by E J Frost
“Up off your knees,” I tell her. “My turn. I want to see you.”
She looks uncertain for a moment. Then she rises, gathering up the tissue on the floor, dropping it in the toilet and brushing off her hands.
To banish that uncertainty, to make it easy for her, I give her precise instructions: “Same as last time, sweetheart. Turn around and face the mirror. Take off your skirt, fold it and lay it on top of your bag. Then take off your panties and put them on top of your skirt. Put your hands over your pussy, turn around and face me.”
“Yes, sir.” Her voice is so small I barely catch her words.
“Good girl. If you need to stop, say your safe word.”
She shakes her head and gives me a tiny smile. Then she obeys. She does it carefully, following my instruction word for word. Her disrobing reveals smooth, pale skin, slender legs with coltish knees, a softly curved ass. I thought I’d like what was under her skirt, and I’m not wrong. She’s small, and slender to the point of being skinny, but that’s not a turn-off. Women’s bodies excite me, and it really doesn’t matter what size or shape they come in. It’s their softness, the way their bodies yield to mine, which fires me up. Kitty’s got plenty for me to enjoy.
Her little panties match her bra: white silk, bordered with lace. Full back; not a thong. I decide then that there will be no slutty underwear for my Kitty. Only demure silk, satin and lace, as much as I can rip off her.
She turns around slowly and stands with her hands cupped over herself, her arms framing her breasts, her eyes downcast.
From the front, I can see a fine tracery of scars across her upper thighs. They’re straight, surgical, and I know right away what they are. Kitty’s a cutter. The scars are recessed, a shade darker than the rest of her skin. Not recent, but something to keep an eye on.
“Gorgeous. Show Daddy what you have for him.”
She bites her lip, and looks away—ashamed of her body, afraid of rejection—before dropping her hands to her sides.
I growl with pleasure at the bare little pudenda she reveals.
“Do you want me to—?” She trails off, looking around. Is she trying to figure out some way to prop herself up so I can examine her without going down on my knees?
“No, sweetheart. Just let me look at you.” There’s so much to like. The little creases of her hips. The flushed spots on her knees. The tiny freckles dotting her thighs. “Reach down and spread your lips for me.”
Blinking rapidly, following my instructions carefully, she does it, but with the strong light and our height difference, all I can see is shadow.
“Turn around and bend over the sink, baby doll. Can you do that for me?”
She’s shaking now, arms and thighs trembling, but she whispers, “Yes, sir,” and obeys. So well trained. She turns slowly and clutches at the edge of the sink. I shuffle forward a step, with my pants still around my ankles. My belt buckle clinks on the tile.
At the sound, a light bulb goes off. I can touch her without touching her. I reach down and pull the belt free.
“This is my belt,” I tell her, running the leather tongue down her back. “I’m going to touch you with the belt, not my hands.”
She shivers and nods. “Yes, sir. Yes, please.”
I run the belt’s tip up and down the smooth curve of her back a few times, coming to rest in the small of her back. I press down with the belt’s tip and she arches her back, exactly the way I want.
“Perfect, baby doll. Reach between your legs and spread yourself open with your fingers. Show me what I want to see.”
She lowers her head to the pile of clothes mounded on her bag and whimpers. Then she braces herself against the sink with one hand and reaches between her legs with the other.
Despite just coming a few minutes ago, my balls prickle when her fingers splay her outer lips. Within those smooth curves, her body shades to the softest pink-brown, with the opening a darker rose. Her anus, clenching as I watch, is a tight, pink furl. So beautiful. So delicate. Like a little doll.
A doll I want to fuck until she comes apart in my hands.
I double my belt in my hand and run the folded leather down between her legs. Where I most want to put my hands. Her skin flushes as soon as the leather touches her. Her knees buckle and she grabs at the tap handle. I reach out to stop her from accidentally turning on the water and soaking her clothes, but she realizes it at the same moment and moves her hand to clutch at the sink’s rim. Grinning, I rub the belt along her vulva a little more firmly, and flick the tip of the belt over her sphincter.
