by Brianna Hale
“Does that mean you’ve decided you would like what I’m offering you?” His face is very close to mine and his green eyes are gleaming with dark invitation.
What he’s offering. The acknowledgment that I crave his voice, his strictness and his dominance as much as his touch. It’s testing my limits, this agreement, but I feel the intoxicating rush of knowing I’m standing at the edge of something unknown. I don’t know what’s on the other side except that Frederic will be there.
Five months of Frederic. Five months of being called a pretty angel and minette and being petted and cuddled on his lap while he worries about what makes me feel good. Five months of his demands, his fierceness, his domination. It’s a good thing we’re limited to five months as this sort of arrangement doesn’t sound fulfilling or healthy in the long term, like eating ice cream for breakfast every day. But, every now and then, shouldn’t you have ice cream for breakfast if you really want it?
I look up into Frederic’s green eyes. Five months of Frederic looking at you like that. What else can you say?
Chapter Nine
Frederic
“Yes, please,” Evie whispers.
There’s something very special about the glow on her face as she looks up at me. It’s excited, shy and apprehensive all at once. I pull her closer to me and her hands rest on my chest. “You want to submit to me, knowing that I will be strict, severe if displeased, demanding of your obedience, for the rest of the time that we will be together? That I will want you to be my minette, my princesse, my sweet little girl who only wants to please me and let me make her happy?”
“Yes, please,” she says in that soft, pliant voice.
Oh, Evie, you are too good, too precious. How did I even find you? “Say, yes, Frederic.”
“Yes, Frederic.”
I crook a finger under her chin and study her face a moment, drinking in the gentle, trusting look in her eyes. This is the resolution of the moment we first met, when I took her hand as she was sprawled in the middle of the road, gazing up at me, her knees skinned, her mouth parted in surprise. Don’t be afraid, little one. Let me make it better.
I lower my mouth to hers and kiss her, and her eyes grow hazy and drift closed in the moment before my lips touch hers. Her body is lithe and warm in my arms and I gather her to me, this gentle, good creature who’s slowly learned to trust me, to open up to me in ways she’s never opened up to anyone before. I know I have to be careful with her in some ways. In others, though, I know she doesn’t want me to be careful. I want to find what she thinks her limits are and push her past them until she finally knows who she is.
Now that I have her it’s tempting to turn around and take her straight back to the flat and to bed. But I’m conscious of the need to be patient. I overestimated her once and I deeply regret it.
Her mouth opens under mine and I flick just the tip of my tongue against hers, a promise for later. Breaking the kiss, I stroke the hair back from her face, looking down into her still-hazy eyes.
“Bonne fille. Good girl.”
Her answering smile and the soft pinkness in her cheeks is my reward. I take her hand again and we walk slowly through the dappled afternoon. Her free hand is no longer clamped to her skirt like she’s afraid, but is swinging loosely as she walks at my side.
The terrace is nearly empty at this hour of the afternoon and after I order our drinks we sit down at a table beneath the spreading branches of a beech tree. She sits closer than she would have just this morning, I’m pleased to see. I like her close to me.
While we wait for our drinks she seems to be working up the courage to say something, and she dimples at me shyly, playing with a strand of her hair.
“What is it, minette?” The afternoon light burnishes her cheeks and I don’t think she’s ever looked prettier.
“I want to call you something,” she says, her voice husky. “You have so many pet names for me.”
I feel my cock thicken with desire. Oh, minette, you’re so keen. I wasn’t going to order you to call me maître until I had you on the brink of coming with my hand around your throat. What an eager little girl you are. “They’re not exactly pet names, but I’ve been called maître or master. Monsieur or sir.” I look at her, noting again how young she is, how fawn-like and impish she can be. How I want to be her teacher, master and lover at the same time. “Or you could call me daddy, which is sweeter but still respectful. There’s no equivalent in French.”
She seems to say each of them silently in her head, testing them out. The hem of her skirt is just inches from my hand and I want to slide it up her thigh and feel if she’s wet for me.
