by Ava Sinclair
It’s misting rain, and his car is warm and dry when he picks me up. I smile because when he leans over to open the door, I notice he’s wearing a cardigan. I’ve always referred to these as ‘dad sweaters’ whenever I’ve seen men wearing them. It’s nice to know Mr. M. listens.
“How was your day?” he asks.
“Good,” I say, and I start to elaborate but he cuts me off.
“Got all your assignments done?”
I glance over at him. “Um, yeah,” I say, playing along. It’s obvious now that I’m not supposed to talk about work. I’m too young to have a job, and I’ve been picked up from school.
“Then you’ve earned yourself some ice cream,” he says. “Where would you like to go?”
I think about this. “Pinkberry,” I tell him. And Pinkberry it is.
I’m usually careful about my diet, but today I have a healthy serving of chocolate churro yogurt with brownie bite sprinkles. Mr. M. gets vanilla with pomegranate. I’m savoring every bite, and savoring what it must be like to be a kid who doesn’t have to worry about calories or cellulite.
“I have a present for you,” he says, interrupting my thoughts.
I look up at him. “Mr. M.,” I say. “We’ve talked about…”
“Daddy,” he corrects quietly. “Call me Daddy.”
“Daddy,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to get me anything.”
“I wanted to,” he insists. “But you’re going to have to be a good girl to get it.”
“What do I have to do?” I ask with a grin, and imagine something tawdry, like sucking him off while wearing a Catholic schoolgirl uniform. But the answer is ridiculously mundane.
“Behave yourself while we go pick up a few things,” he says.
That seems easy enough, and I wonder where we’re going. He doesn’t tell me, and when we get back in the car, I don’t ask. I’m just going to watch this unfold and enjoy my sugar buzz.
We end up at the mall. Our first stop is the Barnes & Noble, where he takes me first to the movie and music section, where we stop in front of the Disney display. He asks me if I have a favorite. This is easy. I have two. I pass over the princess movies and pick up Emperor’s New Groove and Hercules. I can tell Mr. M. isn’t surprised by my choices.
He takes my hand and walks to the children’s book section. We could be a couple shopping for our little girl for all the other customers know. We’re at a long shelf full of picture books with brightly colored covers. So many. Mr. M. asks me if I have any favorites from my childhood, any bedtime stories my parents read to me. I look at the books and I want to answer. But to my horror, a painful lump has formed in my throat, and my eyes fill with burning tears. I’m aghast at myself; I’m supposed to be having fun, but instead I’m crying.
“My parents didn’t read to me,” I say.
“Hey, hey now.” Mr. M. puts his arms around me, and gives me a squeeze coupled with a gentle kiss on the top of my head. “How about I pick some for you? Would you like that, kitten?”
Kitten. The nickname is soft and sweet. I sniffle and nod. He selects several books. Goodnight Moon. Make Way for Ducklings. The Whispering Rabbit. Madeline. When he notices I’m staring at a copy of Winnie the Pooh stories, he takes that, too.
Reality check time. We live under an agreement. This is kink to him. It’s all part of building some naughty fantasy and later after he’s read me a story he’ll probably make me put ribbons in my hair and watch them bounce as he fucks me from behind. I can’t get emotional. I tell myself to keep control. No strings, remember?
“We have one more stop,” he tells me when we’re back in the car. He leans over me and buckles my seatbelt. “Safety first,” he says.
I don’t ask him where we’re going. When we pull into the Walmart, I give him a ‘you must be kidding me’ look. Then I say it out loud. “Walmart? Seriously?”
“Don’t be a snob,” he says sternly, and I feel embarrassed.
He’s looking for something specific, he says, something he Googled and found online only available locally at Walmart. He takes my hand and leads me through the double doors, past the counter sporting cheap jewelry and the Chinese-made women’s apparel, until we are in the department labeled Sleepwear. And here’s what he was looking for. Until that moment, I had no idea adult footie pajamas were even a thing, but here they are. He reaches for the pink ones covered in Hello Kitty faces.