She arches and shudders, trying to hold her position while writhing against the touch of my belt.
I draw a step closer to her, so she can feel my body heat. As I move the belt over her, the leather brushes my cock and thighs. Even though we’re not touching, I feel a connection blossom between us.
“Sweet little girl.” I lean over her so she can feel my breath on her back. She arches to me, stopping just short of touching me, and I reward her with more strokes of the belt. “Daddy wants to see you come. Can you do that for me? Rub yourself until you come?”
Her shoulders heave. “I can’t. I’m sorry,” she whimpers. “I can’t come like that. I have trouble . . . I need it, sir.”
I don’t ask what she needs. I know. I take a step back and let the belt fall to my side. Then I flick my wrist and crack the flat of it across her ass.
“Oh, God!” Her knees buckle again, but she quickly straightens. I hear a wet noise, and see her fingers begin working her clit.
“That’s it,” I growl to her. “Rub yourself for me. Imagine it’s my fingers in you.”
Her wail’s inarticulate this time and as it trails off, I bring the belt down in the other direction, laying a bright pink stripe across the first.
“Stop! Please, Daddy, stop!”
I almost do. We’re nearly strangers, in a public bathroom, and I’m beating her with a leather belt. But the wet noises continue, her fingers work frantically between lips flushed as bright as the stripes on her ass, and it penetrates that she’s finally called me “Daddy.”
I lift my belt and bring it down with a crack that echoes like thunder in the tiny tiled room.
She screeches and writhes, madly grabbing at the sink for support. A deep pink flush spreads down her back.
“Give me what I want,” I growl. “Give it to me, baby doll, be a good girl for Daddy.” I lean back a little to line up the blow and smack the leather across the juncture of her ass-cheeks and upper thighs, catching her labia. When she howls, I do it again, whipping the leather back and forth across that sensitive spot. She collapses across the sink, her back hunching and her thighs quivering so hard that I reach for her on reflex, afraid she’ll fall. She takes three gasping breaths, then her orgasm takes her. She rises onto her toes, the muscles of her calves bunching under her pale skin. A long, rattling sigh replaces the wet noises of her masturbation. Her back arches with each hard contraction. Finally, she sags against the sink. Her fingers, wet with her arousal and pink-tipped from rubbing, cup protectively over her labia.
Mmm. I’ll remember that gesture. I draw the belt between my hands and run the flat of it down her back in a caress. That’s all I can give her without breaking my own rule. I hope it’s enough.
“Good girl, Kitty,” I murmur to her. “Such a good girl.”
She makes a noise half-way between a sob and a chuckle. For a minute, she rests over the sink, breathing hard, then she pushes up and glances at me over her shoulder. “I didn’t think I could do that.”
“You did great, sweet girl.” I brush the belt down her back again. “I’ll demand things from you that you might not have done before and might push you out of your comfort zone, but I promise to make them worth your while.”
Wet-eyed, she nods. “Does that mean I passed the audition?”
I smile at her and reach over for a handful of toilet paper to wipe her up. Her sign said pampering, and even if it hadn’t, I want to
take care of her. I can’t do full aftercare since I can’t touch her and we’re in a public bathroom, but I can do some little things which will make her feel cared for. Carefully touching her only with the tissue, I wipe the wetness from her pussy and thighs, then dispose of the tissue in the toilet. “It wasn’t an audition, but if it was, you’d have passed with flying colors. Now, when you’re ready, put your panties and bra back on, then your skirt and blouse. Then wash your face and fix your hair. Do that for me when you’re ready, good girl.”
“Yes, sir.” She takes a minute to start moving, and I give her that minute, just standing close to her so she can feel my warmth and presence. Finally, she starts dressing, pulling those cute panties up her legs. It’s a crime to cover up that pussy, but I’m becoming concerned about opening the door to some very angry person in a wheelchair.
