by Maren Smith
He felt a little silly saying that word, right up until he saw her shiver again. Her cheeks flushed, turning bright pink. She bit her bottom lip.
“What kind of things do you like to do as a Daddy?” It felt almost as if she’d caressed him as she took her hand away.
He felt the loss of her touch keenly.
“How do you mean?”
“On an average day,” she clarified. “Like, a normal everyday sort of thing, what do you like to do as a Daddy?”
“Are you asking, what my idealized Daddy-Little day would be like?”
She nodded, her eyes shining. She looked happy, raptly attentive on whatever he was about to say.
He’d kind of like to know what he was going to say too. Feeling a little like he should have studied harder for this test as well, he folded his big hands in his lap. “Well, hypothetically, ideally, I’d live with my baby girl, so… I’d wake up, get coffee going and make breakfast. Make lunches too, if I’m at home. I’m good in the kitchen. I like cooking.”
If a man couldn’t go outside, he’d better have some kind of indoor hobby to keep him occupied. Not only was cooking a good hobby, but it kept a guy from having to eat frozen pizzas five nights out of seven.
“Would I pick out your clothes?” he mused out loud, then shrugged. “We’d have to see if that’s something you want, or if picking your own Little ensembles is something you use to express that side of your creativity.”
“I like to color,” she said, and it wasn’t until she did that he realized what he’d actually said.
He’d said ‘you,’ as in Britney. Specifically. As if they were a thing and a foregone conclusion.
She’d noticed too. Her eyes were sparkling, alive with excitement. The flush of all her previous embarrassments never seemed to fully fade away. It was right there, softening the paleness of her face.
“Are you warm?” he asked, gesturing at her suit jacket. “You can take that off.”
“I spilled something earlier,” she hedged, but he didn’t care.
“I know. But I’m not going to think any less of you for that, and no one else in here has an opinion that should matter. Not when it comes to you being comfortable.”
Her breathing had quickened just a bit. She wasn’t panting, but the rise and fall of her chest betrayed the swift shallowness of her breaths. “Actually, I was thinking maybe I should g-go home now.”
Ommin startled. Go home? His brain scrambled back over what he’d just said, searching for which had been the wrong thing. Maybe he shouldn’t have been honest with her. Maybe he should have taken a day to download a story or two, so he’d have better known what to say. Maybe if he knew better what a Daddy Dom ought to do, then he could be that and less like himself, and gradually ease her into getting to know the real Ommin Jones.
“Of course.” He tried to hide his disappointment. He also stood up, offering his hand to help her. She took it too, her fingers damn near tiny compared to his. And he still tingled, even knowing she was about to walk out and he’d probably never see her again. “Well, thank you for coming to meet me.”
He wished he knew what he’d said wrong, or what it was about him that she didn’t like.
And yet, staring up at him, a little smile softly curving the corners of her lips, she didn’t immediately leave. Instead, she haltingly offered, “W-would you like to come home with me? I mean”—she hesitated—“we spent a good portion of the day together, so… it’s not like this is our first, you know… date. Right?”
Oh.
Oh shit. She wasn’t going home because he’d flubbed this.
She was inviting him home with her because he’d anything but flubbed it.
Oh.
Oh shit.
Yes, please!
Chapter 4
“No pressure,” Britney assured him, for the fourth time now as she jangled her way through her keyring until she found her housekey. She was nervous, Ommin knew because she’d been reassuring him almost constantly ever since she’d asked if he wanted to come home with her. Well, reassuring and asking more questions.
Like, what was his favorite food to fix; the question she’d asked as they’d tossed their coffee cups in the trash before walking out of the coffee shop. (Beef tip stir-fry.)
And, if he could do any activity with his Little, what would it be; which she’d asked as he walked her to her car. (Camping—he’d never been, but he’d always wanted to try it.)
“You’ve never been camping?” She looked surprised.
“Have you?” he countered.
“All the time when I was a kid. You never went, even when you were little?”
“I was never little,” he only half-joked. He’d pretty much always been the biggest kid in his age-group all the way through school.
Snorting a soft laugh, she’d smacked his arm, and it had felt so easy and so natural to give her a smack on the bottom in return. Which had startled both of them. Him, because he’d never in his life smacked a woman. On the behind or anywhere else, for that matter. And her, because… well, he’d just swatted her. Her whole body stiffened with the shock of it, but her eyes—oh, how her eyes danced, all the way out to her car.
“No assumptions,” she’d assured him, once he’d tucked her in behind the steering wheel and she found out he intended to follow her in a cab. “Come on, I’ll drive you.”
Which turned out to be comfortable and intimate, and enabled her to keep asking him questions, like: What kinds of punishments did he use to discipline, guide, and/or seduce?
Which was a very provocative question, because up until then, he hadn’t realized seduction was on the table.
“No assumptions,” he echoed back at her, “but what exactly are we going to do when we get to your house?”
“Talk,” she answered shyly. “Maybe a little more, but only if you want to. I mean, not sex,” she hurriedly added. “But maybe one or two other things would be okay. If you want to.”
