by Ava Sinclair
“On your knees, little girl.”
I obey as if hypnotized by his deep voice. He reaches for the hem of my nightgown and lifts it over my head.
“Exquisite,” he says. “But I expected no less.”
Silas joins me on the bed, laying me on my back. He puts a fingertip between my breasts and drags it lightly down my midsection, and just this touch is enough to make my nipples rock hard. He notices this, and smiles. His finger stops at the top of my panties. He moves his hand away, then reaches for me again, this time pulling the panties down and off. And now there is nothing between me and this gorgeous man who stretches the length of his muscular body beside mine.
“Where to begin…” he muses, his eyes caressing my naked body so boldly that I blush. “I suppose we should begin with Daddy’s Rule.”
“Daddy’s Rule?” I’m at a loss.
“Yes. My little girl doesn’t come until I give her permission. If she does, she gets her little bottom spanked very, very hard.”
Lord, is he for real? Just the threat has my pussy throbbing. But I can see the seriousness in his eyes, and when he drops his head and closes his mouth around my nipple, I realize just how hard it’s going to be to follow this rule. He worries the little bud of flesh with his teeth, then soothes it with his tongue before suckling so hard my upper back rises off the bed as I cry out with pleasure.
His hands roam my body, sliding down my back, my hips, moving under me to cup my bottom cheeks, which he squeezes possessively.
I’m aquiver, alight. I have never felt like this with any man. My past lovers were either uncertain or fumbling, asking me what I wanted and then failing to deliver. Silas’ dominance is like an aphrodisiac.
“Spread your legs,” he says, and I whimper when he slides his fingers inside me. “So hot. So wet. You’re on the verge of coming, aren’t you, little girl.” He begins to work first one finger and then two into my quivering pussy. “Don’t you dare. I’ll spank you if you do.”
I’m so close to failing, and suddenly this feels like work, like trying to pull the brake on a runaway train. I can feel the pleasure mounting, and when he drops his lips to lay a line of tender kisses from the middle of my heaving ribcage to the top of my cleft, I’m fisting the covers from sheer frustration.
“Don’t,” I say, knowing that if his tongue goes where I think it’s going, I’m going to just lose it completely.
“Oh, no,” he says. “You aren’t calling the shots.” He speaks the word right over the mound of my pussy, and his hot breath… oh, god. I start to come. I try to stop myself but I can’t. My orgasm starts just as he parts the seam of my labia with his tongue, and the sensation is so powerful I scream.
He’s holding me fast with his one hand on my hip as the other spreads the outer lips of my pussy like a butterfly, pinning them as he laps and laves and swirls his tongue around the bud of my clitoris.
I’ve heard women say they see stars during an orgasm. I never believed it. I believe it now. Tiny fireworks explode behind my closed eyelids and the room fills with my cries. In the back of my mind, I am vaguely aware that I’m not the first woman to cry out in this room, under this man. There’s a brief sting of pain at this realization, but the pleasure he’s giving me overwhelms it. My body is buffeted by the waves of my stolen climax, and only when it comes to rest do I see his stern face looming over me.
“Bad girl,” he says. “You were told not to come.”
He sits up, dragging me over his lap and the room is now filled with cries of pain. He was not exaggerating. He is spanking me hard. Too hard. I feel betrayed, angry, and I kick and scream and wail as he levels blow after unrelenting blow onto my upturned nates. Pain turns to near agony as I twist and writhe and beg. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be! He tilts me forward, targeting the soft under curve of my buttocks where the skin is the most sensitive. He sears it with his precise smacks, and only when my bottom is a throbbing mound of stinging heat does he stop and move me off his lap onto my belly.
“Let’s try that again,” he says. “And this time, no coming until I tell you to.”
He pulls me up and back so that my upper body rests on the mattress and my ass is in the air. He’s rubbing my buttocks, telling me how hot and red my ass is.
“That pussy is even wetter now,” he says, and wraps his arm around my waist as his fingers begin to play with my inner labia, stroking the slick folds like a kitten. “Such a good pussy.”
