by Brianna Hale
“Are you sore?” he asks, pressing deeper. I shake my head. He begins to rub firmly against the front wall and the sensation goes from good to amazing. The blood rushes to the surface of my skin.
“Holy crap,” I say, gripping his shoulders. “What’s that?”
“It’s your g-spot. Do you like it?”
I try to answer but he rubs harder and my head falls back. He tells me to touch myself and I do, and I come so hard that I start to yell and he has to put his gloved hand over my mouth. I smell plaster and rubber and plywood. When it ends he moves his hand away, and I don’t know why but I sink my teeth into the side of his hand.
I expect him to scold me, but he just grins. “That good, huh?”
I moan and let go. “Yes.”
“Good.” He extends his forefinger under my nose. “Don’t fucking bite me ever again.”
* * *
Did you take your pill?
Yes, daddy.
Good girl. I won’t be at the theater today, I’ve got a meeting. But I’ll be there by the time you’ve changed out of your costume.
I come out of the dressing room and he’s there, waiting for me. He’s wearing wide leather bands around his wrists and is toying with a black collar on a silver chain. There’s a wolfish glint in his eyes and I know he means business.
Oh, I’ll get what I want.
“Holy crap,” I say, staring at him. “You look like a dom.”
He points over my shoulder. “Back in. And watch your mouth.”
When we’re in the dressing room and the door is closed he lays the collar to one side and undresses me roughly, squeezing my nipples and grabbing my ass, hard, making me gasp. I can’t take my eyes off him. The fierce look on his face makes me feel weak in the pit of my belly and not a drop of yesterday’s playful rebellion remains. I’m about to do whatever he tells me to do, and I can’t wait to do it.
My fairy wings are hanging up on a hook and he tells me to put them on.
Turning me toward the mirror, he orders me to watch as he puts the collar on me and then pulls the chain up so it’s tight around my throat. “Daddy’s going to fuck his spoiled little fairy, hard, the way he likes to, and princess is going to be a good girl and do what daddy says. Now, get on your knees.”
I sink to my knees and look up at him, using my good-little-girl eyes. I’m afraid of him and desperate for him at the same time. He’s been so careful of me since he became my dom. He said he wasn’t going to go easy on me to begin with, but I am sure he has. I’m grateful, as so many of these things we have done together have been new experiences, but now I’m ready for more—more of him and who he is. This is what he’s been holding back, and now he’s about to unleash himself on me.
“Jesus Christ, you are so fuckable,” he says as he wraps the chain around his hand.
“Daddy said a bad word,” I point out, though we both know he says fuck to me all the time.
“Daddy’s allowed to say bad words to his little fucktoy.” He unzips his trousers and eases himself out. His cock is thickening in his hand. Something about sitting at his knees while he looks at me, ferocious and dark eyes, is making me feel sweet, obedient and very, very horny. “Now, suck daddy’s cock.”
I take him into my mouth, running my tongue along the length of him and sucking on the tip. He holds the chain tightly, so that I can breathe, but only just.
“You look so pretty with a mouthful of cock, babygirl. Are you wet?”
I nod, not stopping what I’m doing.
“Show me.”
I reach down between my legs and stroke two fingers over myself. I hold them up so he can see.
“Lick them clean.”
I look him in the eye as I do, and then go back to him. He tightens his grip on the chain, grabs a fistful of my hair, and pushes deeper. I can barely breathe and my eyes water. I feel him deep in the back of my throat and it makes me think of him fucking me, hard, and I want him so badly there’s an ache between my legs. After a minute he pulls his cock from my lips and walks around behind me. He plants a foot on the center of my back so I fall forward. “Hands and knees.”
I plant my hands and arch my back. He gets down behind me, and I watch him in the mirror. He’s still fully clothed and something about seeing him all in black with those bands on his wrists, and me naked in silver wings, makes me feel like I do when he has me tied up—unfettered by worry or fear.
He strokes me for a moment, watching me closely. When I moan he takes his hand away. I feel the tip of his cock rub slowly against me. “Do you want me to fuck you, babygirl?”
“Please,” I whimper.
There’s a flicker of satisfaction on his face. “I thought you did.” Then he presses into me, hard, and I cry out.
“Open your eyes and watch daddy fuck you, kitten.” He’s got one hand holding tight to the leash and the other hooked into the harness of my wings.
I do as I’m told. He looks savagely beautiful. There’s something about the angle or the position or the way he’s thrusting into me that feels so damn good. I like being fucked by him. I like watching him take his pleasure in me, knowing that he’s been waiting for this for weeks, and now he’s got me trained, willing and wet and exactly how he wants me.
“Touch yourself,” he orders, and I reach a hand back to rub circles over myself. My eyes start to drift closed and I see him lift his hand. It comes down hard on my ass in a stinging slap. “Keep them open.” I yelp, and my eyes snap open.
