by Wyatt, Dani
He stands and yanks me off the sofa. I squeal in surprise when his next move guides me down to the floor in front of him.
My breasts are hanging free, my dress is tucked and twisted every which way. I'm a mess of tangled hair and smeared make-up. And Jack?
He looks like he owns me. I feel like a possession.
It’s like the first hit of a drug and I know I’ll need more.
“I've been waiting for you,” he grunts, like it hurts to speak.
His growl pushes me close to another orgasm as I stare at the huge erection under his zipper.
He reaches down and grabs the length behind the fabric. “Do you want this in your pretty little mouth?”
I'm hooked. I want to be here. I want to be kneeling at his feet, inhaling the potent scent of his cock. Rendered wordless by the intense taste coating my tongue, yet I can merely nod.
“Then you do as I say. You follow my rules and I’ll give you everything you need. Everything you want.”
My dirtiest fantasies always made me think therapy was in order. I wonder if I ever let him know the things that turn me on the most, if he will think I’m sick.
Twisted.
I feel small and powerless at his feet—and at the same time, I feel like the most desirable being on Earth.
Grabbing the back of my head, he pulls my face into the crotch of his pants.
He drags his fabric-covered cock over my cheeks, my lips. I’m gasping for air, clutching his knees for balance as he rubs himself on me, claiming me in some primal way.
And just as quickly as the territorial ruthlessness began, it ends. I’m on my feet again, he’s crushing my body in the circle of his arms. He’s kissing my mouth like a hungry beast who’s just tasted his personal forbidden fruit.
“You’re mine now.” His deep voice vibrates into my marrow.
The fierceness returns. I’m high on his vacillating echelons of intensity. A large hand shoves between my legs as the other one winds around my shoulders. My face barely reaches the thick muscles of his chest.
“So wet. My cock is going to make a home here.”
The tip of a finger enters me, sending waves of pleasure from my head to my feet.
“You want that, don’t you, princess? This sweet little-girl pussy to be my home…”
“Yes, Daddy.”
Oh shit. I just said that outloud…
He stiffens and pulls my head back by my hair, his blue eyes look like a sky with a storm brewing on the horizon. “Say that again.”
There’s a fiery pain in my neck and scalp as I answer, “Yes, Daddy. I want to give your cock a home and never let it leave.”
I watch his beard shift as he tightens his lips together for a long moment.
“You want to be my little girl? You want Daddy to teach you how to please him?”
“Yes,” I breathe.
“Do you promise you’ll never tell? If you tell, they’ll come and take you away from me.” His rough voice sends a riot of pleasure exploding between my legs.
“I won’t tell.” Blood rushes in my ears and a climax twists tight inside of me.
The filthy exchange could have been plucked directly from my diary and I love and hate that it turns me on so much.
The slick, wet fingertips glide backward, forward, then back again. Only further this time, spreading my ass as I squirm, but it’s no use.
He flips me over until I hold my weight against the back of the couch, and he comes up behind me, his hands catching my breasts as they hang down.
His arms are rock hard and flexed as he squeezes my flesh just to the point of pain, then releases. Then again, making me hold my breath, making me count, knowing I can take it just a little further...a little further...then just when I think I might cry, he lets go.
His palms glide over every exposed inch of me, leaving my flesh burning behind his touch. He grunts into the curve of my neck, squeezing the side of my ass cheek.
I hold my breath, waiting for whatever comes next when an unfamiliar ringtone pierces the silence of my apartment. My eyes snap toward the sound where his suit jacket rests.
It’s as if the clock has struck twelve and Cinderella’s naughty fantasy has come to a dramatic end.
He freezes, his hand still gripping my flesh.
For what feels like ages, we’re locked in the silent moment. If I had to guess, he’s probably not the kind of guy who generally ignores his phone.
“Fuck it,” he growls, and I turn to see conflict twisting his features.
The ringing stops and once again his mouth is on my neck and I let out a long sigh of pleasure and relief.
Then, it starts again.
“Fuuuuck,” he curses.
While his head is lifted from my neck, I take the opportunity to plant my lips against his trying to keep him here with me. It works. Our tongues collide as he grabs a handful of my hair and pulls exposing my throat to him.
His teeth graze over my pulse. “Whose is this?”
“Yours, Daddy,” I answer the ache in my neck making it a challenge to think straight.
“Louder.”
“Yours, Daddy.” My voice shaking but louder.
“That’s better.”
His mouth moves again to my chest as the phone’s damn cock-blocking ring goes off again.
“I’ll turn it off,” he says. “It’s my private number, I don’t usually get private calls. But my father has been ill. I left it on just in case my mom needed me.”
Watching Jack stomp across the room as I sit back onto my heels, half-naked, watching this monster of a man moving through the small space of my apartment like a beast.
I'm high on a drug called Jack and every part of me wants him to come back. I want so much I know it must be bad for me. Nothing good ever felt so sinful.