He’s teasing, and despite the fiery throb of my bottom, I’m moaning again.
“You’re perfect, Lindsay,” he says. “My perfect little doll.” He dips his finger in my pussy. “I have so many things planned for you… here…” He drags the finger up to the tight asterisk of my bottom hole. “And here.” He pauses. “Are you a virgin here?”
I look back. “Yes,” I whisper.
He moves behind me, leans down, crowns each of my burning buttocks with a soft kiss. He tells me I’m beautiful, special. I let myself believe him, let his words soothe me like a balm. My pussy is clenching with need and when he rises suddenly and pushes into me without warning, the shock is so blissful that I momentarily forget to breathe.
He begins to move.
“Oh, baby,” he says. “Enjoy it with me. But slowly. Let your body relax. Let the pleasure build. When you come, I’ll be right there with you, understand?”
Idle. It’s a good analogy. My body is a humming engine and Silas Stanton is the driver that has me purring, then shifting me into overdrive as he grasps my hips and begins to fuck me with slow, steady strokes.
“Ohhhhh,” I say when he pulls me back against him, thrusting upward into my pussy as the fingers of one hand roll my nipple in his hand as his other hand massages my clit. This time I control myself, and see the pleasure in the slow build, the steady burn of pleasure that heats and heats. I know when it comes it’s going to be nothing short of incredible, and his mounting excitement feeds mine. Behind me, he’s groaning, too, his mouth in my hair.
“Oh, baby,” he says. “Baby. Baby. Baby… Come for me, baby. Come for me… now!”
And I do, the pleasure exploding from my core, burning away every memory of every other man and stamping me with Silas’ fiery brand. I move with him as he spends, taking his hot tribute into my body, my pussy clenching on his cock, hungry for every drop of his essence.
And when we lie down I realize it’s another lesson he’s taught me today about pleasure, about pain, about how the two sensations can mingle and separate and come together in a powerful tsunami of something that defies description.
“Such a sweet, sweet girl,” he says, nuzzling my neck. And he holds me there until sleep starts to overtake my well-fucked, exhausted body at last.
“You didn’t read me my bedtime story,” I say drowsily.
He kisses me gently. “There will be other nights,” he says.
Chapter Five
Silas is at his desk. I’m at mine, working to process the second chapter of my financial literacy textbook. Aside from the sweet ache of my ass and my pussy, last night might as well not have happened. He’s back to his more formal demeanor, and I tell myself this is a necessary function to get me to focus. I tell myself that this is all an odd arrangement that I instigated with my ad, that I should enjoy it and not expect more. I tell myself that seventy-two hours is not enough time to develop feelings for a man I don’t really know.
“Eyes on your book, young lady,” he says when he catches me stealing glances at him. I scowl. How did he even know I was looking at him?
I force myself back to the book, where today I am learning about the difference between earned and unearned income, employment versus self-employment, and taxes. As I work, Silas taps away on his laptop, presumably answering emails. I think of my correspondence with him, and wonder if he’s scanning Craigslist again, planning ahead for someone else, for another girl to train when he’s done with me.
You’ve done this before…
Yes.
We work side by side, in silence. I manage to get through the chapter, and Silas repeats the previous day’s routine, handing me another test, with questions and an essay. And this time I surprise myself, writing confidently on the subject matter. When I turn it in, he looks at it and I’m pleased to see him grin as his eyes dart to mine.
“You’re getting a good grasp on the material, even if it’s remedial,” he says. He turns and puts the paper on his desk. “I think your behavior calls for some kind of reward.”
“A reward?”
“Well, if you’d rather do chores.”
“No,” I hasten, rising from my desk. I’m dressed today in a plaid skirt, blue sweater, knee socks, and loafers that look like a feminine version of the ones he’s wearing. He grins at my exuberance.
“Then come with me, my dear.” Silas offers his arm and I accept. He takes me first to the atrium, where he summons Mrs. Kim.
