For Her Own Good

by Parker, Tamsen

  I make quick work of getting ready for bed, scrubbing my face, brushing my teeth, stripping off my clothes that smell like the hospital in favor of some loose cotton pajama pants and a tee, one for the Cubs because no one in their right mind is a White Sox fan.

  Once in bed, I still can’t shake Starla from my thoughts. Indeed, my brain is playing the worst parts of tonight over and over on loop, making my pulse race and my stomach twist. If I ever want to get to sleep, I’m going to have to replace those thoughts with something else. Surely the universe will forgive me if I rub one out to thoughts of her so I can sleep and be my best for patients tomorrow? I’d ask God, but I don’t think much of the one I grew up with anymore.

  So, I close my eyes and let my thoughts jog to the place I so rarely let them go. To Starla, sweet in a dress the hem of which swishes around her legs at mid-thigh. If she twirled—and she would, for me—I’d catch a glimpse of toothsome panties. A golden yellow honeycomb with bees buzzing about. A hint of the playful and darling the small black sundress wouldn’t entirely bely. Those are the things that make my brain hum, the secrets she keeps from others that she’d give to me.

  In a meadow, because sure, why the hell not, she’d be picking wildflowers while I lounged on a picnic blanket and watched her. And when she was done, a handful of riotous color clutched in her fingers, she’d come back to me, show me her bounty and smile because I’d tell her they were lovely, just like her.

  “Do you want a treat?”

  Her eyes bright and wide, she’d say of course, because there’s little she likes better from me.

  From the basket we’d carried our picnic in, I’d take out a pouch, cold to the touch because it would be full of freeze packs, and from their midst, I’d extract a Popsicle. Honey lemon with edible flowers frozen in it, it would have to be pretty enough to be seen with her. She’d grab for it, forgetting her manners because she would covet it so badly. I’d know what she likes, how to make her happy and desperate.

  “Ah, what do you say?”

  “Please, Daddy?”

  “Aye, that’s a good girl.”

  But I wouldn’t hand it to her, no. I’d hold it in front of me and she’d crawl on her hands and knees toward me, dress loose enough at the top that I’d catch a glimpse of lush, bountiful cleavage, and my mouth would water.

  In the present, I’ve shoved my pants down, taken my cock in hand and begun to stroke, because this fantasy is too good. Almost never do I let myself indulge in these thoughts, but this fantasy’s run wild and for once, I’m not going to rein it in. I’m going to let it run.

  She’d lean over, use that sweet kitten tongue to take a few licks of the Popsicle, and my head would about explode. It’s not fair, the power this woman holds over me. I would’ve been turned on before, but how she slowly, sensuously, purposefully uses her mouth to tease… She’d know exactly what she’s doing and bat her lashes at me because she’s a saucy little minx.

  “Ah,” I’d say, tugging her treat out of reach. “You’ll have the rest in my lap.”

  She wouldn’t be sorry for that, but climb eagerly into a straddle, be able to feel precisely how her show’s made me feel. She’d rock up against me on purpose to make me groan and shut my eyes. Probably not entirely so she could snag the Popsicle from my hand.

  Her giggle would make me open my eyes and then narrow them.

  “Brat.”

  She wouldn’t bother to argue, and her nod as she sucked the tip of the frozen treat would make me half laugh, half die inside because I’d want her so badly. Until she was done, I’d have to settle for wrapping my arms around her and holding her close, or perhaps clutching her delicious bottom in my hands and kneading, squeezing. Not spanking, because I wouldn’t want to jar her while she’s eating.

  The picture is making me grip myself harder, to the point of pain, because I want to make this last. See where this story will end, because while her eating a Popsicle is sexier than it has any right to be, I’m certain my mind can come up with something even better.

  Indeed, it does. Her rocking against me as she licks and sucks, and offering me some. I’d take a lick to please her though it’d be a bit sweet for me, but she’d reward me with a kiss, her lips and tongue cold but quickly warming as I explored her mouth, moved my lips against hers and licked the sweetness from her flesh. She’d squeak when the juice had started to melt down her fingers and rush to finish her dessert before any more of it was wasted.

