For Her Own Good

by Parker, Tamsen

  I give her a squeeze and she smiles, shakes her head. She looks absolutely darling, and I feel so fortunate that she’s willing to trust me with this part of herself. She’s got on a jumper with suspenders—it looks like a skirt, but I’ve been assured it’s shorts. Right after she grinned and stuck her hands in between folds of fabric and announced, “It has pockets!”

  Between that and her Peter Pan–collared sweater and knee socks, I am about to die. It’s been torturous to have to sit out here and pay attention to the Boston traffic instead of taking her over my knee.

  Probably for the best since it’s not as though if I did drape her over my lap that I’d be able to flip up her skirt and give her a spanking. Damn skirt. Or rather, not skirt, which is the trouble. It does appear to have plenty of room for me to snake a hand under, though, and push aside the gusset of her panties to have access to her pussy, which I’m guessing is already slick… Jesus Christ, must stay on the goddamn drive. Don’t want to run my car into one of these perfectly groomed trees.

  Finally the house becomes visible, and…

  I can feel Starla’s gaze land on me, waiting for my reaction. She must’ve gotten a whole variety of them since the time she brought friends home from grade school, and I don’t want to be one of the people she writes off because of how they react when they see this enormous place and realize exactly how rich she is. Not that they’d know, precisely, though I’ve got a pretty good idea.

  “It’s a nice pile of bricks you’ve got here, princess. I’m going to park over here so I don’t sully the view.”

  She snort-giggles, and something in me loosens. This is as much an audition for me as it seems it is for her.

  The drive curls round into a circle with a sizable fountain in the middle, and I park to the side you wouldn’t be able to see coming down the drive. Not, at least, until it’s too late. It’s a rather impressive place: grey stone and cream trim round the many windows, some columns at the front door, and spindly iron fencing along the balcony on the second floor. Yes, it’s lovely, and I can imagine Starla being scolded as she ran about this place. Because while I can’t imagine her running now or when I first knew her, I have to remind myself she wasn’t always depressed. It wasn’t always threatening to take away her happiness or her life.

  She takes a deep breath before opening the door and then lets herself out, the back of her skirt swishing after her. I’d like to follow, but I’d probably trip on my tongue with the way I’m drooling after her.

  Instead, I get my bike off the rack on my trunk and fetch my helmet from the back seat and head to where Starla’s inspecting a bike that’s been parked in the drive near the house. I’m not a cycling expert, but it looks like a fine bike. Not a fancy racing bike, it doesn’t seem built for speed. If she decides she’d like to do anything more than tool around on this driveway with its gentle hills, she’ll need to get a real road bike, but this is the most darling cruiser I’ve ever seen.

  Mint green with off-white tires and a wicker basket on the front, it’s about the most Starla-like bicycle I could imagine. And there are some bags next to it that she extracts a few helmets from and tries them on. In some ways Starla’s life is a constant struggle. I’m probably more aware of that than almost anyone save Starla and Lacey. But in some ways it’s downright magical. She makes a single phone call and a bike with all the trimmings pops up in front of the estate that she owns but probably hasn’t been to in months? It’s something all right.

  Having found a helmet she likes—cherry red and cream with a hole in the back for her ponytail—she fastens the clip under her chin and looks at me expectantly.

  “Okay, now what do I do?”

  Chapter 30

  Lowry

  She’s got it. It’s taken a few hours, and a lot of effort, but Starla’s learned how to ride a bike. No longer will she have to confess, shame-faced, that she was excluded from this childhood rite of passage.

  I’m a bit sweaty and red-faced myself, having chased after her with a hand on the back of the saddle to make her feel as though she wasn’t going to fall. I think it’s helped for her to feel little as we’ve been doing this. Easier to try and fail and try again because that’s what you do when you’re small. Of course, that’s what we all do when we’re big as well, but somehow the shame’s not so intense when one is young.

