by Olivia Fox
Daddy’s Sweet Ride
Olivia Fox
Hope You Enjoy It, Foxy!
My scorching hot auto body shop boyfriend really knows how to handle his tools: Hitachi wand, hydraulic lift, to say nothing of his sizable apparatus.
Not only that, he wants me to call him daddy.
He doles out spankings and punishments like they’re going out of style. He buys me presents, calls me “princess” and when we’re all alone I am his sexy little pet that will stop at nothing to satisfy his filthy mind.
XOXOXO,
P.S. Get a FREE Daddy Book, lots of freebies and join the VIP Foxy Fan Club (flip to the back Before You Go!).
Chloe
Briarville by the Sea, California
Springtime
It was a rare occasion anymore I could even remember what it felt like to have “symptoms,” but now was one of them.
You are in a grocery store for god’s sake. Calm the fuck down, I told myself.
I couldn’t help it. Finding the unexpected charges on my credit card statement that morning felt like a punch to the stomach. I knew who was responsible by the nature of the purchases, but it didn’t make the scary sensations any better.
She bought an expensive handbag, designer shoes, a Charlotte Tilbury makeup collection – all on my card without asking.
I started to breathe faster wondering how I would pay it all off and felt the manic moths beat their erratic, panicky wings against the inner walls of my ribs.
Hoping the bushel basket displays of local Pink Lady, Ruby Frost, and Gravenstein apples would ground me, I stood still staring at them and breathing in their sweet smells.
And I freaked out as the baskets started seemingly to breathe in front of me, their thin wooden slats waving slightly as they inhaled and exhaled.
“Not real. Not real.” I close my eyes tightly against what I thought I saw. My eyes opened and double-checked to see if they were still breathing or not.
“Oh, shit,” I darted away from the heaving bushels and headed past the hot, prepared foods; cheeses; and onward toward the bulk bins.
Roxy was a person without a penny to her name, who also had extremely expensive tastes. She used my card to feed her spending appetite when she knew I couldn’t afford it and that was a stab in the back.
I hope no one I knew saw me like this.
Luckily, I went away to Stanford for my first and only psychotic break. No one here knew about me but my family.
Normally, I managed my disorder well with the right medicine and regular visits to the therapist. But after finding the unsuspected charges for $2000 on the credit card statement, my resiliency was screwed.
Not crazy. Overwhelmed. Paying the salon rent. Paying my rent and giving first and last month’s rent to Roxy. Purchasing inventory…
Breathe.
Was it normal to feel like this? Like I was being hunted by huge, invisible beasts of prey in the grocery store, for god’s sake?
Or was it a result of my so-called illness?
As soon as I saw the charges on my credit card earlier in the day, during a free moment at my salon, I knew I made a terrible mistake in paying for Roxy’s first and last for a new rental. Not only was I out $1000 for rent on the one-bedroom where I lived, plus the money to get Roxy set up in her own place, now there was an additional $2000 on my credit card.
Thinking about my shaky financial situation, and that I was in it due to my sister’s selfish, greedy spending habits had me feeling unnerved and, here was the weird part, under attack.
I don’t mean metaphorically.
Passing the Greek yogurt and butter, I felt like some wild animal was stalking me. I actually felt hunted, like something big and dangerous with sharp claws and flesh-piercing teeth was about to pounce on me. It would be hard for such a creature to hide inside the grocery store but try and tell my brain. She simply wouldn’t listen.
It’s going to be OK, I told myself. You’ve handled worse. You can handle this easy breezy.
That was the thing about dropping your basket. Once it happens, it was no use ever trying to convince yourself it wouldn’t happen again.
It had been years since I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. The very word was insulting.
Disorder, like out of order, as in cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.
If you asked me, so-called sane people were crazier than so many of the people I met inside the institution. At least those on lockdown knew they needed to deal with their shit.
My therapist said I had an advantage. I knew what I was coping with, and I had good strategies for managing it.
Can I even afford gummy bears?
Oh, she gets her Balenciaga bag, her shmancy makeup, and her full-blown Bebe wardrobe paid for by me, and I’m sitting here asking myself whether or not I can afford gummies? I know exactly what I’m going to do. I’m going to make her return every single thing she bought with my credit card!
I marched over to my favorite section of the store: the bulk gummybins.
That’s right! I shoved piles of my favorite gummies in the plastic bag, feeling grounded by the cool, heavy metal scoop in my hand.
The fried egg gummies. Oh, and the blue sharks with the white bellies. I needed some of those, too. I grabbed another bag. In between scoops I popped a gummy in my mouth. Can’t go without the traditional standbys, and took a huge scoop of Haribo Goldbaren from Germany, nearly filling half the bag with their cute little individual serving sizes wrapped in gold plastic.
She’s screwed me over in the past, but this time she’s gone too far.
Chomp, chomp, chomp. I tossed a few more gummies into my mouth.
Behind me a voice spoke in bass tones, “You gonna pay for those things, little girl, or do you plan on helping yourself to an all-you-can-eat gummy buffet for free?”
