by B. B. Hamel
“Our fortune was made in the early days of America. My great-great-great grandfather was named Wyatt. He was a banker back in Germany, but in America, he was a predatory loan shark.”
I bite my lip. “They had those?”
“Of course. If your crop failed one year, and you didn’t have enough money or food to feed your family, what did you do?”
“Went to your ancestor,” I say softly.
“Exactly. Wyatt would lend them the money at exorbitant interest and break their knees if they didn’t pay up. He was well ahead of his time in that regard, and slowly he amassed a fortune, which he passed down to his eldest son.
“That son went into banking, a more legitimate pursuit, and turned that original inherited fortune into an even larger one. So on and so forth, the money has been passed down through my family, until it reached me. I took over our current iteration, Ward Investing, but I come from a long line of blood-sucking money movers.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Blood sucking?”
“Blood money is probably a better term for it,” he says, leaning back and sipping his coffee. “Wyatt profited off the blood of people that were desperate. He was a scumbag, a bastard, but he was very successful. And in America, success is all that ever matters.”
“But your other ancestors got into banking. They weren’t out breaking knees or whatever.”
“No, they weren’t, but it’s the same thing. Maybe they didn’t kill you if you couldn’t pay, but they’d ruin your life in other ways. They’d take your your property, they’d ruin your credit, starve you out.” He sighs a little, looking out the window. “Ward Investing doesn’t actively starve anyone anymore, but we’re still built on blood money, don’t you ever forget it.”
I can see how haunted he is by his past and his present. It’s clearly digging at him, and I wonder if it’s part of why he locked himself up in this tower.
“What I don’t get is, if you hate it so much, why are you doing it?”
He shakes his head. “That’s a good question. I just don’t know the answer to it. Maybe because I don’t know any other way, or maybe because I’m as rotten as all the Wards that came before me.”
“You’re not rotten,” I say softly.
His eyes light on mine, fire and brimstone. “You don’t know that.”
“I don’t think you are, at least.”
He sighs and rubs his eyes. “That’s the story of my past, anyway. Each new link in the Ward family chain has grown the fortune bigger than what was left to him, like a steward guarding a fire, feeding it constantly to keep it burning. I’m the last Ward now and part of me wants to give every single cent I have away to people that actually deserve it instead of hoarding more and more.”
I frown a little bit. It seems so strange that he sounds so bitter about his money. I wish I had even a fraction of the money he does, and yet clearly that old cliché about money and happiness has some weight.
He has all the money in the world, but he isn’t happy with it.
“Did you always feel this way about your family?” I ask him.
He shakes his head. “Not at all. For a long, long time I felt like the Ward family was important. I was raised to believe that since we have a lot of money, we’re better than other people. I bought that old bullshit.”
“You know better now?” I ask him, raising an eyebrow.
He nods fiercely. “I didn’t earn a single thing I have. Anyone could’ve done what I did if given the amount of money I was given. It’s absurd, that a single family would have all of this, but it’s the way things are.”
I didn’t expect this conversation to turn out like this. I mostly thought he’d tell me about his parents, his family, where he grew up, where he went to school, that sort of thing. The darkness is always there, I just didn’t expect to look directly into it this morning.
My giddy joy is slowly evaporating away. Not because I agree with what he’s saying. I actually don’t agree at all, but it’s hard to explain that to him. I don’t think he makes money on blood and it isn’t his fault that he was born rich, the same way it isn’t his fault that someone else was born poor.
It’s just the way things are. At the very least, he seems to be able to see the world for what it is.
He watches me for a long moment before raising an eyebrow. “Now, your turn.”
I smile a little. “My turn?”
“Come here.” He beckons me forward. I put my mug down and move around toward him. He pushes his keyboard back and pats the top of the desk. “Sit.”
I do what he says. I sit on the top of the desk, knees together. My skirt is shorter than usual today, almost borderline inappropriate. I thought he might like it.
He spreads my knees apart. I sit back on my hands and look down at him as my skirt slowly slides up my thighs, revealing the navy-blue panties I wore for him.
“Tell me where you’re from,” he says softly, kissing my inner thigh.
“Around here,” I say, biting my lip. “Grew up in the suburbs.”
“Normal childhood?”
“The usual. Pool parties, roller skating, that sort of thing.”
“Modern middle class living.” He stops at my pussy and slowly kisses me overtop of my panties. I can hear my heart in my ears. “Parents nice people?”
“Yes,” I manage. “Very nice. Religious.”
“Catholic?”
“Methodist.”
“Ah,” he says, smiling as he pushes my panties aside. “Hard working?”
“Very—oh, shit.” I moan as his mouth finds my clit. “That’s really distracting,” I say.
“Good. What did your parents do for work?”
He licks and strokes my pussy as I talk. “Ah, uh, my mom worked part-time, ah, as a stenographer for a judge. My father was a car salesman.”
I can feel him smile. “Talk about blood money.”