“Two ice cream sundaes with all the trimmings,” he says, then looks at me as if an afterthought. “I take it you do like ice cream sundaes?”
“I love them, actually.”
“All the better.” He inclines his head in my direction. “Extra whipped cream and cherries for the young lady.”
Mrs. Kim trundles away. The room is warm, and all the plants are lush and pretty. Silas remarks that it’s not so cold today, reminding me of a world beyond these walls that I’ve forgotten. We tuck into our desserts when they arrive. Before today I’d have been self-conscious about indulging in such a huge dessert—especially before lunch—but my appetite seems to delight my host, and I realize another advantage to the curious dynamic of being treated as something of a foster child in his household. Children are allowed to enjoy their sweets, and do, from the thick whipped cream topping to the rich ice cream to the plump cherries to the chocolate sauce. I even eat the bananas after mashing them into the remaining ice cream at the bottom of the oblong bowl.
“Mrs. Kim, do you think you could find Lindsay a jacket? It’s still chilly out.” The kitchen maid has come back in to collect the dishes, and smiles amiably as she says yes, she will. A moment later she returns with a pretty blue wool coat with a fur-lined hood. Silas helps me into it and we head out of the house.
It’s my first time on the grounds I’ve glimpsed from the windows. It’s beautiful, and were it not for the distant sounds of the city I would believe we were in England. The stone house looms behind us, the clouds in the still-gray sky reflected in the leaded windows. The gravel path under our feet is meticulously maintained, the shrubs that line them perfectly trimmed.
This part of the garden, which my room overlooks, is terraced. Nothing is in bloom now, but Silas tells me in the spring that all manner of flowers and shrubs bloom here, perfuming the place. He points to an arbor covered in a tangle of bare vines. Jasmine, he tells me, and it smells the best of all.
“I can’t wait until it blooms,” I blurt out, and he goes quiet and looks the other way.
We turn right onto another path that winds around a pond. There’s a thin sheen of ice on the surface. A gaggle of geese sits on the shore, looking fluffed up and put out by the uncooperative weather.
“Wait,” he says, and steps behind me, putting his gloved hands over my eyes. “This next part is a surprise.”
It’s awkward, having him walk behind me when I can’t see where I’m going. It feels like we walk forever but finally he stops.
“Ready?” he asks. I nod and the hands fall away.
“No. Way.” I turn to him, my mouth an ‘O’ of delighted shock. “Does it still work?”
“Indeed it does.” He takes my hand and we jog over to a beautifully restored carousel. There’s a box on a post and Silas opens it and pulls a switch. The carousel comes to life, the golden glow illuminating beautifully carved animals—horses, zebras, giraffes, a rabbit, a swan.
“May I?” I ask.
He nods and gestures me toward the carousel with both hands. I run over, delighted. It reminds me of the one my father took me to years ago, when I was a little girl and we visited the seaside, only this one is more beautiful.
“Pick one!” Silas says.
I run around, touching all the animals. “I can’t decide!”
“You don’t have to. You can ride them all. Pick the one that you’ll ride first.”
I pick the rabbit. Well, technically it’s a hare, its body stretched out long, its eye looking wildly back. Like the other animals, it has a saddle on its back. I vault onto it and grasp the pole. Silas flips another switch and the music, starting as an off-key drone, collects itself and transforms into the familiar, tinny organ music that triggers so many childhood memories. The rabbit bobs up and down as the other animals do the same, loping in loops to nowhere. It’s surreal. It’s magical. Each time the ride stops, I choose another animal. When I climb on the swan, Silas pulls out his camera.
“Say Daddy!” he calls.
“Daddy!” I cry, leaning to the side and opening one arm wide.
I don’t know how long I ride. Time seems to stop. I’m laughing. Silas is laughing. He switches the carousel on and runs to hop on with me, and I laugh as he struggles to keep his footing as he comes to where I’m sitting astride the swan. He stands beside me as I ride, then collects me and nearly falls as he ferries me to a horse with an arched neck.