  When she’d finished, she’d lick her fingers too. One by one, savoring them, taking them deep into her mouth and making me fairly growl.

  In my bed, I’m gritting my teeth because this is good, too good. But I can control myself, hold off, wait, because I can be patient. Especially when it comes to Starla, I will wait as long as it takes. Though in my daydreams, I’m guaranteed it will arrive, unlike in real life where I might wait forever for something that never comes. Also fine. Better than fine because I can’t ask for this, ever, never mind have it. But that makes me relish this all the more.

  Done, finally, she would kiss me again, and this time I wouldn’t hold back, clasping her flush against me with one arm snaked around her waist while I’d bring my other hand down on her bottom, a solid thwack that would make her jump and mewl, but then melt into my grip. Yes, she’d enjoy that.

  “What do you say, little girl?”

  “Thank you, Daddy.”

  It’d be music to my ears, that, and a feast for my senses when combined with the shy way she’d smile at me. Despite my raw pleasure, I’d tsk at her and her chin would dip, her gaze questioning.

  “Your manners could use some work, little miss. I shouldn’t have to remind you, now should I?”

  She’d shake her head, clued in to the game we’d be playing.

  “You know what the rules are. Bad manners means?”

  “Daddy spanks me.”

  “That’s right.”

  Without me having to tell her, she’d drape herself over my lap, skirt barely covering her cheeks. Very few views can compete with that, but I’m a greedy bastard and I’d want more.

  “Pull up your skirt.”

  She’d do it, but with a whimper, because being forced to bare herself mortifies her. The sweet bite of embarrassment would add to the intensity, the wrongness of it all, which in turn would arouse her more. She’d shift, and I’d be able to smell her. I’d lay a hand at the small of her back and then begin, palm meeting the flesh of her behind which would give under the impact.

  I’d take my sweet time warming her up because in the fantasy realm, I have all the time in the world to lavish attention on her bottom, to turn what flesh I can see a lovely shade of pink. And when it became too frustrating, I’d pull the darling fabric up, wedging her panties between her cheeks and exposing the rest of the flushed skin. She’d squeak when I do, and grind her pelvis against my thigh.

  “Not yet, naughty girl, or I’ll make this a real punishment.”

  The threat would do as I intend; the rocking would stop, but the squirming would not, and she’d makes a helpless, pleading noise.

  “Hands behind your back,” I’d instruct, and she’d obey so I could gather her wrists in one hand and begin to lay into her properly. Not to hurt…not much, anyhow, but to remind her with the ghosts of bruises on her pale skin, of what we’ve done here. Leave her something to admire over her shoulder in the bathroom mirror, to graze with fingertips, or press into her bed at night to make the soreness come alive again, and send an erotic thrill through her with the memories.

  The way my slightly cupped palm meets her bottom would be exquisite. I’d hit her over and over again until my hand would be tingling and her sounds would be a symphony of whines and gasps and all the things that’d send blood coursing straight to my cock. She wouldn’t be hurting in a bad way, she wouldn’t actually want me to stop—we’d have words for that, and she would have used them when we were first getting used to each other. Sometimes she still would, though not as often b
ecause I pride myself on the attention I pay to her reactions.

  Finally, I’d stop the barrage, and delve between her parted legs with two fingers where I’d find her hot, swollen, and slick. Perfect.

  I’d ease her onto her back, draw her panties down her legs and then spread them wide for me, followed by pulling the low neckline of her dress until it rested beneath her breasts. She’d flush and fist her hands in the blanket but she wouldn’t cover up or try to close her legs because she’s my darling good girl, and she’d know it no matter what I might say when we play our games.

  “Time for my dessert since you didn’t leave me much of that Popsicle.”

