by Ava Sinclair
I think about this. “Well…” I say. “Anything I come up with could never top the best fantasy.”
“Which is?”
“The one in which a sneaky young woman seeks to find a sugar daddy, only to find the tables turned on her by a gorgeous and mysterious gentleman who masterfully unlocks her taboo desires for a read daddy figure, one who gives her something worth more than all the riches in the world.”
He takes my champagne flute. “That, my pet, is sweet. You should be a writer.”
“I like numbers better these days,” I say. “We could talk about the stock market if you prefer.”
He chuckles. “Not tonight. Tonight, I have something else in mind.”
“Oh?”
“Tonight,” he says, “I’m going to be your real sugar daddy.”
He takes my hand and lifts me from the bed. I’ve already changed from my wedding gown into a diaphanous nightie and sheer thong panty. Silas lifts the nightie up and over my head, strips me of my panties, and lays me down on the downy coverlet.
“A sugar daddy,” he says, “needs a sugar baby.” He reaches into a box on the nightstand and takes out an ornate jar and what looks like a miniaturized squat version of the feather duster I used to use when I was doing my chores. Now he tells me to relax as he dips the duster into the jar, coating it with a powder finer than anything I’ve ever seen.
“Honey dust,” he tells me, but of a special blend he had made just for me. It’s sweeter than sweet, and he applies with the duster, starting by sweeping it over the hollow of my throat before moving it between my breasts. He dips the duster back into the jar, focusing on my left breast now, and I watch. It feels highly erotic, the tickling of the feathers as they move in concentric circles from the base of my breast to the nipple. I’m already so aroused, and the lightest brush of the feather causes my nipple to harden. He continues, painting my body like a canvas. Everywhere he brushes, the dust sticks, coating me in a sweet, powdery glow.
“Spread your legs, my sweet,” he says, and I comply. He coats my lower belly, the top of my labia, but avoids the slick folds of my needy pussy, telling me I’m naturally sweet there in a deep growl that makes me squirm and blush.
The tops and insides of my thighs, the hollows of my knees, my calves, my feet. Then he turns me over, lifts my hair and starts coating me at the nape of my neck.
Who knew my spine was an erogenous zone, or the hollow of my back? Silas talks as he coats me, telling me how he’s going to lick every minuscule grain of sweetness from my body as I shudder at the feather’s touch.
And he does, and the effect is that I feel utterly consumed by his dominance, a living feast for a powerful master whose tongue dances over my body. I wriggle under his mouth, crying out as his teeth nip the base of my buttocks before his tongue soothes the hurt away. I lose track of time, and when he finally lays me on my back once more and spreads my legs, the surprises aren’t over. Silas coats my clit with a gel that heightens the nerve endings. The need I feel for stimulation of this sensitive bud of flesh is overwhelming. I writhe on the bed, moaning, begging.
“Focus,” he demands. “Tell Daddy what you need.”
“Fuck me!” I cry. “Please!”
“In a bit,” he says, dipping his head between my legs and giving me my first shattering orgasm of the night. I buck against his mouth, unashamed, unbidden, and when I feel as if I can take no more, he slides up over me and pushes his cock between my quivering thighs.
He fucks me hard as I fist the covers and dig my heels into his back. I feel him tense, and draw him closer, eager to be rewarded by the warm flush of seed into my core, but he pulls back, turns me around, pulls my hips toward him.
I look back. He’s lubing his cock, his eyes focused on my ass. And I know what he has planned; for all of our play before marriage, I come to bed this night as a virgin in one final respect. The inflatable trainer, which we’ve employed over the months leading up to our wedding, has prepared me for this moment. But I’m still slightly afraid as I watch him fist lube onto his huge cock.
The nudge of his head against the tight asterisk of my bottom hole feels different than the pressure of the pointed plug. The flared tip of his cock is larger, and while firm, not as hard. But its stiffness and his persistence are all that is necessary to breach my body’s inadequate resistance as he enters, his cock head spreading me, stretching me wider and wider.