I dress as she does, not hurrying, moving slowly to keep her relaxed. She shakes out her hair after she slips her tunic back on. It’s come loose from its plait and hangs in shining dark waves around her shoulders. I curse myself a second time for the “no touching” rule and stuff my hands in my pockets to keep from sinking my hands into that soft, chestnut mass. I promise myself hours of playing with her hair as I ram my fists deeper into my jeans.
She draws her hair into a ponytail and fastens it with the white silk bow. Touching on a little pink lip-gloss, she turns to me and smiles uncertainly.
“Do you drink coffee?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Tea.”
It occurs to me that this might be a little thing. Little girls don’t drink coffee, do they? I’m going to need to do some serious research on baby girls.
“Okay.” I hold my hand to her. “Let’s go find you a cup of tea and we’ll talk about what’s next.”
Thankfully, there’s no enraged handicapped person waiting outside the door, and maybe screaming comes from behind it all the time, because no one even gives us a second glance when I lead her out into the hallway. Since, thank God, the “no touching” rule is officially over, I put my hand in small of her back to steer her towards the conference center’s coffee shop. When she glances up at me with bright eyes and brighter cheeks, I leave it there as we order, wait for our drinks, and find a booth at the back of the shop. It’s not private, but I don’t care what the strangers surrounding us make of our conversation.
As she sits down, I see her wince. Then I see her small smile. Yes, that’s the smile of a happy masochist.
“Is this where you want me to read and sign the non-disclosure and sexual services contract you’ve conveniently prepared and brought along?” she asks, dunking her peppermint teabag into the steaming mug.
I make a show of checking my pockets. “Now where did I put that?”
“It could be on your phone,” she offers.
I chuckle. “No.” Although that’s not the worst idea, and I will email her a contract when I get home. I know they’re not legal. I know a contract wouldn’t protect me from assault and battery charges if she changes her mind. But the Navy made me a pencil-pusher, I guess, and contracts make me comfortable. “This is where I tell you what you need to pack.”
Her blush spreads down her throat and I watch in amusement. She tucks a non-existent strand of stray hair behind her ear and asks softly, “What do I need to pack, sir?”
As much I like hearing her call me “sir,” I wish she’d call me “Daddy” again. That was an amazing moment. I could feel her trust like a warm hand settling on my chest. Tomorrow night, I’ll get her back to that place.
“An overnight bag. You live near here?” At her nod, I continue. “Can you come into the City tomorrow night? We can get to know each other somewhere other than in a public bathroom.”
She grins and hides it in her tea.
“Take the train down and I’ll pick you up at Penn Station,” I tell her. “We’ll have dinner, maybe do a low-key scene if you feel up to it. You can stay overnight at my place. I have a guest room, so don’t feel any pressure.”
“Thank you,” she says, but her eyes don’t lift to mine. I think she’s disappointed. Good. Sex and sleeping with me should be rewards.
“Now, as to what you should pack, do you like to play dress up, little girl?” I drop my voice into my deepest register on the last two words and watch her shiver. She flinches as her bottom rubs along the booth’s hard seat. I grin into my own tea, which I only bought so I don’t have coffee breath when I kiss her goodbye. Which I am definitely doing.
“Yes,” she says, choking on the word.
“Do you have a schoolgirl outfit?”
She nods. “Plaid uniform with white socks or all black?”
I feel a tiny flare of annoyance at finding her so well-equipped. Her sign said she was experienced, and that’s what I need from her. Still, Daddy will dress his girl in the future.
Where the fuck did that thought come from? Yes, I’ve dressed my bottoms before, in satin and sparkly shit, not the baby doll dresses I’m imagining her wearing.
She’s staring at me, so I pull myself back to what I should be doing. “Plaid. Bring pajamas and something comfortable for the train home. You’ll be sore.”
“I’m sore now,” she whispers into her tea, which makes me grin. “Anything else, sir?”
“No. Good girl for asking.” The praise makes her blush to her hairline again. “If we’re both happy with how tomorrow night goes, then you’ll need to pack for two weeks. Cruise leaves from L.A. on Friday. Plane from Newark to LAX on Thursday afternoon.”
“One more audition,” she says, looking into her tea as she dips the bag again.
