by Ava Sinclair
He stops in the doorway and leans against the frame, his hands in his pockets. I hold my breath as he considers my request. “Please, Daddy?” I say as I put my hands over the back of the chair.
Silas looks down briefly, then walks over and holds out his hand. “What kind of daddy would I be if I refused such a sweet request?”
I put my hand in his and he raises me to standing. We pass Mina on the way out. “I’ll be tending to Lindsay this evening,” he says. “You may have the rest of the evening off.”
Mina looks me in the eye as she addresses him. “Are you sure, sir?”
“Positive.” He tucks my hand in the crook of his elbow and we ascend the stairs.
Up in my room, he shuts the door and I find myself looking in the direction of the wardrobe drawer that holds the locket. I think of how I got here. I used what I had, my only power, my sexuality, the innocence and naiveté that attracted him. Silas has been using his power to get what he wants from me. What do I want? I want to prove to him that I can be more than another woman to send away. I’m ready to claim my own power now, to use it. I’m ready to feed his dominant need until he craves my submission as much as I crave his authority.
“Mina makes sure I get a bath first,” I say. He’s already at the bookshelf but turns back toward me. “And I’ve been playing outside today, so I’m… um… kind of dirty?” My tone is almost apologetic, and elicits a smile from Silas, who walks over.
“Well, now,” he says. “We can’t have that now, can we?”
“So you’ll run a bath for me?”
“Little minx,” he says, tapping my nose, but turns to walk into the bathroom, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I hear the water start to flow into the tub. He picks up the lily of the valley oil and pours it into the tub and then adds a capful of bubble bath. As the huge garden tub fills, it swells with bubbles.
“Come here,” he says, standing from where he was sitting on the tub’s edge. I obey and stand as he undresses me. He takes his time, removing my sweater, undoing the buttons of the blouse underneath before pulling the shirttails from where they’re tucked into the hem of my skirt. He pushes the blouse off my shoulders and trails a finger across the top of my lace-edged bra.
“You’re so very pretty,” he says, and his tone troubles me.
“You sound sad,” I say quietly. “Why do you sound sad?”
But instead of answering, he gently turns me and I feel him undo the button on the back of my skirt, feel the zipper come down and then hear the hiss of the silk-lined garment slide down and to the floor. I step out, clad only now in my bra, panties, knee socks, and shoes. Silas kneels and removes first one shoe and then the other. I lift my leg so he can remove my stocking. He rolls it down, studying first my left calf as it’s revealed, before doing the same with the right. He reaches up, hooks his fingers in the waistband of my panties, and draws them down and off. He’s eye level with my pussy and when he touches me just above the cleft, I shudder.
“You’re getting a bit of stubble,” he says. “Would you like for Daddy to shave you?”
“Yes. I’d like that. I’d like it very much.”
“Wait right here.”
He disappears for about five minutes. When he returns, he’s carrying a razor, a shaving cup brimming with foam, and an old-fashioned boar bristle shaving brush. “Sit,” he commands, nodding toward the tub. I sit and as he kneels in front of me, I spread my legs.
My heart is pounding. It takes a lot of trust to let someone take a razor to your labia, but I trust him, despite the inner voice that tells me to be careful, and when he looks up and says he’s never done this before, a thrill runs through me, because this is a first for him. I’m giving him an experience no one else has. I shift forward so he can run the razor over every inch of my soft, vulnerable pussy. When he’s finished, he wipes it with a washcloth.
“Perfect,” he says.
Silas remains kneeling as I climb into the tub. The water is still warm, the bubbles still firm where I break their surface. I sink into the water. He reaches out and smooths my brow.
“You’re so good to me,” I say. “You make me feel protected. That’s nice.”
“Well, you make me feel like a protector,” he replies. “That’s nice, too.”