“Ooooohhhh…” I say. “I can’t. It hurts.”
“You can. And you will. Let me show you.”
He reaches between my legs, pinching my clit, and the sensation sends a jolt of sexual current through my body, causing an instantaneous orgasm. Just as it begins, he slides his cock in further, making the taboo access to this untouched region of my body an intense experience that will forever be married in my mind as pleasurable.
I begin to move, following the fingers he shoves into my pussy, pushing back on his cock as I do.
“That’s my girl,” he croons as he begins to move, holding my hips now, moving me back and forth on his cock. My pussy is clenching, and later he will come inside me, in the shower. But for now, he is building to his own orgasm as he prepares to spill himself into an unchristened well.
“You make me so happy,” he says, and I smile into the bedclothes, reveling in my power as well as his. He’s in me fully now, groaning as his cock, sheathed in the tightness of my ass, begins to pump. I feel the warmth of his cum, the sensation here so odd. He touches my clit again, and we come together, our first mutual orgasm as man and wife.
Epilogue
When it comes to married life with Silas, I should have expected the unexpected. A happy life, even a sheltered one, can throw you curves. But of all the curves I could have imagined, Brady wasn’t one of them.
I was on the pill after all. I took it religiously. Even if I’d longed for a child, which I didn’t, I’d never have stopped taking birth control without discussing it with Silas. But on our second anniversary, on the sixth morning of a curious illness that seemed to miraculously subside by noon, I sat in disbelief at my dressing table, numbly staring at the double pink lines on the pregnancy test.
He saw them, too, and when I saw the incredulous look on his face, I knew what he must be thinking—that I’d tricked him, that I’d wanted to get pregnant despite his wishes, and had surreptitiously gone off the pill, that deceit had reared its ugly head once again in our relationship.
“This is impossible,” I’d said, and had begun to cry. The plastic stick had fallen from my hands to land on the floor and Silas stood, turned, and walked out of the room.
When I heard the car leave, I threw myself on the bed, convinced that I’d ruined everything. I was pregnant with his child, and while up until that point I’d told myself there was nothing I would not do for the man I loved, I now knew there was a limit. I would not undo this. I would not end it, not because of any moral or religious opposition, but simply because to terminate this pregnancy would leave a hole in my heart that would never heal.
I was already exhausted, mentally and physically and fell asleep there on the bed.
I don’t know how long he was gone; I only remember him shaking me awake as he sat down on the edge of the bed. He was holding a paper bag.
“I’ve never dealt with a pregnant lady before,” he said shyly. “I don’t even know what you eat. I read somewhere you like pickles.” He pulled out a jar of gherkins. “And ice cream.” That was followed by a tub of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey.
I started crying, then laughing, and then I had to run to the bathroom to throw up again. He came in and held my hair, seeing me at my absolute most vulnerable, at my worst, sobbing in relief as I retched into the toilet.
I know he was scared. So scared, in fact, that he entered therapy on the day our first ultrasound revealed the small beanlike human I was gestating, flipping and flopping around in the tiny amniotic sac. Silas was going to be a father, and this reality made him determined to avoid re
peating the mistakes his own father had made, and to face the scars that had not yet healed.
He found an open-minded, nonjudgmental therapist, one he could confide in not just about his past, but about his present, about us, about our dynamic. Silas did not want it to change. We both knew adjustments would have to be made, but ours was a unique dynamic that fed a deep well of need we shared.
Silas saw the therapist once a week. Toward the end of the pregnancy, we went together. During those sessions, my strong husband allowed himself to be vulnerable, and I was moved to tears by specific revelations of his father’s cruelty that fed his desire to control and nurture, to bring order to the most important thing in his life—his home.
Had I not become pregnant, I don’t think my husband would have completely healed. So in a way, we have Brady to thank for making him stronger, for making us stronger.
