“Who is this Mr. Ranger?” he interrupted casually, too casually. Oh no, I’d done it again. The flicker in his eye, the tight set of his jaw, indicated that my guardian sensed another alpha male, another dominant masculine force in my life.
“He’s no one,” I assured him quickly, but couldn’t resist the opening. “Mr. Marks, would you mind talking with Mr. Ranger about a potential donation to the school?”
That’s when Tristan threw his head back, laughing like he’d heard the funniest joke in the world.
“What?” I asked, looking around. What was so hilarious?
But the big man merely shook his head, like I’d provided him with the perfect opening.
“So long as you get an A in his class, I’d be happy to help,” he growled, looking at me meaningfully. I flushed. I’d never thought that there were backdoors to good grades, I thought you worked hard, studied, did all the reading, and that meant you’d do well on the tests. But evidently, there’s more than one path through life and opportunities were unfolding before me. Somehow my little world had just expanded in an eye-popping manner, becoming ten times bigger than before. Because when Tristan ordered me to stand up and bend over, baring my puss to him, I couldn’t help but obey.
“Mr. Marks, it’s wrong,” I whispered as I slowly slid my chair back, our eye contact electric.
But the dark slash across his cheeks and the hungry look in his eyes couldn’t be denied.
“You’re not my ward anymore,” he ground out, and that was true. I was eighteen now, an independent adult in the eyes of the State, so technically there was no legally binding relationship. Besides, I wanted to. I couldn’t say no to a man so alpha, so demanding, so delicious. So I bent over immediately, the smell of my female cream already thick in the air, making his nostrils twitch, my pussy already moist, plush and engorged.
“Here Mr. Marks,” I said softly, my head between my legs as I spread my knees a bit. “It’s yours.”
And I could feel his gaze on me, scorching my kitty as I wiggled it a bit, baiting him.
“More?” I giggled, and then gasped as the first stream of hot jizz hit the backs of my thighs. Had he really? Oh my god, he had. His dick was out, pulsing and heavy, and Tristan stroked it madly, groaning as he milked his pole, the jism erupting in spurt after spurt. Holy fuck, there was just so much. It positively drenched my skin, and I was stock still in shock before coming to my senses.
“Higher, higher,” I pleaded and Tristan obliged. He aimed his dick upwards until the tip was almost brushing my clit and spurted again, heaving the last few ejaculations straight onto my pussy. Holy shit, it was so wrong. So absolutely, devastatingly wrong. This man was my guardian, or former guardian to be exact. Even still, he was at least twenty years older than me, double my age, and I lived in his house. There have to be rules against this, right?
But even if there are rules, there are no rules for emotions, because I wanted it with a knowing thrill through my frame, a delicate shiver in my cunt. I’d been expecting a quiet meal at home, alone with the tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the corner, and instead I’d been bathed in my guardian’s seed, the hot jism spurting against my thighs, running down my legs.
And oh god, oh god, it was so wrong. So absolutely wrong in every way, and yet the temptation was so strong, pulling me hard, making my body quiver. How could one man do this to me? How had I been transformed into a willing, nubile siren, desperate for Mr. Marks? I had to stop. This had to stop, but I wasn’t sure how.
So later, I trembled under the spray of the shower later, eyes closed, letting the steaming water pound against my body, re-living the dinner in my mind. It shouldn’t have felt good, Mr. Marks’s jism on my skin should have repulsed me, should have made me jump back in horror, calling 9-1-1 immediately. But instead, I’d loved it. I’d eaten it up, showing him my pussy, begging him to pulse against my hole. What the hell was wrong with me? Did I want to get pregnant?
Holy shit, I couldn’t. We couldn’t, this was playing with fire. My mom would roll over in her grave if she knew this was happening, that I’d let Tristan touch me, that I wanted him to touch me. I was letting down my mother’s sacred memory, desecrating her grave with my actions. But the thing is, I was dying for more. I wanted to taste, to touch, to experience the physical with a real man, and Tristan was all that … in spades.