It’s not long until I can feel myself close to coming, and starting to tighten around him. He notices and yanks on the leash. “No, you don’t. You come when I’m ready to come and not before. Whose are you?”
“Yours, daddy.”
“Who owns you?”
“You do, daddy.”
“Yes, I do. Never forget it.” He thrusts harder and I lean back into it, reveling in the feel of him, the way he makes me feel owned and precious, and how safe that makes me feel.
“Oh, babygirl,” he groans, “you’re such a good little fucktoy. Now you can come.”
I’ve been slowly circling the brink of orgasm, but watching him come, and feeling the sharp, hard thrusts as he does pushes me over the edge.
His grip on me slackens and he withdraws. I sink to the floor, pillowing my face on my arms as I try to catch my breath. I hear the clink of his belt as he does his trousers up.
“You look like a thoroughly fucked little fairy.”
“Mmph,” is all I can manage. He undoes the wings and slips them from my shoulders.
“Come here, babygirl.” He pulls me onto his lap and leans back against the wall, his arms tight around me. I’m still wearing the collar but he’s not holding the leash.
I put my arms around his neck and bury my face in his shoulder. He kisses my hair and whispers to me. “You were such a good girl. You made daddy very happy.”
I feel small and fragile, and weak as a kitten. He was every bit as unyielding as I thought he would be, but nothing could have prepared me for the actual experience. I finger the leather bands on his wrists. “You are...intense,” I say.
He puts a finger under my chin and lifts it so he can look me in the eyes. He frowns. “Did I scare you?”
“Yes. But nothing else does. Does that make sense?”
He thinks for a moment. “Did you like it?”
I clasp him tightly. “Oh, god. I did.”
He kisses me. “Do you want me to do it again?”
“Always.”
“Good. I’ve done my job, then.”
I put my head down on his chest again. “You’re a, um, very good dom,” I say.
“Thank you.”
“Have you had much practice?”
I hear the smile in his voice. “Enough.”<
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“Have you ever...” And I falter.
“Have I what?”
“Have you ever...had someone like me before?”
“There’s no one like you, Abby.”
I smile, and hook my finger over the first button on his shirt. “You know what I mean. Have you ever—”
“Shh, babygirl. This time is about us.”
I lapse into silence, listening to his heartbeat. There’s that ache again, the burn in the center of my chest. I know what it means this time. I’m falling in love with him. It frightens me because I don’t know if this is part of our deal or whether I’m overstepping some mark. He’s intense with me, and sweet with me, but he’s never been romantic with me. I can’t begin to find the words to tell him how I feel.
He’s able to take away all of my other fears, putting them on his shoulders so that I can be free and happy. But I don’t see how this worry is one he’ll be able to take away.
Chapter Nine
“So, um, my parents want you to come for dinner.”
We’re sitting on Rufus’s couch. My feet are in his lap and he’s painting my toenails purple. He’s surprisingly good at it for someone who’s never done it before.
When my parents mentioned that they want us over on our next day off I didn’t know what to say. Part of it is worry that it’s too couple-y for us. Too normal. On the way to work I became all wistful, for the first time wishing I had the sort of boyfriend other girls did, where dinner with the parents is a natural part of the relationship. There are no guidelines for having a dom. He might laugh at me, or tell me I’m silly.
The other part of it is terror that he will say yes.
Rufus looks up and grins. “You look like you’re about to throw up, kitten. Do you think I won’t be able to behave myself?”
The terror suddenly expands. “Of course not. You’ll be the perfect, affable gentleman and charm the pants off them, but they’re going to be able to see it written all over my face. They’re going to know.”
“Know what, kitten?” he says, eyes wide, mimicking my innocent-little-girl look.
“What we do,” I wail, and press my face into a couch cushion.
He scoffs. “Oh, please. I doubt they’ve even heard of what we do. Or if they have, then maybe they’re into it themselves, so who cares.”
I lift my head, my face a rictus of horror. “Don’t even joke about that, they’re my parents.”
“Hold still, I’m going outside the lines. Daddy’s not as good at coloring in as you are.”
I shudder. “Oh, god. What if I accidentally call you daddy in front of them?”
“What’s my name?”
“Rufus.”
“There you are, then. No danger.” He slants me a look. “But who cares if you do?”
My embarrassment goes nuclear. “Oh my god, Rufus, you can’t say things like that. I would die. I would literally, physically crumple up and die. I’d be disowned. I’d be flayed and quartered and hung out to dry.”
He winces at my screeching. “Calm down, babygirl. It’s just a word. You’re not a murderer.”
“I would be, because they would die, too!”
He caps the nail polish and turns to me, placing one hand just above my knee, digging his fingers in. His eyes have turned that flinty that’s-quite-enough-young-lady color. “Look at me. You are not going to accidentally call me daddy in front of your parents. They are not going to be able to read anything in your face.” His grip on my leg tightens. “We will have a nice, friendly dinner, and then I will go home and they will tell you how much they like your settled, mature boyfriend, and how good they think he is for you. All right?”