Definitely performance anxiety. “It’s not an audition. Think of it as a first date. You might want to know a little more about me before you give me two weeks of your life.”
She shrugs one shoulder. “I’ve given two weeks of my life to dumber things.” She glances up, horror creasing her features. “Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to suggest that this was dumb—”
I chuckle. “It’s okay. I didn’t take it that way. For the cruise, pack light. Bathing suits and shorts. Little dresses. It’ll be hot. Bring some pretty things for the evenings. There are three formal dinners each week. And if you have any favorite toys, bring them. I’ll be bringing some things for you, too, so don’t worry about not having the right things.”
“Okay.” She gives me a shy grin.
“One other thing you need to bring, and two things you need to do.”
She sips her tea and watches me over the rim of the paper cup. I can feel how intently she’s listening.
“Thing you need to bring is your passport. The ship goes to Mexico. Bring it with you tomorrow as well. I’ll need to add your name and passport number to the plane and cruise reservations.”
She nods. “No problem.”
“Needs to be at least six months left on your passport,” I tell her, remembering when I ran into that issue two years ago.
“I just renewed it in February. The two things I need to do?”
“First, when you get home, take a hot bath and painkillers, if you need them. I’d usually do your aftercare.” Aftercare’s one of my favorite things; I hate that I won’t be able to do hers. “And I will call you later, but I need to get back to the City tonight, so I can’t stick around to do it.”
She shakes her head, ponytail swishing. “I don’t need much aftercare.” Her eyes flick to my face, taking in my frown; she shifts on her seat, and winces. “Sorry, sir, I mean, I will take a bath. And I would like it if you called me, but if you’re busy, please don’t feel like you need to.”
“Good girl,” I murmur, in part just to see her smile and flush. “The other thing, and I’m sorry to have to say this, but I take my health and the health of my partners very seriously. You need to see a doctor and get tested.”
The bright blood drains out of her cheeks. “I, um, did that already. Before I came here. Last week, I mean.”
She tries to reach into the bag at her feet without
setting down her tea and nearly drops the cup. I take it from her and set it on the table. She fumbles a folder out of her bag and drops it in front of me like it’s scalded her.
I flip open the folder and quickly scan through the report. “Jane Smith, huh?”
“Sorry, I can prove it’s me. I have the receipt.” She begins to fumble in her bag again.
I hold up a hand to stop her. “I believe you.” I understand why she’d want the tests to be anonymous. I don’t believe the HIPAA hype, either. After I take in her vitals, current lack of communicable diseases, although she’s had chlamydia once, family history of dementia, personal history of self-harm and depression, and the fact she has a birth control implant, I flip the folder closed and pass it back to her. Then I take out my wallet and hand her my card.
She turns it over and reads the details several times, her eyes flicking back and forth, before handing it back.
“You memorized it?” I ask. That was quick.
“Do you want to quiz me?”
Oh, that pert tongue. We’re going to have such fun.
“No. Send me an email when you get home and I’ll respond with a contract and my address. Give me your number now so can call you later.”
I take my phone out of my shirt pocket, tap it on and create a new contact for her: “Kitty.”
She reels off her number. I type it in, show it to her to check it, pop her a text so she can add me as a contact, and put the phone away.
“Finished your tea, sweetheart?”
She picks up her cup, takes two swallows and puts it down empty. Her economy makes me smile. I take her hand and lead her out of the coffee shop.
“Can I get my books?” she asks as we walk through the exhibition halls.
“Sure.” I change course back to Hall B. “Do you have a way home?”
She nods. “I drove here.”
“You’re okay to drive?”
She tips her head to the side and looks up at me with a quirky little smile. “Yes, sir.”
When we reach her table, I’m pleased to see her books still there. I hold them for her while she tucks them into her bag. Then I help her fold up the tablecloth and put that away, too. Her bag’s bigger than it looks. Maybe she has an undetectable extension charm on it. That thought makes me grin, and remembering her quirky smile, I ask, “What was that funny smile, baby doll?”