CHAPTER FIVE
Daisy
I haven’t seen Mr. Marks for about a week now but I hope he remembers our meeting with Mr. Ranger tonight. It’s weird, after that dinner he disappeared again and I ate several meals alone in the big dining room, the silence deafening, chewing silently, miserable in my own company.
And because I haven’t seen him, I haven’t gotten the chance to remind him in person about our meeting. So earlier that morning, I’d called his office hesitantly.
“Is Mr. Marks available?” I’d asked Penny, his secretary.
“And who is this?” asked a clipped voice.
“Oh um, it’s Daisy,” I mumbled. Why, oh why, was I shy all of a sudden? It wasn’t even him on the phone.
But his secretary’s voice warmed ever so slightly.
“Let me check,” she said, her fingers clacking away at the keys. And she was back in a sec, efficient and business-like. “Yes, you and your guest are expected at Marks Holdings at 5:30 p.m. today. Please be on time,” she said in a clipped voice.
This didn’t bode well. I thought we’d have a meeting at home, something short and informal in the drawing room by the front door. That way Mr. Ranger could get a glimpse of the amazing Marks mansion but leave as soon as it was over.
But it seems that Tristan had pulled the rug out from under me and turned this into a full-on business meeting at the company offices. Calm down, I scolded myself, the meeting will be over in five minutes, it’s no big deal. Tristan’s a busy man, it’s nothing.
So I got ready slowly before taking a cab to the imposing corporate headquarters of Marks Holdings. And once on the forty-fifth floor, my nerves jangled. In my skirt and button-down shirt, I looked hopelessly like a student, awkward and geeky, my heels clacking uncomfortably loud on the waxed floors. Why hadn’t someone told me that stilettos would be so loud in these imposing corridors? This was so over my head, I was an imposter, someone who didn’t belong among these busy professionals.
And minute by minute, the tension only grew, a serious case of nerves. Bland muzak buzzed in my ears, the air conditioning droning, a freezing blast of air blowing down the back of my blouse. I could feel a cold trickle of sweat trailing down my back, chilly and uncomfortable. Where was Mr. Ranger? Where was that goddamn English teacher when you needed him, to get this over with? But that was unfair, and I knew it. Get with it, I scolded myself. It’s just a meeting between two men, you’ll be out of here in five, I reminded myself. But it was more than that. It was seeing Tristan again, and my body was already going into over-drive with anticipation.
Nervously, I tiptoed to reception.
“Hi, can I use the bathroom please?” I asked, voice wavering, teetering a bit in my heels.
“Oh sure honey,” said the older lady. “It’s just around the corner.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, and tottering off, I made my way to privacy. Another trail of cold sweat slid down my back, and my temples were slightly moist, hands clammy. Was I having an allergic reaction of some sort?
But when I got into the restroom, my worst fears were confirmed. Instead of coming across as cool, confident and poised, I looked exactly the opposite – a high school student completely out of her element, sweaty and overheated with wet blotches under my armpits.
Shit! I couldn’t go in looking like this. Checking to make sure there was no one else in the restroom, I whipped off my blouse. Maybe if I held it under the hand dryer, I could get the wet stains out or at least dry it so that they weren’t so visible. Stretching the material out as best I could, I held the fabric under the machine as it roared to life, powerful gushes of ai
r blasting.
Stay with it, I calmed myself. Stay with it. And maybe it was the white noise of the dryer, the feel of warm air reassuring, but as I waited, my nerves began to ease. What was I so worried about? It was a meeting between two alpha males, sure, but they could handle themselves. I just had to sit and be there, nod at the right times, and everything would be fine. What was wrong with me? Why was I questioning myself?
As my confidence began returning, I checked myself in the mirror sideways, eyeing my cleavage. Although I’ve stopped wearing underwear, I haven’t had the luxury of going bra-free. It’s impossible given that my girls are so huge now, it’d be positively obscene to go without some support. So I turned to the side, admiring how my girls were like the prow of a boat and winked at myself in the mirror, mentally reminding myself to buck up, things would be fine.