I take a deep breath. Most of the tightness has disappeared from my chest. “Are you sure?”
“Sweetheart, I know so. Take another deep breath.”
I do, and I feel better.
“All right?”
“Yes, daddy.”
“Good girl.” He returns to painting my toenails but he’s watching me out of the corner of his eye.
He’s so confident that my parents are going to love him. Hell, they already do half love him and they’ve only met him for thirty seconds. How is Rufus? Did you have a good date with Rufus? What a good influence Rufus has on you, we’ve been trying to get you to eat vegetables for years. “Haven’t half got a good opinion of yourself,” I mutter.
He grins like he was waiting for me to say it. “There’s my bratty girl.”
* * *
An hour before he’s due to arrive for dinner I get a text from him. Can I fuck you in your frilly bedroom?
Do you want me to have a panic attack?
Breathe, babygirl. What’s my name?
Rufus.
Good girl.
“Abby, could you get some red wine out of the garage?” my father calls from the kitchen.
I’ve hidden myself in the laundry to text Rufus. “Yes,” I call, and I tuck my phone into my jeans pocket and go and get the wine. The good wine is in the garage. Rufus is deserving of the good wine. I make a face that Rufus would call bratty, and go and get it.
He arrives dead on time, of course, and my mother opens the door. The smell of her perfume is all through the house and she practically twitters up at him, “Oh, is that your car? How smart.”
I get a kiss on the cheek and a sly wink, which makes me blush, and he hands my father a bottle of wine. I recognize the label. It’s the same wine we drank at the restaurant the first night we slept together.
I’m not able to do much talking at the dinner table except for “Yes,” “No,” and “Thank you.” Rufus keeps up his end, though, asking my parents about their plans to move to the country and talking sensibly about the state of the housing market.
My mother has made a roast even though it’s Monday, because I told her once that Rufus never gets Sunday dinner because he’s always working. She seems to think this is about as tragic as the erosion of the ozone layer and has cooked him an enormous joint of beef. She’s forgotten that I don’t ever get Sunday dinner, either.
Rufus doesn’t pass me the dishes of vegetables. He serves them for me, and I see from my mother’s expression that when he leaves she’s going to go on and on about his old-world charm. I almost want to call him daddy so they’ll know how corrupt he really is.
My father has noticed the vegetables as well, and that I’m eating them. “Rufus, we’ve been trying to get Abby on a decent diet her whole life. How did you manage it?” He finishes with a laugh; he’s half joking, probably thinking I’ve done this myself because I want to impress my boyfriend or something.
He looks me right in the eye and says, “Oh, I just asked nicely.”
My mother simpers at him. I am going to kill him.
When we’re finished my mother says, “Why don’t you give Rufus a tour of the house while I get the dessert ready?”
I noticed that she says dessert and not pudding. In our house we always call it pudding, but that’s not good enough, apparently, for smart Rufus with his smart car.
“See,” he murmurs in my ear as I take him out to the back garden. “They love me.”
“Yes,” I agree. “It’s disgusting.”
He looks at me in surprise. “Princess. What do you mean?”
“My mother,” I say in a stage whisper, pointing toward the kitchen, “has said pudding her whole life, and then you show up with your nice car and your manners and suddenly it’s dessert.”
He grins. “I think she likes me.”
“You don’t deserve it.”
“No, I don’t,” he agrees. “I don’t deserve you, either. Come here.” He puts his arms around me and I resist a little, but let myself get tugged toward him.
“You’re a very bad man,”
I tell him.
“The worst.” And he kisses me.
I take him up to my room, and he frowns. “It’s a little stark, isn’t it? I was expecting lots of pictures and knick-knacks and personal things.”
I shrug. “My mother persuaded me to get rid of a lot of those things over the years. It used to be pink,” I say, looking at the walls.
“I’m sorry, kitten. That must have been hard.” He looks like he really means it, too. He sits down on my bed and picks up Chubbles. “Who’s this, then?”
We spend a few minutes going through all my stuffies and he admires each one as I pile them into his lap.
“You know,” I confess, “they were all in a box upstairs until recently. The night you yelled at me I came home and cried and dumped them all out and slept on the box room floor with them. My mother found me there the next morning.”
He looks stricken at this confession, like I still might be hurting because of something he did. “Oh, kitten. I’m so sorry.”
“No, no, it’s all right. Later on you were the reason I had the courage to bring them all downstairs again. The night you asked me to call you, you know, the thing, I started Googling, um, the thing, and found all these other girls like me. It was such a relief. I brought them all downstairs again the next morning.”
There’s a look on his face that’s warm and sweet and intense at the same time.
I want to ask him how he felt when he realized what he was into, and if he’s ever been afraid of what people might think, but I hear someone walk loudly up the stairs, cough, say my name, and then my father puts his head round the door. I think he was worried he was going to catch us making out. What he actually sees is Rufus with a lap full of stuffed animals and one in each hand, as well.