  She’d open her mouth to protest and I’d take the opportunity to push her panties between her teeth. I’d want her to taste what I’m tasting, how delectable the flavor of her own honey is, to experience what I’d be lapping up with my tongue. Wouldn’t hurt that I’d like the way her pleading sounds are muffled when she’s gagged, and she’d know how to stop if it got to be too much. Pinch my earlobe and it'd stop.

  And then I’d be between her legs, spreading her pussy lips wide so I could lick and suck and nip at her, teasing round and round until I’d slick my tongue over her clit and then suckle, making her writhe beneath me, pressing her thighs to my ears so I could barely hear a thing, and my other senses would have to suffice.

  My cock in my hand is aching, full to bursting, imagining what Starla would taste like, how she’d buck her hips into my face to ask for more, and though I’d wait in real life if I ever have the chance, I’m going to let myself come when she does in my dream. My eyes are closed and my grip is rough—I want this to be a bit punishing, the way I think about her, because she’d likely be mortified. Would wish I wouldn’t think about her like this. So, she’ll never know, I’ll never tell her, I’ll simply have her in my dreams while I take myself in hand, and then I can be a gentleman when I need to.

  In my mind, her muffled cries are getting louder, she’s rocking her hips to get the contact she needs to go off, and goddammit, I would give it to her. Push fingers into her pussy to give her something to fuck up against and suck hard on the tiny bundle of nerves until I felt her cunt start to grasp and pull at my fingers, until her back arched and didn’t go down again for seconds, until her cries had grown near deafening even behind the gag.

  That’s when I spend on my stomach, a hot mess of release, the aftermath of pent-up desire, a sticky viscous reminder of everything I want from Starla Patrick but can never have.

  Chapter 12

  Starla

  “Would it be the worst idea in the world to text Lowry, or the worst, worst?”

  “You are not drunk enough to be asking questions that ridiculous.”

  I knock back another mouthful of prosecco and scowl at Holden over the Star Wars Monopoly board. “Shut up! It’s not the very worst idea I’ve ever had.”

  “No, that would’ve been when you stayed with Tad a year longer than you should have because you wanted to make your father happy.”

  “Would you kindly fuck all the way off?”

  Holden lands on one of his very few property holdings which is annoying because I’d at least like to charge him money for being obnoxiously right. I’ve always had the impulse to make my father happy wherever I could since it was so rare that I could make him happy.

  “No, you pay me not to.”

  He’s right again, because I do indeed pay him to argue with me, and to not always give in when I demand something. Yes, we have a code if he does actually need to fuck off, but sometimes I just want to push up against something and it not actually move.

  “But…”

  Now it’s Holden’s turn to glare.

  “No, hear me out, okay?”

  He rolls his eyes and makes a go-on motion with his finger in the air.

  “But what if this was a good idea?”

  “How on Endor would this be a good idea?”

  “Because if I drunk text him, I’ll be so mortified I’d never be able to look him in the face again, and then I wouldn’t have to worry about this anymore.”

  “Why don’t you stop seeing him and avoid the whole being mortified thing?”

  “You’ve met me, you think I have the willpower for that?”

  Holden takes a drink of his own prosecco and looks at me, his gaze penetrating. I don’t like it at all. “If this were anything or anyone else at all? Yes, because you’re one of the strongest, most determined, self-aware people I know. But this guy…”

  Yeah, I know. Lowry gets under my skin. Or rather got there almost twenty years ago and has never gotten out.

  “I worry about you. I know you think Lowry Campbell is some kind of saint, but I’m not so sure about that. Don’t you think it’s weird that he spends so much time with you? He’s what, like twenty years older than you?”

  “Eighteen,” I mutter. “What’s your point? Are you saying couples with age gaps can’t be happy? You’ve dated a few cougars and silver foxes in your time.”

  “Yeah, but none of them have been my ex-psychiatrist.”

  Point, Holden.

  “And you’re not dating. It’s some bizarre, maybe-want-to-date-but-guilt-complex thing with some other weird shit thrown in there for good measure. Maybe you should get drunk and go to a bar and pick up some random dude. Should be easy enough to find a daddy type who would take you home.”