Suddenly, an idea came over me. The best thing to do before the meeting, to get myself into a self-possessed, assertive state of mind, would be to orgasm. I needed to let myself go for a bit, let the heebee-jeebies out, and then I’d be fine. It was only 5:20 p.m. now. I had ten minutes still, no one had shown up and maybe Tristan would be late. Could I do it? Biting my lip, I spread my blouse out on the counter, noting with satisfaction that the wet spots were almost gone and tip-toed over to the restroom door, locking it with a quiet snick. Could I?
Slowly, oh so slowly, I gazed at myself in the mirror, licking my lips, still a little nervous. But the image of Tristan filled my mind, his dark hair, those massive shoulders, the knowing gleam in his eyes. And before I could stop myself, I’d slipped my bra straps over my shoulders, setting my girls free, and hitched up my skirt so it was bunched up around my waist. Oh god, that was already better. My pink pussy lips gleamed in the mirror, a drop of arousal visible at my slit and I slipped a finger to caress it, to smooth the wetness into my skin.
Balancing in my high heels, I spread my legs as best I could and began running my fingers over my pussy, running up and down my soft labia before pushing deep into the wetness, stimulating myself while my other hand tugged at a dusky nipple.
“Ohhh, ohh,” I moaned, my eyes closed, mouth half-open with pleasure. “Ohhh Tristan,” my breathy cries came.
And the image of my handsome, imposing guardian was enough to make me come. With a sudden jerk, my pussy snapped and clenched around my fingers, a gush of cream running out onto my wrist, dripping off hotly. My snatch pulsed, spasmed and shivered, tingles running through my body until I was limp, my legs wet noodles, backbone like mush. With a strangled sigh, I propped myself up against the counter, pulling my fingers out with a wet squelch. Oh god, oh god, it’d been so good and all I’d done was think about Mr. Marks, imagine him in my mind’s eye.
But time was a-ticking. I glanced at myself in the mirror, hurriedly rinsing off my hands, pulling down my skirt and fixing my hair again. Was there a difference? Was it obvious that I’d just touched myself, had a blast dreaming of the billionaire? There was a flush on my cheeks now, a sudden dreamy aura, and I hoped to god everyone would attribute it to my love of school, my natural enthusiasm for books. It was go time … and I hoped my guardian was ready too.
CHAPTER SIX
Tristan
The minute Daisy walked in, I knew something was different. She was beautiful of course, completely appropriate with her brown curls swept up, smooth and sleek in a blouse and skirt. But the air around her was humming somehow, crackling even, and her eyes sparkled, teasing me as soon as she entered the room.
“Daisy, welcome,” I said smoothly, drawing out a chair for her. My desk is enormous, nothing more than a giant pane of glass, big enough to serve as a conference table if needed. And the brunette smiled warmly at me.
“Tristan, thanks for making time for us,” she replied, “This is John Ranger, my English teacher.”
I smiled courteously, indicating the chair next to Daisy. Daisy was so magnetic that I’d barely noticed the man at her side, my senses on high around the teenage girl. But now I turned to the opposition. The motherfucker was good-looking, I had to give him that. This Lone Ranger dude was athletic, muscled-up in a bodybuilder kind of way, like a pitbull on steroids. And his voice boomed immediately, seeking control.
“Thank you for having us Mr. Marks, I’ve heard so much about you,” he boomed sonorously, practically squeezing off my hand during the shake.
But I wasn’t having any of that.
“Always happy to help,” I said smoothly. If this guy thought he could rattle me, he was dead wrong. I was the czar of billion dollar deals, what was one suburban English teacher here to ask for money?
And as if on cue, the man began babbling, revealing his nervousness.
“Yeah, we’ve talked about you in teacher conferences, you know the District is always sussing out potential donors and your name has come up multiple times,” he confessed. “I wanted to meet you personally because there’s a bonus for the person who finally lands you, we get a thousand dollar prize for bringing you into the fold so to say.”
