and achy. I tell myself that this is merely a reaction to fatigue, and that I am not attracted to this weirdo.

  The room I’m taken to this time is a study. It’s all Gentleman’s Aesthetic, with the light from floor-to-ceiling windows casting a glow on the burnished wood paneling. There’s a blaze crackling in the fireplace. Along one wall is a row of bookshelves. There’s a heavy wood desk, and beside it a school desk, similar to those found in old-fashioned schoolrooms. I don’t have to ask; I know it’s mine.

  “Even if HR didn’t know about my warrant, they should have at least told you I was a college graduate,” I say. Somehow, being seated at a school desk feels just as humiliating as the spanking. “I’m not stupid, Mr. Stanton, even if I pretended to be in our emails.”

  “I never said you were stupid. Or uneducated.” He points at the desk, indicating I should sit. “But I’ve known more than one degreed person who never learned to manage their money.” He walks over to where I’m now sitting at the desk and looks down at me, crossing his arms. I note how broad his shoulders are under his coat. Does he work out? The warm flush returns. Stop it, Lindsay. “Tell me, young lady. How much are you paid by Lindel’s?”

  I drop my eyes and flush, this time not from the nearness of this handsome man, but from the question that calls for an honest and painful answer. “I make fifty-five thousand dollars a year,” I say quietly.

  “Hmm. Single, no dependents. Fifty-five thousand dollars a year. Not a massive salary, but if you’ve researched the industry, you’d know that is enviable compensation for someone with a bachelor’s in graphic design.”

  He’s right, of course.

  “And yet you can’t make ends meet…”

  “You don’t know that.”

  He leans down now, puts his hands on either side of the front of my desk. His large hands—hands that held me tight, that spanked my bottom. I shift in my chair and am suddenly and acutely aware of a soft throbbing between my legs.

  “If you lie,” he says, “I’ll bend you over my desk, lift your skirt, and give you six strokes with the cane.”

  His voice is deep, silky, threatening. I should be afraid, and I am, but the throbbing is deeper now. I squeeze my legs together.

  “Is that what you want?” he asks. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

  I look at him. “No,” I say.

  “No?” He searches my eyes. The edge of his full, handsome mouth quirks ever so slightly. I drop my eyes.

  “Okay,” I say, eager now to deflect. “So maybe I don’t manage my money like I should.”

  “And it’s a pattern, I’d wager, that led to your writing those bad checks.”

  My reluctant nod is my answer.

  “I figured as much.” He walks the short distance to his desk, picks up a small stack of books and returns, dropping them in front of me. “Today you begin a course in financial literacy. It’s always been one of my grievances that today’s educational institutions neglect this topic, to the detriment of their pupils.”

  I suddenly find myself giggling.

  “Is something funny, Lindsay Sue?”

  “I’m sorry.” I cover my mouth for a moment. “It’s just that the way you talk. You sound like you’re old even if you’re not.” I blurt out the next question. “How old are you?”

  “I’m forty,” he says, and pauses. “Which makes me ten years older than a little liar who told me she was twenty-five.”

  My mirth is replaced by shame, and he uses my embarrassed silence to explain the course. He plans to school me in budgeting, credit cards, credit repair, loans, and managing a retirement account and investments for my future. As he speaks, I thumb through the textbook he’s put before me. It looks dry and boring.

  “Any questions?”


  “Am I going to be, like… graded?”

  “Yes.”

  I worry my lower lip between my teeth. I wonder if I’ll be spanked if I fail. My gaze moves to his hands. They’re large, the square nails manicured. The large, powerful hands of a large, powerful man.

  “I don’t expect you to get one hundred percent on every test,” he says, answering my unasked question. “But I expect you to take this seriously. Understand?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “I’d prefer ‘yes, sir,’ young lady.”