“Which do you like best?” she asks.
The waiter brings our drinks, long-stemmed wineglasses filled with sangria and ice, and I wait for him to depart. I love all three titles, but I think I know which one I’d like best from her. “Hearing you call me any of those would make me hard. But...here.” I pass her a glass. “Try one out.”
She takes the sangria, her lip caught between her teeth as she smiles. “Thank you, daddy.”
I feel a throb deep inside me. Yes, that’s working for me. I imagine her facedown on my bed, her hands tied behind her back while I fuck her into obedience and she cries, Please, daddy, yes, I’ll be good. Oh, yes, that’s working for me very well. But keeping my thoughts carefully to myself, I ask, “What do you think?”
After looking over her shoulder briefly as if to check for eavesdroppers, she leans forward and whispers, “I think you’re terribly kinky, Frederic.”
Oh, chérie, I haven’t even started yet. “Moi, jolie fille? You’re the one who chose it.” I look at her over the top of my glass as I take a sip of wine. Don’t pretend to be so innocent. I know your fantasies, remember?
Evie blinks her lashes at me and drinks her wine, sitting oh so primly with one hand in her lap, seeming entirely innocent and well behaved to everyone but me, who knows she’s naked and probably slick under that skirt.
She puts her glass down and says, “Well, what else could I call you when you put me over your knee and spanked me after I’d been in your flat just a day?”
Cheeky girl. But I like her this way. A little bit mischievous, a little bit playful. It suits her, and I’ve wrangled far brattier women. I like her girlish teasing as I think it might mean she’s happy, which is the very best reason to be impish as far as I’m concerned.
Flashing her nakedness at me while we’re working and then refusing to let me touch her, though, she is not getting away with.
We sit for an hour over our drinks and it’s a perfect warm and bright evening. I ask her about her past, seeing as she’s learned so much about mine. The bar slowly fills up around us as she tells me about her sisters, her school. I think of ordering a second round, but if I do she’ll get tipsy. I’ve got plans for her and I don’t want her inhibitions artificially lowered. I want her squirming.
When we leave the bar I walk her the long way home through the dusky light, letting her think it’s because it’s a nice evening but really wanting to be sure she’s not feeling any residual effects of the wine. The sun is slanting long and hot between the buildings by the time we get back to Le Marais. We’re in a quiet, residential part of the neighborhood and she’s holding my hand, not paying attention to where we’re going. She’s pointing out a tabby cat on a balcony when I pull us down an alleyway, a short, swift tug that makes her squeal.
“Frederic!”
I pull her further into the alleyway, which is narrow and thick with shadows. For the second time that day my grip on her is hard and unyielding. She’s pulling against me in her surprise, but I’m not letting go. There’s an alcove around a very old door with faded paint and I back her firmly against it and trap her with my arms.
Half smiling, she looks up at me through her lashes. Ah, so she doesn’t wish to struggle anymor
e. She’s ready to play.
“Are you going to kiss me again? We’re almost home, you know.”
“Kiss you? No, I’m not going to kiss you.” I slide a hand up her thigh, taking her skirt with it.
Her smile becomes a look of shock. “Frederic, what are you—Someone will see!”
No one will see. This alleyway is a dead end and it’s not overlooked. If anyone does come along I will hear their footsteps in advance and all they’ll find is two people having a quiet talk.
But she doesn’t need to know that.
I grip her silky inner thigh with my hand. “Tough. Little girls who tease, they usually end up on their knees or over knees, but seeing as you were so keen to flaunt yourself to me, this seems like a more fitting punishment, doesn’t it?”
The surprise in her eyes is so fucking sweet, that alone could make my dick hard. Added to that the feel of her legs and the dampness that has gathered between them while she’s sat, horny and knickerless at the bar, means I’m throbbing with a need I haven’t felt so strongly in a long time. Oh, the things I’m going to do to you, minette, just you wait. But for now, you need to be taught who’s in charge.