“You should definitely check it and probably not turn it off, just in case,” I say, my breasts rising and falling with each labored breath.
“I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“Check it anyway, you’ll feel better. So will I.”
I slide off the couch, pulling the fabric of my dress back over my breasts, suddenly conscious now of how naked I am. My other hand jerks the hem down, covering my lower half. An awkward stiffness seems to have taken the manic lust from the air.
His gaze trails over my body. Maybe he doesn’t want this to end, but it sure feels like the magical moment has passed.
I lower my gaze, feeling like an intruder in my own apartment. “I’ll go freshen up. Give you some privacy.”
I slip into the bedroom and as soon as the door shuts behind me, I collapse in a crumpled heap on the carpet.
I want him to stay. Even as the twist in my gut tells me this is going too far, too fast, the new wild part of me thinks of what to do.
I crawl to my dresser and open the bottom drawer. I shove the t-shirts and leggings out of the way.
There are all my diaries, going right back years. So much of me is in those pages. And then there are my books piled next to them… even the first one about Penelope.
I flip to the center of one of my favorite Daddy books, the purple bookmark guiding me to a well-read chapter, and my heart pounds. The page is worn at the edges. The emotion as the Little Girl and her Daddy finally let themselves go.
Jack could give me this…
I thought I was bad. A bad girl for feeling like I needed to be protected from the evils of the world, spanked when I step out of line. Punished when I’m wrong and praised when I’m right.
And above all, loved and protected.
I want to believe Jack is the answer to all my dreams.
I hold the book to my chest closing my eyes.
Somehow, I have to convince him to stay…
Chapter 8
Jackson
As she slips behind her bedroom door, that sense of loss overtakes me again.
I’m craving ownership. Permanence. A paternal sense of protectiveness along with a filthy, depraved Daddy f
antasy that for the first time feels like so much more.
More than just a fantasy.
A possibility.
I step toward my jacket as the phone rings again. I pull it out and relief washes over me as I see it’s not my mother but my attorney, Isabella Monroe, who never sleeps and thinks I don’t either. Normally, I take her calls no matter the hour, but right now, she can wait. The only call I would take right now would be from my parents. Anything else is insignificant.
I turn my phone to vibrate and set it on the counter, glancing around the small space full of sad, decades old furniture, on top of which is strewn laundry full of bright colors, patterns and polka dots. The place smells of her. Lavender and peaches. Cherries and cotton candy.
On the outside, she’s an angel with wide naïve eyes. But inside, God, she’s a filthy girl.
Only for me.
A tight half-smile plays on my lips as I survey the little apartment. The clothes hanging everywhere. Pink and green underwear and socks decorate the back of a worn sofa. More pink and green patterned pillows add pops of color into the dingy space.
Even this little glimpse into her life feels like a privilege. I pull open a kitchen drawer. My need to know more about her overrides her right to privacy.
Flatware clatters as the drawer slides open. I rub the handle of a simple stainless spoon with my thumb, thinking of it slipping into her mouth.
Lucky fucking spoon.
I want to destroy a piece of cutlery. I’m unraveling one crazed thought at a time.
I want to be the one person on the planet who knows every little thing about her.
I check her cabinets, memorizing the patterned flowers on her dishes, and lean down to pull open a drawer inside are bottles of colored sugar sprinkles, three kinds of vanilla, measuring cups and other baking paraphernalia.
Another drawer has a newspaper on top. I move it away and underneath is a catalogue.
I hold a deep breath as I take it out and open the worn pages. Chastity has gone over the it with a red marker, circling things. Special things.
A pair of panties with the words ‘Daddy’s Girl’ across the ass, a butt plug, a paddle with little flower pattern cut out of the burnished wood, a pink leather collar...
In my head I hear her voice.
Daddy.
She can’t be this perfect for me. The world doesn’t work that way. I’m already memorizing all the things she’s circled, the things I want to give her.
You’re her Daddy.
She’s your Little Girl.
I glance at her closed bedroom door.
She's what's been missing from my life.
She’s fucking nineteen. I’m more than old enough to be her father.
At forty-one, I’ve got more money than I’ll ever need. I’ve never had a real relationship as most would define it. Most women who’ve ever shown interest in me simply saw me as an ATM with a dick, and the dick part was, at best, an afterthought.
But today I’ve found my girl.
She called me Daddy without provocation and inside me my heart came alive.
My desires no longer feel dirty and vile.
Those desires to claim her and brand her with my scent. Those desires to pin her down and smack her round ass until it glows a bright red.
My innate desire to make her ache and cry out in both pleasure and pain, then draw her into my lap as she curls against me, giving me everything. They all feel right.
The novel heat coiling around my heart is fear. Already, I'm afraid of losing her.
There’s a slight tremor in my fingers as I return the catalog and shut the drawer. I, too, have a hiding place at home.
A place no one besides myself has ever seen.
I swallow hard as I peer towards the bedroom door. I have to clench my fists to keep from going in after her.