He’s rolled up his sleeves and slips a washcloth under the water. He starts to wash my body, but it doesn’t take long before he loses the washcloth and starts using his hands, rubbing the bar of soap in circles against my bare skin. The steam rising from the water has a tendril of hair clinging to his face. I reach up and push it away and suddenly he’s pulling me to him, kissing me. My body is wet against his shirt, but he doesn’t seem to mind. I press my breasts against him, mold my body to his, teasing, inviting. He may be dominant, but he is, after all, just a man. And he’s suddenly standing and undressing with an urgency, tossing his clothing aside and shoes aside, eschewing his regular neatness in his haste to fuck me.
I push myself back against the tub and watch through the steam. When he’s naked, he climbs in the huge tub, kneels, and turns me so I’m facing away from him. But I turn back, putting my hand on his chest.
“No,” I say. “I want to look at you. Please.”
He ignores me, tries to turn me back again.
“I want to look at you. I want you to look at me.”
I hold my breath, half expecting him to spank me. Instead, he sits and leans back against the tub and I position myself over his cock, taking my face in his hands as I slide my hot pussy down his shaft. The bubbles have nearly all popped, and the foamy water sloshes around us in gentle ways as I ride his thick rod, moving up and down, tracing his sensual mouth with my thumbs as he slides in and out, in and out.
I can’t read his expression. It’s one of pleasure, but also something else… it’s like no one has ever fucked him before. Another first? I’d ask him, but I instinctively know he won’t say, so I move and move and move until I feel my pleasure cresting, until I reach down and feel his balls that have become two tight globes as his shaft begins to throb inside me.
“Daddy, can I please come,” I whisper in his ear, and he shudders as he’s made me shudder.
“Yes,” he says, and I do, my pussy clenching his cock, claiming him this time, drawing forth his orgasm, my surrender drawing his. He pulls me to him, buries his face between my breasts. His arms are tight around my waist. I feel desperation in his hug. He says nothing as he pumps into me and afterwards we sit together like that until his cock softens and slips from my satisfied body.
He rises from the water and wraps a towel around himself.
“Finish washing up and get in bed,” he says. “I’ll be in to read you your story in a few.”
“Okay.”
I rise, cleaning my shaven pussy of all evidence of Silas, and towel myself off. Mina has already laid the evening’s gown and panties on a little table by the sink. I put it on, brush out my hair, and go climb into bed.
Silas returns, wearing a pair of pajamas and a robe. He looks relaxed as he retrieves the book from the shelf.
“Now, where were we before we got interrupted? Ah, yes. I was going to read you a fairy tale. Do you have a preference?”
“Surprise me,” I say.
He thumbs through the book, clears his throat, and begins to read.
“The Frog Prince,” he begins, and I turn on my side and fold my hands under my cheek as he begins to read the story of a spoiled princess who loses her favorite toy—a golden ball—in the palace pond. A frog offers to retrieve it, but only if the princess promises to take him home with her. She agrees, for she desperately wants her ball, but when the frog fulfills his part of the bargain, the princess reneges on hers, leaving the frog behind.
The frog makes his way to the palace, where the king, upon hearing the story, insists his daughter honor her promise, and so the princess begrudgingly allows the frog to sit at her table, eat from her bowl, and even sleep on the pillow. When the frog leaves, the princes
s is relieved, but he returns the second night to sleep on her pillow. Exasperated, the spoiled princess hurls the frog against the wall, and to her shocked horror he doesn’t die when he lands, but transforms into a handsome prince and explains to her he was only a frog because he was cursed. She eventually marries him.
“What an awful story,” I say when he closes the book. “I thought she was supposed to kiss him.”
Silas furrows his brow as he shuts the book. “I did, too. Apparently, this is one of the older versions.”
“The frog could have done better,” I say. “The princess was selfish.”
“Well, the frog should have been more careful. You never know what you’re going to get when you show up at someone’s house.”
I fall silent, wondering if we’re still talking about fairy tales. I follow him with my eyes as he puts the book back on the shelf.
“Thank you for the story,” I say.
He turns and smiles. “It was my pleasure, Lindsay.” He walks over, leans down, and kisses me on the forehead. “Good night, little one.”