  We’re taking a break on a back patio now where a round, older woman rolls out a cart of lemonade, iced tea, crackers and cheese, fruit, and cookies and then quickly excuses herself. It’s amazing the things that can get done in the span of two hours when one has essentially limitless funds.

  Starla’s added some strawberry puree to her lemonade and it’s a shade of pink that matches her cheeks, flushed with delight.

  “Can you believe it?”

  “Can I believe what? That you learned how to ride a bike? I absolutely can.”

  Her lips form a scrunched up rosebud as pleasure and embarrassment war on her features. I suspect she wants more praise but doesn’t want to ask for it. Hell, no one likes to ask for things, it’s hard, and after she’s already worked so hard today, I won’t make her.

  “I believe it not only because I saw it with my own two eyes, but because you’re a very talented girl and you work really hard. I know it wasn’t easy for you, but I’m proud you were so persistent.”

  She’s so lovely when she blushes. God knows she’s lovely all the time, but there’s something about the way her cheeks color and round like apples when that shy smile spreads across her face.

  I don’t want to ruin it, but something’s been niggling at me and I can’t seem to let it go.

  “I wanted to ask you, actually, how things are going with Patrick Enterprises. You haven’t mentioned it much, but it’s got to be taking up a lot of your time. Everything okay on that front?”

  The sweet smile vanishes immediately, and yes, this is why I didn’t want to bring it up. It’s not even any of my business insofar as I don’t give a shit what she does with her father’s company. I do care about the effect dealing with it may be having on her, though.

  “It’s kind of a shitshow, actually.”

  My Arnold Palmer nearly comes jetting out my nose. I wasn’t sure what to expect when I asked her about it, but I wasn’t expecting that.

  Starla picks up a cookie and doesn’t eat it but begins to break it into tiny pieces, dropping the crumbs on her plate.

  “It’s hard, and not the good kind of hard. You know, the kind of good where you’re satisfied afterward?”

  She’s looking at me expectantly, verging on desperate, but I’m not going to interrupt her. I want her to tell me all about the shitshow.

  “I hate it. I hate it and I don’t want to do it anymore. But I also…”

  She sets down what’s left of her cookie, closes her eyes, and sighs. When she meets my eyes again, I can see the toll this has been taking on her, the toll she’s been hiding from me. I bristle, but I’m also impressed. Strong as an ox, my little girl is.

  “In the past few years my father had started talking like I might take over his empire when he retired. He’d started grooming me for it, asking me to come to cocktail parties where he’d introduce me to important people, asking me to sit in on calls, talking more business when I’d see him. I maybe should’ve nipped that in the bud because I have no interest in heading up Patrick Enterprises, but…”

  For fuck’s sake. I know how much her father’s attention and approval mattered to her when she was a kid. Given how central he was in her life, it wouldn’t be surprising if she’d never moved on from that. I mean, hell, most things being equal, I think most people would like their parents’ approval.

  Starla shrugs and her brows gather.

  “It’d been kind of a long time since he seemed happy with me, proud of me. Really interested at all. And maybe it’s silly, but I didn’t want to let that go quite yet. Every time I saw him, I’d think, ‘This time I’m going to tell him,’ and every time, he’d see
m excited at the prospect of me taking over and I…I just couldn’t. So you can imagine I had really mixed feelings when he left me the whole thing.”

  She shakes her head, a rueful smile curling up the corners of her mouth.

  “And maybe I should’ve already sold it off, but I keep dragging my feet. Not because I think I could actually pull off being in charge like he was, but I also don’t want to make a royal hash of it, you know? It’s not what he would’ve wanted, but I think it’s as good as I can hope for. Which I also hate.”

  My stomach twists, because Christ almighty. It’s nice that Jameson finally recognized how capable Starla is, but trying to force her into the mold he occupied after having watched her struggle for years is… I always thought the man was selfish, but this makes me want to wring his neck. How could he? She’s found success on her own terms and in her own way, and how fucking dare he make her feel as though that wasn’t enough?