“Perfect for my little girl,” he says, and we head to pick up the last item—a fuzzy blanket.
I’m starting to get kind of excited as I realize what Mr. M. has in store. At the register, he asks if I’d like some microwave popcorn for our movie night, and I say yes.
“Yes, what?” he asks.
“Yes, Daddy,” I say, and then realize the woman in line in front of us has heard. She has two kids in one shopping cart that’s designed to also look like a little two-seater truck—twin boys that look to be about four. They’re making vehicle noises and turning the steering wheels back and forth. I wonder about her life and see her staring at Mr. M., who’s clutching the footie pajamas. Her eyes travel to me and back to him, and I know she’s wondering about my life, too. I’m glad when she looks away. I’m glad to leave Walmart. I’m glad to finally get home—back to Mr. M.’s place, I mean. I’m there so much lately that it would start to feel like home if I let it. But I can’t let it.
“Do you want me to pop the popcorn?” I ask when we walk in the door. I’m kind of psyched about watching the movies and am trying to decide which one I want to see first.
“Not until I’ve given you your bath, little one,” he says.
“A bath?”
“Yes.” He points me to the bathroom and I walk down the hall with him behind me. I smile at what’s waiting for me. There’s a bottle of cotton candy-scented bubble bath and a big rubber duck. I wonder why I don’t feel silly.
Mr. M. plugs the garden tub and begins running the water. As the tub fills, he starts to undress me. It’s different than when he’s undressed me before. He doesn’t linger, doesn’t let the back of his fingers graze my nipple, doesn’t cup my ass as he unzips my skirt. This is the efficient undressing of a guardian caring for his charge, and it’s nice.
When I’m naked, he directs me to the tub. The water is warm, with a lofty head of bubbles that goes all the way up to my nose. The cotton candy smell is strong, and I sneeze. Mr. M. and I both laugh.
“Silly girl,” he says, and sits on the edge of the tub. He has a washcloth and as he wets it and applies baby wash, I use my rubber duck to plow a path through the bubbles. He begins to soap my shoulders, then holds my chin as he scrubs my face and ears. It’s weirdly comforting, and I can feel myself sinking into the role just as I sink into the water.
Then I feel the washcloth on my breasts and the responsive woman in me wakes up. I hold my breath as Mr. M. drops the washcloth lower to between my legs. I keep my body denuded. My pussy is as bare and sensitive. He rubs it with the towel, and I moan. But he doesn’t linger, even if the feeling does. I had no idea how erotic this would be. He’s my sexy daddy, but I remind myself he’s in control.
He lets me play in the tub until the bubbles dissipate. Then he gets me out and towels me off. The scent of cotton candy lingers on my skin. I look around for the pajamas. When I don’t see them, I tell him he’s forgotten them.
“No, I haven’t,” he says. “But you don’t get dressed until I take your temperature.”
“My temperature?”
“A good daddy sees to his little one’s health,” he says, and sits down on a bench built into the wall next to the shower stall. He pats his lap, and that’s when I notice that there’s a jar of Vaseline and an old-fashioned thermometer on the seat beside him. “Come on now,” he says. “I’m going to take your temperature.”
I’m overcome with shyness. I’m not sure why. He’s touched my asshole before, has stuck his finger in it. But as I obediently bend forward over his lap, I feel a flus
h creep over my naked body. There’s something so intimate about this. That he’s not approaching it as a sexual act makes it even more exciting. As he parts my ass cheeks and slides the head of the thick, cool thermometer into my bottom, I feel myself wriggling. And when he squeezes my cheeks together and orders me to stay still, I’m aware of the feeling of the glass tube in my bottom, and of the urgent, hungry pulse in my pussy.
I moan, and he gives me a soft swat on my bottom. “Hush,” he says, and so I lie there, my pussy getting wetter by the moment as he tells me he has to wait for the temperature to register. Either this is the world’s slowest thermometer, or he’s enjoying himself, because it feels like I’m over his lap forever, my pussy throbbing as I endure the feeling of the glass tube seated in my ass.