I was stunned but didn’t show it. This mofo was beyond ballsy, he was plain-out rude and out-of-touch. What happened to tact, subtlety, and nuance in fundraising? Instead, this dude was blabbering about money first thing, without the niceties of small talk. The first rule of development is to go slow, get to know the client first. No one wants to feel like they’re being hit up, even if the motive’s clear, so I shook my head and glanced at Daisy.
And the girl was just as embarrassed for her English teacher. Her face flamed and she crossed her legs nervously.
“What Mr. Ranger is saying,” she interjected, “is that Central Prep needs a little more this year because of that big library they’re building out back and thought you might like to contribute to the effort.”
I nodded slowly. Even my eighteen year-old ward was better at client development than this lug, what was the school district thinking?
But I gave nothing away.
“I see,” I said slowly, steepling my hands under my chin. I’ve been approached for donations many times and often open my wallet, but not without some kind of long-term plan. “Tell me more about the library,” I rumbled.
And despite Daisy’s efforts to keep Mr. Ranger in line, he was a bumbling fool, babbling on and on and on.
“You could put your name on top for a cool hundred million,” he said, “you know ‘The Tristan Marks Museum,’” he giggled.
“You mean ‘The Tristan Marks Library,’” I corrected. Personally, I hate having my name on stuff, preferring to make donations anonymously but this guy was so off his rocker that it was becoming comical, I wanted to bait him just to see how far I could get.
“Oh right!” he giggled, “it’s a library, sorry forgot that detail,” he said, winking. But I was fast losing patience.
“Do you have blueprints, a proposal, a white paper?” I asked. These were the basics of fundraising, surely he’d come armed with a package.
And the dude scrambled to unzip his backpack, pulling out a tatty folder.
“The District’s put together a brochure,” he said, pulling out a sad cardboard brochure folded into thirds. It wasn’t even in color, a grainy black and white thing from a dot-matrix printer.
“Thanks,” I ground out, taking it in hand. “I’ll take a look. Now if you don’t mind, I have another meeting in a few minutes.”
“Oh sure,” he mumbled, stuffing his things back into his knapsack. “Daisy and I, we just wanted to make sure we hit all our big donors, didn’t we?” he said, throwing my little girl a wink.
And the brunette just smiled faintly back before turning to me once again.
“Thanks for seeing us Tristan,” she mumbled, face flaming. There was no reason for her to be embarrassed, but I could see that she was mortified on John Ranger’s behalf.
“No problem,” I rumbled, showing them out. “I’ll see you later tonight.”
And with a small smile, she was out the door, the big slab of wood shutting softly be
hind her.
Except as the brunette passed, a drift of air trailed in her wake and my nostrils flared, big body on alert. Was that … holy shit, was that pussy cream I smelled? Oh yeah, my delicious little ward had been getting it on right before she came into my office, frigging her cunt, the aroma unmistakable, my male hackles immediately on high. Daisy had come right before entering my office … and it drove me over the edge.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Daisy
The meeting couldn’t have gone worse. I’d counted on Mr. Ranger to be prepared, to be smooth, dominant, alpha and instead he’d melted into a bumbling fool in front of Tristan like a grade-school boy.
I’d cringed almost from the very beginning.
“Oh I used to be in the military,” Mr. Ranger growled, “you know, Army and all.”
“And what did you do?” asked my guardian, eyebrow cocked.
“Paratrooper,” Mr. Ranger bragged smarmily. “You know, dropping out of planes at five hundred miles an hour with just a parachute on your back.”
My guardian nodded in acknowledgement.
“I assume you’ve seen combat,” he said, “since we’ve been at war almost continuously for the last twenty years.”
But here, Mr. Ranger bumbled.
“Well, sort of, kind of, not really,” he admitted, biting his lip. What the hell? I swiveled in my seat to look at my teacher. He was always talking about how he’d been in the trenches during his service, exchanging fire with this and that bad guy, sneaking behind enemy lines, all sorts of things. Where had it all come from?
And the big man turned to look at me, coloring slightly before protesting.
“I didn’t get a deployment after graduation,” he protested. “The guys in charge said there was no suitable position so I was released into the civilian world immediately. I did do some time with the FBI before entering Teacher’s College,” he added helpfully.
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