  There’s a flutter in my lower belly. I shift in my seat. This is all so surreal, and I’m already wondering how the hell I’m going to concentrate. He turns away and goes into professor mode as he begins to lecture me on the kinds of troubles that can follow someone through life if they get off on the wrong financial footing. It’s Money 101. Robbing Peter to pay Paul, bad credit, living paycheck to paycheck until you can’t even do that, watching the dreams of home ownership slip away. I know what he says his true because he’s describing my circumstances, and me—the irresponsible person who lives beyond her means. And I’m suddenly embarrassed again, because I realize that although I barely know Silas Stanton, the fact that he spanked me, I really want him to think highly of me.

  “Do you know your credit score?” he asks out of the blue, jolting me from my thoughts.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “What is it?”

  “That’s personal.” I fiddle with the binding of the book, unable to look at him.

  “There’s no such thing as personal now that I’ve seen what’s under your skirt,” he says, and the frankness of his comment sends a simultaneous rush of heat to my face and parts way south. I’m flustered.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “A thousand?”

  “That’s pretty remarkable given that credit scores only go up to eight hundred thirty, Lindsay. And that’s three, by the way.”

  “Three what?”

  But he ignores me and continues. “If you’d like to try telling me the truth, it would be appreciated.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “But I’m sure it sucks.”

  “So you don’t pay your bills?”

  “I mean to…”

  “But you don’t.”

  “Not all of us are rich.” I’m feeling attacked, defensive.

  “Lindsay, there are plenty of moderate- to even low-income people who honor their financial responsibilities. Mrs. Kim, who just served us, has a rather nice portfolio.”

  “Well, good for Mrs. Kim.” I can hear the petulance in my own tone.

  “You’re up to five,” he says.

  “Five?”

  “Lindsay, tell me, did your parents ever stress the importance of meeting your responsibilities? Not to be sexist, but it’s often the father who emphasizes such matters. Did yours?”

  “I don’t want to talk about my father.”

  “Why? Was he abusive?”

  I glare at him. “No. Quite the opposite. He doted on me. When I was growing up, he told me every single day that I was his princess. He did everything for me. He still would if he could afford it…” My voice trails off.

  He sits down on the edge of his desk and regards me. “Interesting,” he says. “Usually in these situations, the woman has issues of abandonment. You’re quite the opposite.”

  “What situation?” I ask, but again he ignores me.

  “Being indulged has its drawbacks if it leaves you unprepared to take adult responsibility.” He pauses. “Or unwilling.” Then he picks up a wooden pointer and taps the top book on my stack. “Open your text to Chapter One, Financial Literacy: Why it Matters,” he says.

  His comments have me seething, and I consider refusing, but instead find myself doing as I’m instructed. He tells me to read the entire chapter and then walks to his own desk, where he promptly sits down and ignores me.

  The reading assignment is just a more detailed rehash of the lecture he gave me emphasizing the importance of a strong foundation. “Discipline,” a pull quote says, “is a trait best acquired early,” and I shift in my chair, my mind unwillingly straying to Silas Stanton’s peculiar brand of discipline. I wonder if he plans to chase me around with a paddle and whack me should I linger too long at the perfume counter at Nordstrom’s. If I didn’t know how bad a spanking could hurt, I’d find the preposterous notion amusing.

  I read on, trying to absorb the lesson, trying not to sneak peeks at the profile of the man sitting at the desk. Gorgeous, I think again. He has a slightly hawkish nose, high cheekbones, full lips, and a perfect complexion. He could be a model. If we were somewhere else, a bar maybe, and I was tipsy enough to be bold, I’d ask him. I can’t believe that I’ve been working in this man’s shadow for months and never realized it. But the advertising department is populated by nerds who never discussed management. I imagine I may have known if I’d been in another department, like accounting.

  “Finished?” When he finally asks me the question later, I am happy to be able to give him an honest nod.

  Silas rises from his desk and slides a paper in front of me. I look at the instructions, which direct me to summarize today’s lesson in a five-hundred-word essay, and to define the vocabulary words.

  “Look,” I say. “I could just tell you this stuff.”