Three things happened all at once:
1.I squeal, barely avoiding a scream.
2.I drop all three of my bags of gummies on the floor and they scatter.
3.I leap up in fright and spin around, clutching my hands to my chest and looking straight at a wall of muscle covered by a form-fitting, gray T-shirt with the logo “1967 Pontiac GTO.”
OK, maybe more than three things.
“Oh, cluck! I… I… I was so distracted I didn’t even realize what I was doing.”
“That’s a little obvious.” His voice was so deep, it zipped up my tummy and zinged back down to my pleasure palace.
So much for high anxiety. If this were the predator I felt earlier, I might actually want to get caught.
Snap out of it, Chloe.
“God, please don’t tell the store manager. I’m so embarrassed. I’ll offer to pay. I, I don’t think I ate more than a handful.”
He sounded just like the beast from the Disney movie when he spoke, “I was just teasing you. I’m sure they figure in-store samples are the cost of doing business. Here, let me help you with this.”
“Thanks, I’ll go get someone to help clean up this mess.”
I shoved my cart to the front of the store, let them know there was a cleanup in the bulk bin area and raced out of there as fast as I could.
Jax
Why she made my cock so hard puzzled me.
Her ample, curvaceous form was one I’d like to get naked. Full-bosomed. Well-rounded. Zaftig. Fucking delicious. Zaftig, Jax? Really?
The first place I saw her was the produce section, standing in front of the apples. Hugging herself.
It was all I could do not to burst out laughing when I heard her talking to herself in the store.
“I’m luckier than most people. Most
people just walk through life, bat shit crazy, spewing their insanity all over the place and never deal with their neurosis.”
She walked away, and I was on her like a tick on a dog and followed her to the bulk bins.
Adorable. Adorable and afraid. I could sense it. Why?
Had someone hurt her? My Dom instinct kicked in, and rage flared up out of nowhere.
I would protect her from further hurt. No matter what it took.
She had an ass made for swatting. That was the first unbidden thought which came to mind after she pushed her cart away from me.
What was she running from? I asked myself.
It almost seemed like she was afraid of me. Granted, I was definitely a big guy, and I knew my size could be intimidating. But I would never hurt a little girl like her.
Unless it was to discipline her, and in that case, a little pain was just part of the foreplay. Revving the engine so to speak.
My cock pushed against my zipper at the thought of her lying across my lap.
Her sweet ass was a fine sight to behold as she skittered past the bulk bins around the corner. It felt like I was seven years old, and somebody just yanked the last chocolate chip cookie out of my hands. I wanted it back. I could taste it. I wanted to taste her.
“God, I really needed to get laid.” I said aloud, realizing this could come off as demented if anyone overheard. A sign my period of prolonged celibacy was truly getting to me.
At age 35, I was old enough to know myself. I was a Daddy Dom through and through, a relationship not to be to entered into lightly.
Tell it to my bloated dick. Down, boy.
This was the first time in a long time the very sight of a girl kicked off my instinctual urge to not only protect her but also push her against the wall and kiss her. Pull her hair. Caress her cheek and bite her lip.
I swear I could still smell her. Vanilla and orange. My little Creamsicle. To lick. “Get a grip buddy,” I muttered.
Quickly, I shoved a clean, generous selection of the different colored squishy candies in a bag.
She couldn’t hard to find. I’d be prepared for the next time I saw her, for I had no doubt there would be a next time. It was a small town, after all. I would find her.
This town was so small, I could practically sniff her out. Her Creamsicle scent.
I couldn’t wait to lick her. But lust would have to wait until somehow her fears were chased away. It could have been me she was afraid of.
Captain Obvious. I was a big, intimidating guy. Clearly, I made her nervous. Hell, she made me nervous.
How long had it been since I wanted anything other than a wham bam out of a woman? Not since Jennifer. Three years ago.
Getting close meant getting hurt. You couldn’t protect them all of the time. When was I going to learn?
The dull throbbing in my knee was slightly numbed by the whiskey I’d been nursing for the past half hour in The Saloon.
I felt restless all day and attempted to alleviate my edginess by throwing myself into the renovation of a Porsche 550 Spyder. It was hard physical work and my old football injury was protesting the abuse.
Granted, I didn’t need to do the restoration work myself anymore. But I wanted to.
Landing a football scholarship to UCLA from this small town was a dream come true. It was a dream I thought would launch me to the pros, until my junior year when the dream was over.
As a running back on the team, I was a prime target for slide tackles. During a final game that year, one tackle hit hard and ruptured my ACL. I was out for the season. Reconstruction surgery fixed the tear to my knee, but the rehab was lengthy enough for me to lose my sports scholarship.
I was lucky since the career counselor at UCLA worked with me to help me identify a new path. My love of cars combined with a business degree allowed me to return home and open up my own shop.
So, yeah, one crushed dream, crushed right along with my knee during that fateful game, had led to another which gave me a good life indeed. I had five full-time employees and turned a great business after earning a reputation as one of the best auto body shops in Northern California.