Finally, he withdraws the thermometer and announces I don’t have a fever, which I could have told him. He uses a wet washcloth to clean the Vaseline from my bottom hole and then puts me to my feet and fetches my pajamas. As I dress, I decide I need to be less snobbish, because these twenty-two-dollar footie pajamas are gloriously comfortable.
Everything would be perfect if I didn’t need some sexual relief, but it’s not happening, at least not that I can tell. Mr. M. deposits me in the bedroom and tells me to stay put while he makes popcorn. When he returns, I get to pick the movie. Hercules.
I still know all the songs and sing them. He’s impressed, and I’m having fun. He’s never seen it, and I can’t help but blurt out the parts before they happen. The dragon isn’t dead. Meg is falling in love with Hercules. Don’t worry. He didn’t lose his power permanently.
The sexual tension has relaxed, just leaving me feeling happy and relaxed and silly. And when the movie is over, Mr. M. wraps me in the soft blanket, cuddles me against his chest, and tells me I’m his special girl as he reads me the books. He has a good reading voice. It’s deep and cultured, and his tone is soothing. I wind a strand of hair around one finger as I listen, and feel my thumb creep toward my mouth. It’s ridiculous, but it feels right to draw on it as I listen to him read.
I feel languid and tired by the time the last book is over.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” he says. “I promised you a surprise.”
I look up at him. “Can I get it tomorrow?” I ask. “I can’t imagine anything more perfect than all of this. I think I’d like to save it.”
He touches my nose. “Okay,” he says.
I snuggle up to him, thinking as I do that this was one of the most erotic evenings I’ve ever had, and he didn’t even touch me. I wonder why as I feel myself fall asleep.
I sleep like a baby, and in the morning Mr. M. wakes me up with breakfast in bed. It’s Saturday, and the chocolate chip pancakes are delicious because they are homemade. He watches me eat, and I can tell he’s still in Daddy dom mode, which is fine with me. As soon as I’m finished, he tells me he wants to give me my surprise.
He stands back and takes my hand. I walk obediently along in my Hello Kitty pajamas. At his office door, he tells me to cover my eyes. I do. I hear the door open and keep my eyes covered as he guides me in.
“Okay,” he says. “You can look.”
I can’t speak. The lump in my throat is too big. It’s too much. It’s too sweet. It’s the bike I wanted as a child, the same model. A red ten-gear Schwinn. My eyes are swimming in tears and I cover my mouth to stifle a sob as I walk over to it and run my hand down the sleek frame.
I turn back to him. “Daddy,” I say.
“Is my little girl happy?”
“It’s too much,” I say. “It’s too…” I look back at the bike. “It’s just so personal.”
“Well, you deserve it,” he says. “And it makes me happy to do things for you.”
I want to give myself to him. I have a need to, an adult need. I tell him, and he lifts me in his arm and walks me out of the office and down the hall to his room. He unzips my pajamas and tosses them aside, telling me we’ll have to have more Daddy’s Girl nights. I tell him I’d like that but at the moment I want to be his big girl. I fall back on the bed, spreading my legs. He pulls my panties down and off, his mouth kissing my inner thighs as he goes.
He’s wearing just his flannel pajama pants and I can see how they’re tented in the front. He’s as excited as I am, and when he falls between my legs I wrap my thighs around him, hugging him tight to me as he slides his cock into my hot, waiting pussy. I’m so slick, and he’s so fucking hard. But his strokes are smooth and he looks into my eyes the way he never has before. The words ‘I love you’ are on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t want to say them. I can’t. I can’t let myself get caught up in the moment. The evening was sexy as hell, he did something sweet for me, and now we’re concluding it with a hot fuck. It’s all within the rules, right?
His movements are faster and faster, and he comes more quickly than usual. But that’s okay, because I do too.
“So what’s next?” I ask, and realize the question can be taken more ways than one.
“I’m not going to say,” he replies. “It’s not just little girls who enjoy surprises.”