I feel a stab of sadness as he leaves. I wish he would stay. I wish he would stay, and sleep in my bed with me. But the door clicks behind me and despite my hoping he changes his mind and returns, he doesn’t. He goes to his own room, leaving me alone.
Chapter Six
The next morning, he’s late coming in the office, where I’m already waiting at my desk. I picked my own outfit this morning, a red-checked dress with black tights and shoes. It’s pretty, and I’ve tied my hair back with a velvet bow. When Silas comes in, I search his expression for some sign of appreciation, but he heads to his own desk and takes a seat without even acknowledging my presence. He seems tense today, and when I ask him if everything is okay, he tersely tells me that he is fine, and that I should open my book to Chapter Four.
I comply, trying to hide my disappointment. He goes over the lesson, but I’m having a hard time concentrating, and when he asks me a question about net worth, I bungle it.
“Pay attention,” he says. “This is important for your future.”
“And you’re concerned about that, right?” I suddenly feel as if I’m going to cry, and don’t even know why.
“Don’t change the subject,” he says scornfully. “I’m not going to make this easy for you, Lindsay. You’ve been spoiled all your life. I know it’s tempting to sabotage yourself so you don’t have to be responsible.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” I say hotly.
“Wrong. I know plenty about girls like you.”
The room falls silent. We stare at each other. I want to scream that I hate him. I want to run from the room. Instead I just return to the book, trying to see the words through the tears clouding my vision. I wait for Silas to apologize, but he doesn’t. He returns to his desk and after an hour tells me that I won’t be tested today, that he needs to go to the office. I’m to wait for Mina, do my chores, and then do homework he’ll leave for me.
The petulant part of me wants to ignore the lesson, to blow him off in hopes that he’ll spank me. Being punished for something I did wrong is painful, but it hurts less than being ignored when I’m trying to do everything right.
In an odd way, I’m relieved when the lesson is over and Mina comes to fetch me. At least I’m not scrubbing toilets today. My mid-morning chores start with dusting. I’m given an old-fashioned feather duster and a rag and taken to the drawing room. I’ll dust here, I’m told, and then move on to the study and the formal sitting room. I am only to dust, she emphasizes.
I take a Zen approach to my work, swishing the duster back and forth across shelves, and taking extra care not to upset any of the figurines on the mantel. I ponder the delicate glass trinkets as I dust. Some are not what a man would choose. They are no doubt inherited, and I wonder at Silas’ past.
I’m falling in love with him. I’m falling in love with him, and it scares me because I don’t know anything about him. He reaches out, then withdraws. But I sense something there, something tender and kind. I sense that he wants something from me deeper than sex, deeper than the chance to make an impact on my life before sending me back out into the world.
But can I make him believe me? He’s rich. He’s beyond rich. “I know plenty about girls like you,” he said. And I know what he thinks: that I’m a gold-digger. But it’s not Silas Stanton’s money that is making me fall for him. It’s the duality of the man, the way he’s both stern and tender. I believe him when he says he wants to help me. How can I make him believe that I want more than his help, that I want to know him better? How can I show him if he won’t let me in? I feel like I’m running out of time. Nothing has really given me that indication. I just… feel it.
I continue to dust, running the feathers now along the picture frame of a very old oil painting before moving to his study.
My books still sit on my desk. Tonight, I’ll take them up to my room and work on my homework assignment. To my surprise, I’m actually learning a lot that I know will be useful, things I should have learned. Could Silas be right? Is my chronic irresponsibility a form of self-sabotage? I told myself it wasn’t daddy issues that brought me here, that this was just a way to make some quick cash. After all, I’m the last person who should have daddy issues. My father doted on me, but in retrospect, it has made life hard. I had the best of everything growing up. He’d go without to shower me with not just things I needed, but things I wanted.
When I left home, he was always there to bail me out until my mother died and my father’s health began to decline. When he was forced into early retirement from his accounting firm, I felt guilty going to him for money. But I’d gotten into the habit of playing fast and loose with my finances, and even after he was no longer able to bail me out, I just couldn’t regain control. That’s what Silas is teaching me: control. But he’s also exposed me to his. The idea of going back out, alone, without it?