  He taps the paper with the pointer. “Studies show that information is retained better when written. So write.”

  “Fine,” I say. “But this is stupid.”

  “Six,” he says. “I have to excuse myself for a moment, but will be back within the hour. I expect the paper to be completed.”

  “Weirdo.” I wait until he’s out of the room before I utter the insult in the direction of the closed door.

  I’m used to typing on my phone or a computer. I’m not used to writing freehand. It feels weird. I struggle to make it neat, figuring that Silas Stanton is as likely to have a stick up his ass about penmanship as he does anything else. In a lot of ways, I ended up with exactly what I expected: a doting old man. Only he’s doting on my behavior, showering me with work, and is as old-fashioned as someone who stepped out of the Victorian era.

  But he’s true to his word and comes back in the room less than five minutes after I’ve laid down my pen. He doesn’t say anything as he walks over. He does give me a stern glance before picking up the paper, and I find myself holding my breath in expectation of his reaction. I’m pissed at myself for wanting his favor, and feel begrudging relief when his face softens and his eyes go up and he even nods.

  “Well, I must say that the writing style of the real Lindsay is so much better than the dim-witted blather I was subjected to via email.”

  Dim-witted blather? Who talks like this?

  He examines the paper for a moment more before putting it down. “Well done, young lady. Now all that remains is the correction for today’s disobedience.” He walks over to the desk and taps it with the pointer. “Come over here and bend over.”

  “What?” The delicious thrill I felt when reflecting on last night’s punishment evaporates like mist. I tell myself I’m not hearing correctly and I just stay where I am, staring in disbelief.

  “My dear, I wasn’t counting for my health. Three for lying, and three for impudence. You should know that I am always paying attention, always watching. It’s what daddies do. They are vigilant, not just in seeing to the well-being of their little girls, but in assessing their behavior. So you can either come submit to my authority, or you can try your luck with the police’s authority.”

  This gets me out of my chair. My legs are rubbery as I walk over, my fists are balled in anger, and my eyes stay on the rich wood grain of the floor so he won’t see the fury in them. The knot in my stomach is tight and fluttery. I’m scared, but I’m also…

  “Fine,” I say, as I bend over. “If this is how you get your kicks.”

  “You are a spiky little thing, aren’t you?” As he speaks he takes the tip of the pointer and lifts the hem
of my dress. “I was going to give you six strokes over your clothing, but your inability to refrain from backtalk has earned you seven over your panties.”

  I feel him push up the hem of my dress so that it’s now resting on my lower back.

  “Spread your legs, Lindsay.” It’s an order delivered with enough sternness that I immediately obey, but when I feel the air move between my legs I’m stricken with the same feeling of humiliation I had the night before. My panties are snug, the panel of fabric over my pussy tight enough that he can surely make out the outline of my shaven labia.

  “You’re a bad girl, Lindsay,” he says, and I feel the line of the pointer press lengthwise across the bottom of my buttocks. And then he draws back and strikes me, just hard enough to sting without being unbearable.

  I cry out, but to my horror, the strongest reaction is between my legs, where I feel a pulse of arousal flow from my pussy to soak my panties. When I reflexively try to close my legs, Silas jams his foot against mine, preventing it.

  “No,” he says firmly, and I freeze in place. “A bad little girl will take Daddy’s punishment.”

  There’s another pulse of arousal. My pussy is throbbing, and it’s not helping that he’s running the length of the pointer in circular motions over where he just struck me, lightly massaging the sting in. He strikes me again, not hard, and the sting is accompanied by the flutter of a tiny orgasm, and my moan this time is most definitely not of pain. I’m mortified and bury my face in my arms.

  Does he know? How can he not? He can see the splotch of moisture spreading on the crotch of my panties. He knows what he’s doing to me, and he’s just getting started.

  The pointer falls again, a little harder this time. My bottom is not hurting, but it is aching. But the deeper ache is in my core. Another blow falls.

  “Are you going to be a good girl?”