Brady. What can I say about our little man? For one thing, he is all boy with his father’s thick blond hair and athleticism. He’s a daredevil. If we’re outside and pass a tree, he’s game to climb it. More than once Silas has had to pull him from the branches. In our house, my husband is the overprotective one.
Silas remains just as protective of me. Even though he’s a father now, he’s still a daddy dom to me. If I’m grumpy after my day as a freelance financial advisor—I insist on working even though I don’t have to—a stern look can silence me. That same stern look, though, still sends heated pleasure coursing through my veins.
We are fortunate to have a house large enough to keep the sounds of our private pleasure private—the smacks of his large hand on my ass for correction or pleasure, my cries, his moans. We are fortunate to have a wonderful extended family of staff ready and willing to occupy our rambunctious little son so that we can have private time to ourselves.
Outside the bedroom, our dynamic is subtle, the daddy dom-little girl relationship a subtext when we are around others.
We have found balance in all things, so much so that Silas now believes that our rambunctious son, who does not always like to share in nursery school, would benefit from the presence of a little sister or brother. The fact that he proposes this makes me happier than I can say.
A family of four? I have agreed, so we will try for another baby come spring after I finish my master’s degree.
And who knew it would come to this? Who knew the day I walked into this house seeking riches I’d put myself on a path to discovering that true wealth lies in the simple things?
And so much is ahead, so much for both of us. Each morning feels like the start of a brand-new fairy tale, each evening a happy ending.
The End
Bonus: Extended Preview of Big Daddy
When I arrive, he’s waiting by the private elevator in the parking deck. The last time Max Iver saw me, I was wearing heels. This time I show up in a t-shirt, hooded sweatshirt, blue jeans, and Keds. I didn’t think to ask what I should bring. It seemed presumptuous to bring an overnight bag, so I threw a few things into a backpack I’ve slung across one shoulder.
“It’s good to see you, Jill,” he says as the elevator door opens.
I don’t reply. What can I say?
We walk down the hallway in silence. This time when he opens the door to 1A, the view through the huge windows is a twinkling nighttime cityscape. He motions to the sofa again, and I sit as he pushes a button that sends opaque shades descending between the panes of glass, obscuring the view inside and out. We’re closed off from the world now. It’s just the two of us, alone.
“Why did you decide to come back?” he asks.
“Do you want the answer that will feed your ego, or the truth?”
“I have less of an ego than you may imagine. And while you’re in my charge, I’ll accept nothing less than the truth.”
In my charge. The words send a shiver through me.
I tell him I don’t have a choice, that my roommate is kicking me out for losing my job and that my mother won’t take me back.
“Consider that a blessing,” he says. “You don’t need to be around anyone with a drinking problem.” He grows quiet. “But now that you’re back, what do you think is going to happen?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did I tell you would happen?”
“I don’t know.”
He sits down beside me. “What did I tell you would happen?”
I could pretend that I don’t remember, but the truth is, I do. I just don’t want to say it.
“You said there’d be… consequences.”
He nods.
“Tell me, Jill. What kind of consequences did you have when you lived with your mother? When you did something you weren’t supposed to do?”
“It depends.” I answer slowly, wondering where he’s going with this. “If it was a note from school, she’d yell and tell me I’d never amount to anything. If it was something really important to her, like forgetting to pick up her cigarettes, she’d slap me across the face.”
“So you were punished, but never disciplined.”
“What’s the difference?” I ask.
He smiles patiently. He’s crossed his long legs and is drumming the fingers of his huge hand on his knee in silence. Finally, he answers.
“Punishment is more about the punisher venting their anger. Discipline is about teaching. Did you have any friends who were disciplined?”
He’s luring me in again. And of course I did. I grew up in a small, conservative town.
“Yeah,” I said. “Some of my schoolmates were lucky. They had good parents.”
“And when they disappointed them?”
My throat goes dry. I don’t want to say what happened to them. But I don’t have to. He says it for me.