As far as first dates went, somehow he’d managed to hit the ball clear out of the ballpark. Which wasn’t at all the way his luck usually went, and he ended up sitting the rest of the short ride to her place in absolute silence, wondering exactly what form ‘other things’ that were ‘not sex’ might take.
He didn’t have a condom. If he managed to get through this evening without flubbing up, he made a mental note to start carrying one.
As it turned out, Britney lived smack in the middle of North Beach, in a historic suburb of San Francisco more popularly known as Little Italy. She had her own townhouse, which was impressive as hell, because with the beach mere blocks away, usually only the wealthy could afford the one million and up real estate prices here. Three stories tall and shaped like a pie-wedge, her townhouse dotted a row of six more at the tip of the corner where two equally historic streets branched into a Y. The turn-of-the-century architecture dated every building he could see with the same stamp that much of ‘old town’ San Francisco suffered. Nothing here was older than the reconstruction efforts born from the 1906 earthquake and fire.
“I inherited from my aunt,” Britney said, as she parked in the under-house garage and led him up narrow stairs, through the wash room entrance.
“Your aunt really loved you,” Ommin couldn’t help but note. His apartment was a grand total of 350 square feet, which was all the footage he could afford without the added headache of at least one roommate. As he followed her from the laundry, past the butler’s pantry, through a fully updated kitchen (complete with black granite countertops and stainless-steel appliances), and into a massive living room, the only thing that kept running through his head was how he could never bring Britney back to his place. His entire apartment could have fit in the first floor of her townhouse at least three times. His bed folded up into the wall, for heaven’s sake.
“I like to think the feeling was mutual.” Smiling, she waved him into the living room. “Can I get you something to drink? I have water in the fridge, maybe a beer,
or I could make us both a cup of tea.”
“Water is more than fine,” Ommin answered, but he was still floored by the opulence of her place—the hardwood floors throughout, which looked like original 1906 rough-sawn planks—the fireplace tiled in the same black granite as the kitchen counters, and wrought iron bannister that lined the staircase leading up to the second floor. “This is really very impressive.”
“Thank you.”
He took the bottled water she brought him. Voss, damn. Unless being a superhero also came with a paycheck, he really could not afford this woman. And yet, when she led the way to the couch, he followed her. He sat down at one arm; she hopping up to sit cross-legged, completely facing him with an eagerness so tangible that he could taste it.
“So, what would you like to talk about now?” he asked, cracking open his water for a sip.
“Do you like to get sexual with your Littles?”
He sprayed water everywhere. It was either that, or choke.
“Oh, my God, I’m sorry!” She jumped up, running to the kitchen to get a paper towel, while he sat with one dripping hand up in front of his mouth, half-admiring her for having that kind of bluntness and half-panicking, because what the hell was a guy supposed to say to that?
Strike that. What was a Daddy Dom supposed to say to that?
Strike that again, because he already knew. A Daddy Dom wouldn’t say anything at all. A Daddy Dom would probably take the paper towel she handed him, quietly clean up his mess and then, taking hold of her hand, lead her off to the nearest bedroom and show her exactly how sexual he was planning to be.
And damn it all, he was already running late. He should have stopped and gotten the condoms.
“I’m sorry,” Britney said again as she returned. She hadn’t brought just one paper towel; she’d brought a wad. “I shouldn’t have said anything while you were drinking.”
Her cheeks were red in one of the prettiest blushes he’d seen all day, but when she dropped to her knees in front of him, swabbing first at his hand and then his knee, and finally at the mist of droplets he’d sprayed across the hardwood flooring, all Ommin could see was how gorgeous she looked in that position, and all he felt was how desperately his hands suddenly ached to reach for her, twining themselves in her honey-blonde hair while he helped guide her into the activity most guys instantly thought of when a woman they wanted as fiercely as he did Britney got down on her knees in front of him.
“I really wish you wouldn’t,” he said thickly.
She looked up from the floor, her momentary blink of confusion vanishing the minute she looked at herself, and then looked at him, and then looked openly, blatantly, down at his lap. She didn’t get flustered, like he thought she would once she realized what she’d inadvertently done. She didn’t get up, either.
Leaving the paper towels in a wad on the floor, she asked, “Why not?”
His cock was throbbing, achingly confined behind the prison of his zipper. God, he wanted to touch her. “Because I don’t think you mean to look as inviting as you do right now, and I really don’t think you mean for me to be thinking the things I am when I see you like this.”
The rise and fall of her breasts quickened along with her breathing. “What if I do mean it?”
She rose hesitantly, but only so she wasn’t sitting on her feet anymore. Shy as she seemed when she shuffled on her knees toward him, she was anything but shy when laying her hand upon his thigh. That barely innocent touch sent shocks of pure sexual voltage jumping through the muscles of his legs. It hit his cock first and from there, like a general issuing orders, those electrifying zings branched out all through him—zipping up his back, across his shoulders, down into his arms to his hands, one of which reacted as if with a life all its own.
He caught her by the sloppy bun of her hair. He didn’t hurt her, but he did hold her, guiding her up almost to the point of being off her knees and hauling her closer until she had no choice but to grab both his legs now for balance.