“You’re the one who’ll get his name in the paper,” she points out, lips parted, breathing rapidly. “The headline will read Frederic d’Estang and unknown woman caught in alleyway tryst.”
“No, it will read Frederic d’Estang and British agent’s daughter caught in alleyway tryst. Now stop wriggling and be a good girl for daddy. I want to touch your pussy.” My fingers find hot wetness. Mon Dieu. She’s so slick, so turned on. Instantly her body unclenches and her head falls back as I rub her most tender parts.
“How will they know it’s me?” she whispers, her eyes closed.
“Because I’ll tell them.” I slide the blade of my forefinger along her clit, back and forth. She comes up on her toes with a gasp and her eyes open, and they’re bewildered and hazy with arousal. She’s so sensitive to my touch. “That’s it, minette. Open your legs a little more.”
All pretense of resisting me is gone and she walks her feet open, moving her hands up to my shoulders and holding on to me for dear life. I delve deeper, my finger sliding into the tightness of her, just an inch deep, and then out again back to her clit. I rub back and forth, watching her watch me. I can tell she’s wondering if this is the moment I’m going to drive my finger all the way into her, or this, but I make her wait. Make her guess.
“How do you like getting fingered in an alleyway in Paris?” In answer she bites her lip and nods, beyond words. I slowly sink a finger into her, and merde, she’s tight. Her nails dig into my shoulders, and I immediately pull out and give her pussy a spank. It makes a lovely wet sound, and she yelps and a little flash of pain and surprise crosses her expression.
“No clawing me, minette,” I growl.
Instantly her fingers relax and she looks contrite. “Yes, Frederic.”
“Yes who?”
“Yes, daddy.” Her eyes search mine, needful, penitent, and it’s all I can do not to turn her around so she’s braced against the door and fuck her, hard and swift and greedy, one hand clamped over her mouth while I whisper in her ear what a slut she’ll be for me.
But all in good time.
I return to my leisurely exploration of her, pushing deeper with each slide of my fingers, stretching her, rubbing the spot deep inside her where it feels best, but briefly, very briefly. Keeping her guessing. Keeping her needy. “How do you like getting finger-fucked in an alleyway by daddy?” And when I say this she whimpers and arches against me, her pussy clenching hard around my fingers, not quite coming yet but close, which is far better than anything she could have said in response. Just a short time ago she was a prickly, unhappy young woman moldering in the English countryside. Now she’s panting in my arms, looking at me like I’m her whole world. I crook my fingers inside her in a come here motion and she moans. A red blush has appeared across her cheeks and chest. How many fantasies could I draw out of this girl and bring to life while she looks at me just like she is now, like I’m the only thing in the world that she knows or cares about?
This fantasy, though, showing her what I can make her do for me in an alleyway if she teases and provokes me—this is all mine. “You see what happens when you test me, when you flaunt yourself at me and think you can get away with it? Anyone coming by will see what a slutty little girl you are. And you are, aren’t you?”
Whimpering, she nods. “Yes, daddy.”
The look on her face is almost my undoing. She’s so eager, so pliant, and even better is the fact that she’s never looked at anyone the way she’s looking at me now. I’m the one who discovered these secret desires within her and coaxed them from her lips. I’m the one she’s chosen to trust, to confide in. She’s put herself completely into my hands. A possessive thrill runs through me. Mine. All mine.
I keep up the motion with my fingers, harder and stronger until I can feel her burning up in my arms, her eyes holding mine with an expression that begs for mercy and for more at the same time. She will have more from me, but never mercy. “That’s it, come for me, little one,” I whisper against her mouth. I bear down on that slick, swollen spot deep inside her.
“Oh god!” Her pussy clamps like a vise around my fingers as she comes, her head tipping back and her mouth opening wide. She’s a yeller with me, even though she was silent by herself. I cover her mouth with my other hand just in time, muffling her cries. One hand giving pleasure and one hand constraining, capturing. The perfect expression of my desire for her.