Chapter Ten
I don’t want to ruin the surprise. I put the list of rules in the drawer, not that it matters. I’ve all but memorized them. I’ve been obsessed with them, ticking off the new experiences once I’ve had them, wondering when they’ll be repeated, wondering when the next one will be.
But that was before. That was when this all felt like a mutual sexual arrangement between a woman who wanted to be dominated in ways she’d never imagined and an alpha male pleased to have found a woman who was game for almost anything.
It’s different now. What felt like an arrangement feels more like a relationship. A few days ago, Mr. M. came to my place with a bag of groceries from the co-op and we made homemade pasta with fresh tomato sauce. He told me about a charity event he was attending for the weekend and asked me if I’d like to go.
“You mean, like a date?” I asked hesitantly, then I laughed. “You’re asking me on a date?” This will be the first time he’s taken me into his circle of contemporaries.
“Would you rather I order you to go?” he asked, and something about the way he said it… there was almost a bruised tone to his words.
“No.” I put down the wineglass I was holding. “Of course not. I’m just… well, I’m flattered, is all.”
The night before, this same man tied me to the bed and teased my pussy until I screamed my pleas to come. But that was just him controlling my pleasure, per our agreement. I submitted to that treatment because that was one of the rules. Nothing we agreed to covers formal dating.
But now we have an actual date, and as much as I’ve told myself that this was a casual sort of thing, and that maybe he just needed someone on his arm for this particular night, I felt like I was back in high school and had been asked to the prom. I had to stow my giddiness at work, especially during a tense negotiation with opposing counsel for a client seeking a settlement from a rival business owner who’d slandered him.
“You’re one badass lawyer,” my client said after the meeting, his voice full of admiration. And I felt badass, until I got home and found Mr. M’s latest gift waiting for me—an amazing off-the-shoulder sapphire blue gown with a fitted bodice and a bell skirt shot through with silvery threads that glimmered in the light. Then I felt like a princess—a badass princess, mind you. But still…
And now I, the billionaire’s contractual sex slave, am on his arm attending a fundraiser for a planned art museum. It’s held in club housed in an old stone manor house, a club so exclusive most people have never even heard of it. Mr. M. looks dashing in his tuxedo complete with cummerbund and bow tie.
We take a limo, of course. One does not drive to such affairs, Mr. M. quips. One is driven. There’s a line of cars, and as we wait to pull up to the entrance, I watch others exiting their vehicles. It’s just gotten dark, and the in-ground lights catch the glittering jewels of women walking up the steps, making them dazzle.
Most of the people I don’t recognize, but a few look vaguely familiar and I wonder if I’ve seen some of them at the law firm. Mr. Warner, while not nearly as powerful as Mr. M., is well-connected, after all. But this is the highest of high circles. These are billionaires. Old money. Inherited money. Mr. M. has never made any secret of the literal good fortune of being born into wealth. But he’s generally quiet about it. He’s an educated man who takes an active role in managing his own wealth, and I know he’s extremely generous. And being here suddenly makes me realize that these are the people most likely to really know him beyond what he likes in bed.
People seem generally glad to see him. They walk over, smile, ask him how he is. There’s talking all around me, but I catch the edges of questions alluding to a personal life I’m not privy to. I start to feel anxious, but force myself to tamp that feeling down.
I realize I’m attracting attention by those who greet him. Mr. M. doesn’t introduce me as his girlfriend. He introduces me as a friend, which is fine. I remind myself of our arrangement. Even if we are on a date, it is what it is. The people shaking my hand have no idea that it held the pen used to sign away my sexual rights to their friend.
My anxiety mounts and I don’t even know why. A waiter passes by with a tray bearing champagne flutes. Mr. M. seems to remember that I’m beside him and fetches us one each.
There’s live entertainment, a renowned classical violinist who has some of the older attendees in raptures. The appetizers are excellent—Seruga caviar, tiny dill crepes with salmon, grilled peaches with vanilla bean mascarpone honey. The champagne is beyond exquisite. I try to slip mine slowly, wanting it to last.