Before the blonde on my right could make another strategic move, for that’s exactly what it was, a calculated strategy, the door of The Saloon opened, and my little girl walked through the door, nearly knocking me off my bar stool.
She stopped in her tracks, and her mouth dropped open. I saw her look from side to side, plotting her escape. Only she clearly had business inside the bar and reluctantly stayed put.
Blondie accused, “What are you doing here, Chloe? Always walking in where you aren’t welcome,” she snarked.
“What do you mean, Roxy? We agreed to meet here and talk.”
I felt proud to hear my baby girl stand up to rudeness.
“I don’t want to interrupt your meeting,” I said. “I was just about to head home anyway, here, the two of you can talk privately.” I gestured for Chloe to take my place.
“You don’t need to leave, handsome.” Roxy slid her left hand up my bicep, an overtly obvious demonstration of territory. Except she wasn’t the one I was interested in.
“I insist. Obviously, you two had plans, and it would be rude of me to butt in.”
I stood up and looked at Chloe, the name suited her perfectly. Sweet and squeezable. Soft and sexy at the same time.
“It was good to see you again, Chloe.” I stared into her eyes to see if she would look away, and she held fast to my gaze. It could’ve been wishful thinking, but I thought I saw her chest rising and falling at a faster pace.
Mine.
My internal Daddy Dom laid down the law. I wanted her in my mouth but tried to think of something socially appropriate to say instead.
“I hope we’ll be seeing each other again soon.” I exited the bar leaving the two of them to chat and went out to my 1967 Pontiac GTO named Cash.
I fetched the sampling of gummies stashed in my trunk, tying the bag shut with a single knot after placing my business card inside. On it my phone number and a note.
“I’m captivated by you, Chloe. Please text tonight if you can. I’ll be up late and would love to talk to you about taking you out to lunch and going for a hike. I promise to keep you safe. – Jax”
I didn’t know whether this approach would be effective, but I was pretty certain an overt come on would scare her off. No matter how much I had been thinking all day about playing with her hair while she sucked my cock, I needed to make it clear I was more than just a sexual beast. She fascinated me.
I trotted back to the bar, ignoring my knee twinges, and went inside. The two women had moved to a booth. Chloe sat facing the door. Her eyes grew wide as she saw me walk in and head toward her table. I quickly approached her and set the lavish sampling of gummies in front of her. She put a hand over her mouth to cover her smile, and my chest tightened with pleasure.
“I think you forgot those at the store. Don’t worry, those aren’t the ones off the floor,” I winked. “Please read my note and think it over. I’m Jax by the way.” I walked out before she had a chance to respond and couldn’t imagine how I would survive waiting for her to text.
Chloe
I had agreed to meet Roxy at the Saloon. The polished Saltillo tile glowed under the overhead lights inserted generously into the dark wooded ceilings. The entire bar shined under their illumination. The hand-carved, elaborate bar and rails surrounding the second floor gently shimmered with years and years of being polished: the epitome of cozy and classy.
Roxy sprawled on the booth seat across from me and drawled, “So, how do you know Mr. Tall Drink of Water?”
My stomach fisted, Roxy was always the center of men’s attention. Next to her, I was invisible. I didn’t know what to think of Jax paying attention to me instead of her.
“I don’t know him. We met,” my cheeks flushed, “Well, we didn’t really even meet. Let’s just say I bumped into him in the grocery store today.”
“I’d
like to let him do some bumping and grinding on me,” said Roxy.
Typical.
Also heartless since Roxy knew what such a statement would make me remember what she did to me in the past. Why did she have to be so malignant all the time?
My annoyance gave me fortitude to speak to her about something I knew she wouldn’t want to hear,
“I need to talk to you about something.” I drew in a long breath; it was always a challenge confronting Roxy. Things were never her fault. She always had an excuse, and usually it involved her being the victim of a set of unexpected and unusual circumstances. Somehow, she always needed me to come to her rescue, even though she was the older sister.
Case in point, Jimmy came over to take our order. Roxy ordered super nachos and another sex on the beach. I didn’t know how she could eat the way she did and stay super-model skinny. And of course, she would expect me to pick up the tab.
I had just about had it. “I saw the charges you made to my credit card. I just gave you $1200 for the down payment on your new place. You said you needed to be able to move in, and I was willing to help you, even though I don’t have extra cash just lying around. You’re my sister, if you really need my help, I want to give it to you. But you’ve put me in a really difficult situation by racking up charges to my credit card you didn’t even have permission to use,” I could hear my voice rising slightly. “Not to mention those charges were for luxury items. Not survival!”
Roxy put on her self-justified voice, “I need those things for my modeling portfolio. I can’t just wear Target clothing you know! I have to look the part to start shopping myself to modeling agencies. I’ll pay you back when I start making money.”
“You’re going to have to start making money sooner rather than later. You’re going to need to get a day job. Otherwise, how do you think you’re going to pay your own rent? There’s no huge modeling agency here in Briarville. Anyway, you’re going to return those items and give me back my money.”