I groan and smile. “He believed in what he was doing, selling American-made cars.”
“I’m guessing you heard that speech more than once.”
“A million times.” I gasp as he slides two fingers inside of me and slowly strokes, looking up at my face.
“When did you know you wanted to paint?”
“Young,” I say. “I was young.”
“How young?”
“A little girl.”
“Why didn’t your parents approve?”
He starts to lick my clit as he strokes my pussy. “I don’t--- I don’t know,” I manage.
“Tell me,” he whispers.
Fucking hell, it feels so good. I can barely breathe. “Wasn’t real,” I manage. “Fake major. No money. Wouldn’t waste their, oh fuck, their time on it.”
I lean further back, down onto my elbows. He sucks and licks me faster as his fingers slide in and out of me, doing that amazing curl that touches my spot and drives me wild.
“You were always different, weren’t you?” he asks.
“Maybe,” I groan. “I didn’t fit in.”
“Boyfriends?”
“Some.”
“When did you first have sex?”
I groan as his mouth presses against me again. “Seventeen. My second ever boyfriend. We were in his basement, oh, fuck, for the first time.”
“And in college?” he asks. “Lots of boys?”
“Some,” I groan. “Fuck. Some.” I grab his hair with one hand, tensing, my whole body in ecstasy now. I can barely concentrate on his questions.
I think he can tell, because he doesn’t ask anymore. He sucks and licks me, fucking my pussy faster. I groan and grab his hair harder, losing myself to the pure pleasure of him. It feels so good I can barely control myself as my moans get louder, the pleasure peaking and peaking, higher and higher.
My whole world is pleasure as I come into his mouth. “Fuck, Daddy,” I moan, panting, twitching. “Oh, god, Daddy.”
He sucks and licks me through it before I slowly finish and he pulls back. I watch him lick his fingers c
lean before pushing my panties back into place and gently helping me off the desk.
“Good work today,” he says. “That will be all for now, Hazel.”
I nod, still breathing fast, spinning from the orgasm. I manage to take the tray with me as I leave the room.
Rogers takes it from me, and I think I might be imagining things, but I swear he winks. I hurry over to my seat and bury my nose in a book, barely able to control myself.
That was the strangest way I’ve ever had a man try and get to know me more. It was definitely my favorite, though.
My Daddy. My Dark Daddy. There has to be more to him, though. I can’t imagine he’s just some spoiled rich guy that hates his parents and his family. There’s more to his story that he didn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask about.
He distracted me with that incredible mouth of his, but I’m determined to peel back the layers.
12
Mason
Declan looks haggard as he comes swooping into my office like he owns the place.
He’s been doing that a lot this past year. I haven’t said anything about it, mainly because it didn’t bother me. Declan has been a loyal employee, handling the boring day-to-day crap that I’m not much interested in, but now I’m starting to see some things that I don’t necessarily like.
I give him a long look as he fills a glass of whiskey and sits down in front of my desk. He doesn’t speak at first, just sips his drink like that’s somehow more important than my time.
“How’s it going, boss?” he finally says, grinning at me.
“What do you want, Declan?”
He frowns a little. “Just checking in with you. Rogers said you weren’t busy.”
“I’m always busy,” I say, making a mental note to let Rogers know that I’m not to be disturbed without an appointment from now on.
“Of course you are.” His smile is still annoying, but at least it’s a little uncertain. “I just wanted to talk to you about some things, you know?”
“Talk,” I say, leaning back in my chair.
He nods and puts his drink down on the side table. He starts out by giving me a rundown of our main investments, a quick overview of the portfolio, the sort of shit I already know all about. He says all this like I don’t check our internal metrics every single day.
When he’s finished, I frown at him. “Are you just here to parrot back a bunch of things I already knew?”
He takes a breath. “No, of course not.”
“What do you really want, Declan?”
He looks away and toward his drink. I can tell he wants to pick it up but he thinks better of it.
“How is your new assistant treating you?”
I blink, a little surprised. For a second, I think he knows about my arrangement with her.
But of course he doesn’t. If anyone knows, it’s Rogers, and he’d never betray me, not for anything.
Just the mention of her brings back the memory of earlier this morning. I can still taste her on my lips. I want her back in here, legs spread, moaning at my every touch. I want to stroke her until she screams out my name.
Instead, I’m stuck with this annoying sycophant.
“She’s doing very well, thank you,” I say. “Since when were you worried about my selection of assistants?”
He smiles a little. “I’m always worried,” he says. “I’m your friend, Mason. I don’t want some woman in here ruining what you have.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “What I have?”
“Your routine. What keeps you grounded.” He says it softly, almost like it’s some kind of mystery.
It’s no fucking mystery. I know what he’s referring to. It’s the same thing he’s been using against me all these years, the same reason I’m locked up in this prison of my own design.
“We won’t be having any issues with that,” I tell him plainly.
“Good, good. I just, I worry about this new girl. I did some research into her, you know.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Did you?”