  “Sure, but A) they might have been friends with my father, and B) I don’t want a daddy type. I want a daddy. Those things are not the same.”

  “They sure aren’t.”

  Holden doesn’t totally grok my daddy kink, but he gets it well enough to know what I mean. Some random older guy isn’t going to cut it. Silver foxes are all well and good, but just because a man’s got grey hair doesn’t mean he’s going to do it for me. No, my tastes are very particular.

  My phone rings and it’s Tad. Again. He’s upped his campaign from once every three days to once every two, to now he’s calling me every goddamn day and I can’t with this on top of all the other shit I’m now handling on the regular. His number flashing on my screen makes me want to cry. But I also know if I completely lose my shit with him or stop responding altogether, he’ll use that as evidence I can’t be trusted to hold a controlling interest in Patrick Enterprises and I won’t let that piece of shit be the reason I lose my father’s company. He won’t, absolutely will not, be the reason I throw in the towel and say fuck it all and become the ultimate disappointment, the apex of failure in my father’s eyes.

  “It’s Tad.”

  “Ugh. That guy is the worst. Want me to stay?”

  “No, this is probably going to take a while and no one wants in on that action, least of all me, but I have a fiduciary responsibility to the shareholders, blah blah blah.”

  Holden points and laughs because he’s an asshole, and then grabs his coat from by the door, slinging it over his shoulders and then opening the door.

  “Remember,” he says, pointing an accusatory finger in my direction. “Worst, worst. Don’t do it.”

  * * *

  Lowry

  My buzzer rarely goes off unless one of my neighbors has forgotten their keys. It’s on the late side for that but, yes, they might buzz my unit because they know the Scottish doctor doesn’t have any children to wake up.

  “Hello?”

  “Lowry?”

  Starla’s voice is near the last one I expected to hear, not least because it’s raining cats and dogs out.

  I don’t bother responding before I’m pressing the button to let her up, and thoughts are racing through my mind in the couple of minutes it takes her to make her way to my door. She doesn’t make it all the way down the hall when I can see she’s not her usual put-together self, but looks more like a scraggly drowned rat, and her shoes are…squelching with every step.

  “What are ye doing here? It’s pouring rain outside, and you’re soaked through. What on god’s green earth are ye—”

 
; “Did you know your accent gets thicker when you’re upset? It’s rather remarkable,” she says, rolling her Rs in a mocking way and putting her hands on her hips, still standing in the hallway. Yes, I’m aware my accent makes a roaring comeback when I’m getting worked up over something or other, or when I’ve been hitting the bottle too hard, but I haven’t been imbibing and even if I had been, that’s not the important thing here. What is with this woman and not being able to remember to bring an umbrella to save her life?

  “Get in here, and take off those clothes straight away before you catch your death.”

  Her eyes get very wide, and she blinks up at me with a certain kind of gleam in her eye before she ducks into my apartment.

  “You’re a medical professional. You can’t honestly believe that I’m going to ‘catch a chill.’”

  “I can’t, can I? You have no idea how strong my gran’s superstitions were if you think she didn’t drill all these old wives’ tales into my thick skull when I was a wean. So, yes, you’re never going to convince the me with a medical degree that my gran was wrong.”

  It does occur to me that it’s not perhaps the best idea to demand a woman come into your apartment and take her clothes off, but Starla doesn’t seem to mind, just looks around at my living space. It’s not as nice as her apartment or anywhere near as well-furnished or decorated, though more spacious because I’ve got two bedrooms.

  Why, anyway, does Starla live in a studio? I would’ve asked her last week when we had dinner at her place, delivered from the very swank restaurant on the first floor of her building. Nice perk, that. But I’d been happy she’d agreed to not go out since she was still hurting from her fall the week before so I hadn’t pressed.

  She’s here at my flat now, though, which is odd. She’s had my address for a while but she’s never made use of it. And it’s surprising it’s without warning since she plans everything. But perhaps…