  “So, uh, basically my goal has been to not fuck this up too badly? I don’t know that I’d be able to look at myself in the mirror if I destroyed everything he’s worked for or if I just fucking lost it because it’s ‘too much’ for me. I mean, I think I could live through that, not like…”

  She waves a hand and the word may as well be spelled out in smoke. Suicide. She wouldn’t kill herself. But what would she do? I wait a beat for her to tell me.

  “But I would feel like a real piece of shit, you know?”

  Her throat works as she swallows hard and nods. She can’t meet my eyes, and I’m sorry for bringing it up. But only somewhat because at least I know now. And as I know from some of my pediatric patients before I left that line of work, knowing is half the battle. So I have more information now. That can only help. Me, anyhow. Starla, I’m not sure.

  “So yeah, shitshow. I’ve got a meeting Friday that might help, might make it worse, but I can’t tell yet. Maybe Rhoda’s got some vodka in there, or something else to spike this?”

  She picks up her glass of pink lemonade, tips it side to side.

  “I might be able to offer something else to take your mind off it?”

  This massive worry I’ve reminded her of, forced into her mind when she was just feeling satisfied and accomplished. Starla’s not the piece of shit here. I could've gone for the professional, rational choice of talking it through, but perhaps we’ll try that later as a longer-term approach to making her feel secure about her decisions. In the short term though, I’m going to go for something that will lift her burden quickly, clear her mind instead of burdening her further.

  The way she perks up says she’s far more interested in my less responsible but more immediate solution.

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  I push my chair out from the table and pat my lap. “Come here, princess.”

  Her eyes and mouth widen into circles and her color gets even higher. “Here? Now?”

  “Not if it’s not okay with you, obviously. We’re on your turf and I know you must be having some complicated feelings about that, so this is entirely up to you. But if you’re comfortable with it, or perhaps even if you’re not, but you’re curious and willing, I suspect I could make it worth your while.”

  Starla’s shoulders make their way up toward her ears and she picks up her glass of lemonade with two hands and takes a sip. I’ll wait and watch, because as I said, this is her call.

  If this is too much—and I can absolutely see how it might be—it’s truly fine. We’ll go home and have our fun there. But there aren’t many places where one can fool around outside in the city, and even fewer that offer the additional twist of danger or shame or that shock of taboo that comes along with being at the house she grew up in.

  I’d like to take her inside, tie her down to her childhood bed, and ravage her, but that would definitely be a bridge too far, so I won’t even raise the question. I’ll simply think about it while I wait for her call.

  While I wait, I take a sip of my Arnold Palmer, which has got to be one of the most delightful nonalcoholic drinks known to mankind. We’re both learning lots today, Starla and I.

  She’s still clutching her lemonade between her fingers and looking at me over the rim of the glass, and I do my best to keep my expression neutral, because while I would very much like to have her in my lap—hell, over my knee—it’s as I’ve said. I’m not the one who’s in an awkward position here. Aside from interest because this is where my darling girl spent her formative years, this place means nothing to me.

  After a few minutes of sipping our drinks while I squint up at the sunshine, Starla puts down her glass and takes up her phone, swiping a finger over the keys faster than I’ll ever be able to—she’s lucky I don’t still have a flip phone. Probably would, if Maeve hadn’t intervened.

  Then there’s a thunk as Starla tosses her phone onto the table and a screech as she pushes the chair back on the flagstones. Apparently, someone’s made a choice. But whether it’s to come nestle her fine, round bottom into my crotch while she leans against my chest or to tell me it’s time to go home, I’m not sure.

  She closes the gap between us, her expression one of skittish determination, and proceeds to sit on my lap with more of a plop than was probably necessary, then perches there as though she’s been instructed to demonstrate excellent posture. I have to keep from laughing because while I don’t think that would be appreciated, this is rather entertaining.

  “No one will bother us,” she says primly, her hands folded in her lap, and all it takes to set my blood aflame are those quiet words. Of course she’d want to guarantee our privacy—probably hers more than mine since I get the sense the people who maintain this place have known her since she was a child—and I have no inclination to share her whatsoever. Not with prying eyes, not with anyone at all.