“She’s a painter, an artist. I don’t know if that’s really what you need right now.”
“What she does outside of this office is not my concern,” I tell him. “She brings me coffee. That’s all I need.”
“Right, of course. It’s just, artists can be flighty, unreliable. You’ve had issues with that in the past.”
I think back to an assistant, maybe two girls ago. She missed a day of work, made up some excuse about a sick dog. I fired her on the spot.
“I’m not concerned about that,” I tell him.
“Just be more careful, Mason,” he says. “You don’t want this girl to get… too close.”
I stare at him for a second. I can feel my rage slowly rising, although there’s a part of me that totally agrees.
I know I’m dangerous. I know I’m broken. Hazel is a good person, a beautiful person, and I’m broken. She doesn’t need a man like me.
Except it seems so convenient that he’s bringing this up now. Looking at Declan closely, I can’t see any sign of actual worry in his expression. For a man that says he’s worried about me, he actually looks… bored.
“You know, I’m glad you’re here,” I say suddenly, changing the subject. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you about something.”
“You have?” He looks surprised.
“I want daily update reports from you. Submit them to Rogers at the end of the day.”
“Reports?” He looks shocked. “What do you mean?”
“Reports on what you’re doing, how your division is doing, everything. I want more detail. I want more involvement.”
He’s silent for a moment. “Did I do something?” he asks me.
“Don’t be pathetic, Declan. Go get it done.”
He takes a breath. I see anger flash across his face for the barest of moments, but he gets himself together. Declan is very good at keeping himself under control.
“I’ll get it done,” he says, standing. “Is there anything else you need?”
“Send in Hazel on your way out.”
His eyes flash again, but he nods and turns. I watch him walk out of my office stiffly.
I didn’t like that little meeting. I hated hearing Hazel’s name on his lips, but there’s something more going on. I feel like I’m waking from a long dream and starting to see Declan more clearly.
He’s trying something. I can smell it all over him. He’s worried that Hazel has influence over me, and I wonder if she’s the first assistant he’s tried to sabotage. Based on the clumsy way he went about it, I’m betting I haven’t exactly been difficult to steer in the past.
Not now, though. Not with Hazel. Not with someone I actually want.
I need to keep an eye on Declan. But for now, I need something more important.
Hazel comes into my office a few moments after he leaves.
She comes up to the desk and performs a decent curtsy. “You wanted me, Daddy?”
I feel my blood thrum when she calls me Daddy. I love hearing that leave her lips. I love the way she looks at me, her tight little body begging to be fucked and destroyed. If she stays with me, that’s what she’ll get.
But I suspect that’s what she wants.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I say softly to her, getting to my feet. “Please undress, down to your bra and panties, and sit on the couch. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
She nods and does as I asked immediately without question. I hesitate a moment as she starts to unbutton her blouse. I catch a glimpse of her full breasts as I leave the office and walk the short distance to my bedroom, excitement running through my skin.
I can still taste her pussy from this morning on my lips as I open the second drawer on my dresser. I take several thick, strong silk ropes from inside, testing their strength. I can still taste her pussy, but I still need more.
I flex the ropes before turning and walking back to the office, a smile slowly growing with every step.
13
Hazel
I sit on the couch in my underwear, heart beating fast. I’m alone in his office and if Rogers walks in right now, I don’t know what he’ll think.
It doesn’t matter. I can’t let myself go down that rabbit hole. I can’t worry about getting caught or what it means that I’m sleeping with my boss.
Not now, not while I’m naked and sitting on his couch, waiting for him to come back.
He’s gone for what seems like a long time, but is probably more like a minute or two. I hear his feet in the hallway as he returns and steps back into the office, smiling slightly as he comes toward me.
“My little Hazel,” he says, stopping in front of me. I keep my back straight, my breasts out slightly as his eyes move along my body. I stare at the dark bundle in his hands, trying to understand what it is.
“At first, this may seem like a punishment,” he says softly as he slowly unravels what he’s holding.
It’s a rope.
He flexes it, cocking his head.
“At first, it might even be uncomfortable. Have you ever been bound before?”
“No,” I whisper.
“Good. It’s better if this is your first time.” He steps closer and gets down on one knee in front of me. It’s almost like he’s about to propose.
But of course, that’s not what he’s doing. He gently takes my right wrist and wraps the rope around it, loosely at first, but quickly pulling it tight.
The rope is soft. I frown a little.
“Silk,” he provides, reading my mind.
Of course it’s silk, black silk, inky black. There’s a slight sheen as it moves in the light. He takes my other wrist and wraps it around, making an intricate pattern, binding my wrists together.
“At first, you might be tempted to struggle, to fight against the rope.” He smiles softly. “Don’t give in to the temptation. The more you struggle, the tighter it gets.” He takes my chin and tips my eyes up, making me meet his gaze. “Trust your Daddy. You do trust me, right?”
“I trust you,” I whisper.