He shook his head once. “Don’t play with Daddy,” he warned, and he only felt slightly ridiculous when he said it. Never in a million years would he have called himself Daddy to a full-grown woman he wanted this badly to take to bed. And yet, when Britney let her hands wander high up his thighs, the heat of her palms scalded him through his jeans, and he felt anything but ridiculous when she whispered, “Wh-what will happen if… if I do it anyway?”
From that moment forward, all Ommin could see was himself, spending the rest of his life answering to the name of Daddy for no other woman but her.
He tried to rein it in, but his hand in her hair was huge, and that look in her eyes was nothing but compliance. In his mind, he already had her on her back in her bed, with her legs wrapped tight around him, her head thrown back in rapture, and her breathy cries rising in both pitch and urgency as he rocked his hips between her thighs to the sound of her ‘oh, Daddy… oh yes, Daddy… oh yes!’
Her hands gave his thighs a slow, petting caress. “Is it nau… naughty of me?” Her stammer over the word was every bit as beguiling as that sparkle dancing in her eyes. She wasn’t afraid of him. She knew exactly who and what he was, and yet she was flirting.
“Do you want me to stop?” she whispered.
“Stopping right now is the only way you’ll keep me from doing something you might not actually want,” he confessed.
It was not a trick of his imagination. This time when she shivered, her eyes almost closed.
“What happens if… if I don’t?”
His cock pulsed with arousal so damn hard he felt that thump all the way up through his belly and into his chest.
“Little girls who don’t mind their Daddies get their bottoms spanked,” he said, because he knew that much at least from having spent the afternoon reading book blurbs and sample chapters. The rest of his ultimatum he gave because he simply couldn’t help himself. “After that, Little girls get put to bed early, and while they will get to sleep eventually, it won’t be for a very long time.”
He had no idea if Daddies were supposed to threaten such things or not, but the more she kept her hot little hands on his thighs, the more he knew he was going to not only threaten, but follow through with those threats… ‘supposed to’ notwithstanding.
His consequences turned her on. He knew, because her only response was to bite her bottom lip and then, slowly, deliberately, she rubbed his legs again. Only this time, she didn’t just rub them. This time, her wandering hands moved all the way up his thighs until the tips of her fingers just barely skirted the bulge filling the front of his jeans.
He tipped his head, his whole body aching for more of that illicit touch.
“If you do,” he warned, “I will spank you.”
She caught her breath, and then she touched him. Just one finger, but it was a very deliberate and disobedient finger, and from the moment he felt the feather-soft pressure of it tap down directly on the side of his captured erection, the course of the night became etched in permanent ink. No one could say he didn’t warn her.
“Take off your jacket,” he said, his tone deep and soft. He didn’t mean to growl; it was all he could do not to seize her hand and force her to cup the full of him in her hot little palm. “We don’t want anything to happen to it while you’re fussing, kicking and crying over my knee.”
She startled, blinking rapidly as she pulled slightly away. “C-crying?”
“What did I tell you would happen if Daddy had to spank?” he reminded.
She took her finger off his penis. Her breasts rose and fell faster now. Her eyebrows quirked together, betraying tendrils of her nervousness now that she had succeeded in earning what she’d thought she wanted. “I-I thought maybe this first time could be j-just for practice. Or for fun?”
“The longer you resist doing what you’ve been told, the longer and harder I am going to spank you.” He’d given an ultimatum. She’d ignored the warnings. Not only did he see no point in backing down, but when she
still hesitated, he showed her his open right hand. Reminding her of the size, and the hardness, and all the things he’d said regarding what his open hand was going to do whenever she’d earned a trip across his knee.
He let go of her hair only when she bent her head to unfasten the buttons on her jacket. She would have left it in a heap on the floor, except he was neater than that. He made her fold it and put it on the coffee table, and while she obeyed, he shifted himself to the middle of the couch, bringing himself to perch upon the edge, with his long legs drawn up to make a very capable lap. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, and her fingers never once stopped wringing at one another when he snapped his fingers and pointed to the floor by his right knee.
“Stand right here.”
Standing, fingers still fidgeting, she closed the distance between them with a single small step and stood where she was supposed to.
“Take off your shirt,” he told her. “Before I leave, I’ll take care of that stain and get it put in the wash.”
She looked down at herself, startled, and then a flicker of something else moved across her face. She hesitated, and Ommin wasn’t such a social outcast that he didn’t know why. She thought he was going for a cheap thrill. On the one hand, he was going to see her boobs, and yes, somewhere deep inside him, Ommin the Perverted Sharkman was rearing his horny head. But it wasn’t just her boobs that he wanted, and it was important to him that she know that.
“Look at me,” he said and, twisting at her fingers, she did. “That guy you interviewed at the station, that’s still me. If you want to take a step back, I’ll understand, I won’t pressure you to do otherwise, and I won’t be mad. But if you want to take a step forward, then I’m going to have to ask you for a little bit of trust.”
She strangled her fingers just a half second longer, and then bent her head again and quietly unbuttoned her blouse. “Bra too?” she asked, as she slipped the garment off her shoulders.
“No, that stays on,” he said as he took her blouse from her and tucked it up beside him. “The skirt, on the other hand—”