When I’ve lost count of rides, he tells me to stay put and hops off and jogs back to the control box. The animals begin to slow, rising toward the ceiling and then dropping as if in slow motion. When I disembark, the world feels too solid beneath my feet. My legs feel heavy. Silas lifts me into his arms.
“My hands are freezing,” I say.
He puts me down. “I’m obviously a very bad papa, forgetting your gloves. Here. Take mine.”
“No!” I’ve stuck my hands in my pockets and feel some in there. “You get the lights. I’m fine.”
He turns away and I pull the gloves out. Something else comes with them. A locket. I turn away so that Silas can’t see and open it. Inside is the carved image of a horse head, and I realize after a moment that it’s the white horse on the carousel. On the other side of the locket is the letter ‘J.’
“It’s turned cold again.”
I tuck the locket back into the pocket and hurriedly turn to pull on the gloves. “Yes.”
“How are your legs?”
“Better now.” We turn and head back toward the house.
“How long as the carousel been there?”
“Decades,” he says. “When my parents bought this place, they were going to trash it, but I loved it, even as a child. I told my father when I grew up and got rich like him, I’d fix it.”
“Are your parents alive?” I ask.
“My mother is,” he replies. “My parents divorced when I was thirteen. My father died about twelve years ago…” His voice trails off and he looks away. “Mother remarried before he died and lives in Austria with her new husband. After the divorce, I went to business school abroad, studied finance, traveled a lot trying to figure out what I wanted. Finally, I came back here and bought Lindel, then bought Mom’s share of this place.” He nods toward the house. “Of course, she insisted on giving it to me for a song. But I always was something of a homebody.”
“And you just stay here alone?”
“I’m not alone. I have the staff. They’re like family.”
“You don’t want a wife or anything?”
He smiles sadly. “As I told you last night, my relationship views aren’t exactly conventional.”
“Maybe you should…”
“I don’t like talking about this.” His tone has turned harsh, then he seems to collect himself. “I’m boring.” He smiles down at me. “It was nice coming out here today, showing this to you. Not many people get to see the carousel.”
My gloved fingers fiddle with the locket in my pocket. “Yeah,” I say, trying to sound convincing. “It makes me feel special. Thank you.”
Back inside
he excuses himself to get ready for dinner and tells me to do the same. I rush up to my room and as soon as I’m inside, I pull off my gloves and remove the locket for a better look.
It’s quite beautiful; the carousel horsehead is etched into what looks like crystal, and the J is engraved with ornate flourish. I close the locket, running my finger over the golden surface and turn it over. The back is smudged. I wipe it on my skirt. When I look at it again, I get a sinking feeling.
“Never forget,” it reads. “Love, Daddy.”
I walk over to the wardrobe and I kneel, studying the locket for a moment more. It’s one thing to know there are others. It’s another to see what must have been his exit gift. I wonder… did he hope to find love with any of them? Did they leave willingly? Or did he just grow bored and send them on their way? As the clock on the wall begins to chime, I tuck the locket under some clothing and make my way down to dinner.
Today it’s Irish stew and a loaf of fresh baked bread with a crock of creamy butter on the side. The sky outside the atrium is even grayer that it was when we were outside. Silas, who is already waiting at the table, tells me that warmer spell is over, and the forecast is calling for snow.
“So much for the tease,” he says, and I think of the locket in my drawer.
Silas is in a good mood while we eat. He tells me about his first winter storm in this house, when he was a little boy. He tells me how the snow blew against the house in drifts, and he cried because he thought the whole world was frozen. He seems to forget himself in the memory, and then pulls back, as if realizing he’s not alone.
“Goodness,” he says. “Look at the time. I’ve dallied with you all day and now I’ve not done a thing. I’ll have to spend my evening working. I’ll have Mina see you up to bed.”
He rises and begins to walk away, and I pivot my chair toward him. “Wait?” I’m seized by the sudden desire to keep him near, to keep him, to keep what we have, even if it’s an irrational desire.