I walk over to his desk and begin to dust. He’s so tidy. Everything is perfectly situation, from the closed laptop to the desk lamp to the clock to the organizer that holds several heavy Cross pens.
It occurs to me what’s missing, not just from his desk, but from the mantel and other shelves. There are no pictures of him with his family, no pictures of his childhood. It’s as if he exists only in the here and now. Who is he?
My hand moves to the handle of his desk drawer. I glance up at the door. I shouldn’t. I have no right. I give the drawer a tug. It’s locked, and I feel relieved. If it had been open… but then I notice something. A larger drawer on the bottom is slightly ajar. It’s definitely not locked. I kneel, knowing what I’m about to do is wrong. But I pull the drawer open anyway, spurred by my desire to find something—anything—that might give me some kind of insight about Silas.
There are ledgers, which strike me as old-fashioned. I open one from where I kneel behind the desk, out of sight. They are old, probably once his father’s. I put them aside and gasp when I see a photo album. Surely it won’t hurt to peek. I can’t help but wonder what Silas was like as a boy. But when I open the album, a chill runs through me. It’s not a family album. It’s an album full of young women. Each one takes up a page. Each one is captured in some candid moment, and I recognize the backdrop—this very house, this very estate. There’s a pretty redhead on the stairs, sitting and looking out the window. He’s captured her from the side. Her expression is pensive. There’s a raven-haired beauty in the atrium peeking up at an orchid. She’s smiling. She wears a blue dress with a big bow at her throat. There’s a pattern here. All the girls are women who look younger than they are. There’s a brunette throwing a handful of leaves up in the air. She wears a plaid skirt and a matching tam. She looks gloriously happy. Then there’s a blonde, plumper than the rest. She’s on the rowboat I saw by the pond. Silas must have taken her out there because she is facing the cameraman and the shore is in the distance. It’s springtime in this photo. On the other shore, the willow is in bloom, and ducks can
be seen swimming in the distance. I turn their page and put my hand over my mouth to keep from crying out. It’s me. I’m on the carousel, one arm outstretched, a happy, oblivious smile on my face. I slam the book shut and put it back in the drawer along with the ledgers.
I stand and walk to the bookshelves, dusting mindlessly, furiously. Does my inclusion in the book—and Silas’ sudden coldness—mean that I’m about to be sent away?
Don’t, Daddy. Please. An inner voice cries out, jarring me. And then I’m jarred again by a voice behind me.
“Miss Clement?” I jump and turn. Mina is standing in the doorway.
“Yes?” I hastily wipe an eye.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes,” I say. “Just… dust in my eye.”
She cocks a brow. This is an obvious lie, and she knows it. My chore is perfunctory. There’s no dust anywhere in this house. Silas Stanton’s sense of order forbids it.
“Well,” she says. “When you’re finished, we’re having lunch in the kitchen.”
“Sure. I’ll be finished in here.” I turn back to my dusting.
“Miss Clement?”
“Yes?”
I turn back again. Mina is still in the doorway, regarding me. “You’re doing a very good job, dear.”
She walks away before I can reply. It’s hard to take much comfort in being praised for my housekeeping duties. What I really want is to please Silas.
Once I collect myself, I head to the kitchen. The gardeners are complaining about snow. It’s nasty out, they say, and they weren’t expecting the hard freeze and are worried because the heater in an outdoor greenhouse I haven’t seen is giving them trouble.
“There will be hell to pay if the boss loses any of his orchids,” one says as I sit down to a plate of fragrant lamb, glazed carrots, a salad of winter greens, and brown bread and butter.
The butler gives me his usual wink, and this time, irritated, I wink back and he literally blushes when I do. It’s the first amusing thing that’s happened all day, and I’m not the only one to note it. Across the table, Mina is glancing from me to the older man and it’s obvious that she’s trying to keep from laughing.