  Not able to keep my hands from her any longer, I set a hand on her thigh and slide it up the soft skin until my fingertips are under her skirt.

  “Then why don’t you relax, sweetheart? There’s no need for you to be wound so tight.”

  I rub her back, between her shoulder blades, and I can see when she drops her shoulders and slows her breath. That’s followed by her leaning against me, resting her head on my shoulder so that her breath is warm against my neck, and then she starts to swing her feet since from her spot nestled against me, they don’t reach the ground. Makes me want to bite my fist. And her. Jesus, I could devour her, eat her all up, my sweet little girl.

  “That’s better, isn’t it? I love when you sit on my lap.”

  “Why, Daddy?”

  “Because I can do this…” I slide my hand farther up her thigh so that it’s not just my fingertips above the hem of her skirt, but my whole hand. A little farther and I’ll be able to graze her panties. Lace today? Or perhaps a pair of practical cotton because what do little girls need lacy panties for?

  “And this…”

  I snake my other hand around her hip to grab her bottom and squeeze. To which she responds by wiggling her hips and making my cock harden against the friction. My God, she’s going to be the death of me.

  “Spread your legs for me, little girl. Come on, open up for Daddy.”

  She makes a tiny sound, a little mewl, but does as she’s been told and widens her knees which gives me the access I was looking for. It lets me slide my hand up farther, through the folds of her jumper-shorts thing, and wrest aside her panties to drag my fingers along the seam of her sex. I can tell already that her blood is gathering there because her labia are thick and hot. If I could see them, they’d be a lovely shade of dusky pink. It’s probably best I can’t see because then I’d want to heft her onto the table, yank her skirt-thing and panties down and force her legs wide open so I could feast on her sweet pussy. As it is, I can smell her arousal and, God. My God.

  “Little wider, sweetheart. Have to make room for Daddy to push his fingers into your tight little pussy.”

  She chokes out another one of those tender moans and does as I ask.

  It
’s something, really, to have her follow my instructions. I’m entrusted everyday with people’s welfare, with their mental health, and I take that responsibility very seriously. Anyone who doesn’t shouldn’t be in the psychiatry business. But there is something incredibly special about a woman like Starla entrusting me with not just her body but her secrets. The ways in which I can light her up, send her into the stars via climax.

  It can’t be an easy thing, to tell someone that what gets you off is being cooed to like a small child and that what you’d really like is to have someone take away all the power you’ve earned though lifelong struggle and clawing your way back from the brink. To be permitted to do as you’re told. Also she’s so brave to allow herself to be so goddamn pretty like a doll when she’s had to fight for her autonomy since before I’ve known her.

  It seems almost a cruel joke: to force this woman to seek out things she’s fought against in order to take her pleasure. There’s nothing wrong with it, to be sure—people like what they like, and no one is being hurt by what we’re doing—and I wouldn’t want for her to be any other way, but Christ. Especially the first time, she must’ve been a nervous wreck even considering telling her partner that this is what she wanted.

  And hell, she was the one who made the space for me to indulge in this with her. It’s all thanks to her, really, this incredibly strong person who’s tucked against me and still swinging her Mary Janed feet with her shins encased in knee socks. I’m more than a little in awe of her bravery, and also so very grateful. For letting me have her like this, for letting me have this, period, and for letting us be here and do this. For being so goddamn resilient that she could let me back in after what I’d done.

  I hold her tighter and bury my nose in her hair, breathe in the delicate scent of her scalp mixed with the shampoo she uses. I think I’d very much enjoy bathing her, working my fingers through her long, chestnut locks as she surrenders the weight of her skull to my hands; soaping and rinsing every inch of her until she’s pink and warm and smooth and then I could dirty her all up again, rinse and repeat. Perhaps when we get home. For now, I’m going to make my little girl come all over my hand while she rides my fingers outside her childhood home.