When her orgasm finally releases her she looks back at me, cheeks pink and eyes hazy. Oh, good girl. Very good girl. But I’m not ready to show her how pleased I am with her yet. Evie has a lesson to learn. She’s giggling as I withdraw my fingers, weak, happy giggles, and she smooths her hands down my chest, watching their path.
I capture her chin and force it up. “Now, what did we learn?”
Oblivious to my severe tone, she wraps her arms around my neck and presses her face against my throat, her chest heaving against mine as she tries to catch her breath. “That you make me feel wonderful.”
My heart expands in my chest and for a moment I can’t speak. She’s come with a man and she feels wonderful. There are no tears, no unhappiness, no doubts. I remember her words to me the other day when I asked her what she thought about submitting to me. It’s like that fantasy I told you about. It feels good, but it’s best left as something imaginary. I know she feels it too: The reality is far better than the fantasy.
Lesson first, I remind myself, indulgence later.
I loosen her arms around my neck and look down at her, stern. “No. We learned that if you test my limits I’m going to test yours back, twice as hard. If you push me you’ll find you run out of ground long before I do.”
Her face settles into contrition and she says meekly, “Yes, daddy.”
Finally, I smile, and pull her into my arms, enjoying the warmth of her sleek body, pliant from coming. “Bonne fille. Come here.” She buries her face in my neck and holds me fiercely. It’s one of my favorite sensations, being clung to, for its own sake and because it means I’ve done my job properly. She feels satiated, and safe in my arms.
“Frederic?” she whispers, her face still buried against me.
“Yes, chérie?” There’s a hint of anxiety in her tone and I put a finger under her chin, coaxing her to look up at me.
She moistens her lips and says, “Thank you—not for this, exactly, but for everything. Getting me out of Oxford. I’ve been miserable for the last few months.”
Me too, I almost respond, but I tighten my jaw on the words. Evie doesn’t need to be filled up with my misery. She deserves lightness and happiness and pleasure. There are so many good things I can give her, so why spoil it with the bad.
When she spe
aks again her eyes are clear and soft and there’s a smile curving her lips. It’s the way she should always look. “But I feel happy now.”
“So do I, ma princesse.” And I kiss her, thinking that this is at least one truth I can give her.
Chapter Ten
Evie
Dear Evie,
You haven’t posted a single picture or status update online. What are you up to?? You’re meant to be making us all insanely jealous of your summer in Paris while we mooch around Mum and Dad’s house and pick stupid fights with each other. Have you been up the Eiffel Tower? How much cake have you eaten? What’s Frederic’s flat like? Is he making you work too hard, and is that why you’re not online? Therese has gone off with her boyfriend to Greece for a week and has posted a thousand pictures. This beach, that beach, calamari, ouzo. Sick-making.
Lisbet is reading The Hunchback of Notre-Dame and loves it, even the really boring chapters that go on and on about walls and windows. She seems to think it’s brilliant, though, and has watched Frederic in Phantom six times since you left. I reminded her that she was terrified of him when she saw him in Notre-Dame when she was little but she doesn’t remember that and thinks it’s impossible. She reminds me of you at her age. Send her a picture of the two of you, she’ll go into raptures of delight and jealousy.
And me? I’m bored and hot. I suppose I could take a trip with a friend but you know me, too lazy to organize anything. I’m going up to London tomorrow for an audition, so wish me luck.
Mona
I read Mona’s email over twice, trying to decide how guilty I should feel. She’s right, I haven’t posted anything or even texted her how I’m doing, and that’s not like me. We aren’t super close like we used to be when we were younger, but we do still talk. Looking out over the treetops toward the cathedral, I wonder why that is. I suppose I got tired of her finding the things I’m interested in boring and she became obsessed with being famous. Or maybe it was the problems I was having with Adam. It was so isolating, wondering if I was wired wrong or something, and never being brave enough to ask my friends or my sisters if they’d ever felt the way I did. It was easier just to fold in on myself and try to ignore it.