I reach for another drawer but stop when I hear my fucking phone vibrating. I consider ignoring it, but the prick of urgency that it could at any moment be my mother about my father has me checking the screen. It’s Isabella again, a text this time, and nothing could possibly be this important right now, but old habits die hard and I tap on the text.
Isabella: There is growing evidence being discovered in the potential suits against you, despite our earlier belief that they were exaggerated bluff by the plaintiffs. I’d like to bring to your attention that a new employee has just come forth with another harassment claim against you. Megumi Wei lives in Atlanta and is accusing you of sexual intimidation. This is the third woman in less than two weeks. I’m sorry to bring you more bad news.
I haven't even been to my Atlanta office in over two years. It’s impossible. Surely this is a good thing, proof it’s all bullshit, but I still have no idea why someone would do that.
Megumi Wei. The name doesn’t ring a bell. The other two women that came forward in the last week worked at two of my other companies. One in the commercial real estate holdings accounting department, the other at one of our tech companies in Thousand Oaks as a programmer. I knew them both in passing, but never spent a moment alone with either.
Another text tone chimes and I read the new message.
Isabella: We need to meet at your earliest convenience to hash out the details for the defense, whether we allow the charges against you to go forth into the courts or you choose to deal with them privately. The frequency and number of these filings is becoming impossible to keep out of the media as well as other significantly serious negative effects. I am available at any time, just let me know when and where and I’ll be there.
Negative effects.
Chastity is suddenly unreachable, unattainable.
She’ll never want me after she learns of the accusations.
I am about to become a villain in the eyes of the public. As soon as the news hits the stands, I’ll be persona non grata in the business world as well. It will be a shit storm, even if I prove my innocence beyond a doubt.
They’re lies, but so far it’s been my word against theirs and it’s going to take a hell of a lot to convince an innocent girl like Chastity that this was some kind of corporate sabotage, or well-orchestrated cash grab, which are the best explanations I have right now for what it could be.
That’s all I’ve ever been to women in the past. A means to an end. Chastity is different.
I need her to be different.
Swallowing hard, I lean against the kitchen counter and stare at the bedroom door.
I have to figure out a way to fix this. It will take millions, I’m sure, but right now, instead of fight it in public, I’ll pay it off in private to make it all go away. If I pay, it will be just as much as admonition of guilt as much as if I’d been convicted in court.
My eyes scan the counter, trying to figure out my next move, resolving to do whatever is necessary to keep this quiet.
Then, I see it half hidden behind a container of flour.
The air feels chilled. The custom black and white check and logo on the lanyard is familiar.
I yank it up and scan the laminated card.
Chastity Nash.
Marketing Intern. Westwood Inc.
I glare at the bedroom door, then at my phone.
Fucking hell.
She is bait. And I just took it.
Of the thousands upon thousands of women in this city, the fact that one from Westwood pulled me in so quickly? It’s the nail in the coffin of these harassment claims. I’m being set up, hard.
I may not take an active role in the running of Westwood, but it’s in my portfolio. Worse still, it’s located in the exact same building where I’m setting up my philanthropic venture. I’ve been careful not to be seen going in or out, but clearly not careful enough. This is too much for coincidence. I have a silent fifty-one percent ownership of Westwood itself, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have power over the operations if I so choose.
So what is this then? She’s going to just lie outright and say that I used my position to blackmail her in
to sex?
Daddy.
Baby girl.
I don’t want to believe it. But history plays on repeat. That’s a fact.
No, I can’t believe it. If she’s the trap, then it must be because someone else is pressuring her. She needs to know she’s safe with me, that I can protect her from whoever is behind this.
My hand clenches into a fist as I run through potential candidates. It has to be a business rival, someone who is either out to bring me down or out for revenge.
Fuck.
I’ll admit I’ve screwed a lot of people in my career. I’m not proud of it but it’s what it took to win. Maybe I screwed with the wrong person…
I drop the lanyard back on the counter.
Whoever it was, how did they find the perfect, sweet bait they knew I’d take? Who else could know my hidden proclivities? I’ve never acted on them, never spoken to anyone in a way that would raise an eyebrow, not until tonight.
I fight the groan as the pain ravages my newly vulnerable heart. Chastity has taken a hammer to the hard shell I’d built around it long, long ago.
By morning, I’ll no doubt have another potential harassment suit to contend with. I glance around the room, wondering if there are hidden cameras or microphones and I’m already fucked.
I’m getting paranoid but the clues are there.
That ’Uber’ driver hitting my limo was no accident.
I push my phone back into my pocket, punch my fists into the sleeves of my jacket while taking the few short steps to the front door, turning for one last look. I stare at the crazy laundry laying everywhere. The stuffed animals. The unfinished red velvet cake.
Red velvet cake.
“I bake,” she’d said. All a fucking set up. Too perfect. When something is too good to be true, I should have known better.
The chance meeting at the bar, the friend calling her away so I’d seek her out and crave her. She even knew which drink I preferred so she could order the same one and strike up a conversation.