“Did they get a spanking?”
I feel my tongue dart out to nervously wet my lips. I drop my eyes. “Yeah,” I say. “That was kind of standard.”
“And how did their relationship with their parents, who disciplined them, differ from your punishing mother?”
“They…” I look up at him. His expression is relaxed, kindly. I feel encouraged to answer. “They still loved them. I guess because they felt like it was for their own good…”
“That’s exactly right,” he says. “And that’s exactly why I’m going to spank you.”
“Wait… what?” I say, and find myself laughing at the impossible suggestion. But then I realize he’s not laughing, and this isn’t a joke. My laughter fades into awkward silence when I look up at him. His expression is stern.
“I told you there would be consequences, Jill, and I’m going to do what any good daddy would do if his little girl put herself in danger. I’m going to take you across my lap, pull down your blue jeans, take down your panties, and spank your bare bottom until you’re sobbing and sorry.”
I open my mouth to reply, and at first nothing comes out. I find my voice as I rise. “No,” I say. “You’re not going to do that.”
He takes my arm. “I am,” he says. “And you’re going to put yourself over my knee and accept it.”
“Why? This is bullshit.”
“Because you agreed to come back, and if you try to leave I’m going to make your life incredibly difficult. You need this, Jill. You need this to get to the next step, which is forgiveness.”
“You’re threatening me?” I ask, images of the tape fresh in my mind.
“I’m helping you,” he says. “Now bend over my lap.”
I’ve never been spanked in my life. Spankings were something other kids got—kids whose well-intentioned parents chose moral instruction over drinking before noon. I know he can easily overpower me. I’m one hundred seventeen pounds; he’s at least two hundred forty, and still built like the linebacker he used to be. He’s not forcing me, at least not physically, but we both know he doesn’t have to. What he could do with those tapes is a lot worse than a few smacks on my backside.
It feels awkward, crawling over his lap. I look back and he glances at me. His face
is still scary-stern, and I could easily be a naughty adolescent lying across her daddy’s lap for our size difference. I swallow nervously as my pelvis makes contact with his muscular thighs. My bottom is sticking up in the air, and there’s a fluttering in my lower belly, and then lower still as I feel the weight of his huge hand on my upturned buttocks. I gasp at the sensation.
“Why are you about to be spanked, Jill?”
This is ridiculous, I think, but my position is both awkward and vulnerable. Arguing is not an option, not with my bottom offered up for the first spanking of my life. My heart is hammering in my chest; my butt cheeks clenching under the weight of his hand. I’m scared, but also strangely curious. Surely he’s not going to really hurt me. Surely this will only be a symbolic punishment. Surely it won’t be as severe as he warned.
How wrong I am. How terribly wrong. I feel him shift, see his arm rise in my peripheral vision, only to descend a split second later in a burning blow that drives me forward.
“Fuck!” I cry out. “That hurts!” I immediately try to rise, but his muscular arm goes around my waist, pinning me against the ridged muscles of his midsection.
“Spankings are supposed to hurt,” he says, and the room resounds with the crack of his huge hand landing once more across the lower middle of my bottom. I cry out again. And again. And again. Each blow increases the burning sting that seems to burrow into my skin through the fabric of my blue jeans. Hot tears sting my eyes. I bite my lip, determined not to give in to the wail I feel building in my chest.
“Let me go, you sick motherfucker!” I say. “I’m done with this. I want to go home. Fuck you. Fuck the tape. I don’t care what you do!”
My angry words are ignored. I feel his hand go under me, feel him unsnap and unzip my jeans. This is certainly not symbolic. He is making good on his promise to bare my bottom, and I begin to thrash and kick. If I were hanging over his lap rather than having my upper body supported by the huge sofa, I could bite or scratch his leg. But I can’t turn back. All I can do is flail and curse and threaten to call the police, threaten to have him arrested for assault although we both know I’d be too humiliated to report this on the heels of all that’s happened.
