by Darla Phelps
The suds left thick white tracks over her ribs and belly, and then lower still. She gasped softly, her hands flying to his shoulders as the cloth dipped between her thighs.
"Spread your legs again," he coaxed. His fingers in the soapy cloth parted the intimate folds, finding the tiny, sensitive nub hidden within.
"Oh!" Meg leaned against him, clutching his shirt with both fists. Her breaths came in quick gasps and fled again in long, shuddering sighs. She bowed her head, tucking into the side of his neck, her eyes tightly closed. Trembling even harder, her knees wobbled weakly, and David wrapped his free arm around her waist to keep her securely to him. With his other hand, he continued to stroke her; once, twice, and again. Her knees buckled, but he kept her from falling.
"S-stop," she begged.
"Come," he countered.
Meg moaned, shaking her head, but her body had a life of its own. Her hips pushed against him, writhing on his fingers as his gentle touch turned demanding.
"Come for me, baby," he told her. "Daddy knows what you need. Be a good girl. Come for me."
Her hips jerked, and she cried out. Her muscles locked around him.
"Come for me," he commanded.
The spasm started just beneath his fingers, pierced deep inside her and rippled outward through her trembling limbs. He reveled in her high, frantic cries, holding her tightly as they culminated in a single, desperate wail and her entire body, tucked against his own, succumbed to the demanding waves of pleasure. He forced her to ride them, much as she rode his fingers, wringing every last shiver from her body, every last gasp and cry from her lips, until her hips ceased their frantic motions and she wilted in his embrace.
"Good girl, Meg," he soothed, kissing her forehead. He patted her sex one last time, feeling the tiny aftershocks of her orgasm still rippling through her. "My sweet little girl."
And she was his. All his. To torment and to play with, to love and to spoil. To care for. His woman-child, even if only for eight days.
He gently kissed her forehead, her eyelids, her lips.
Only eight days.
He was going to have to make them count.
Chapter Two
"Go on in your room," Daddy told her, giving her a nudge towards the door even as he turned back around for the stairs. "I forgot something. I'll be right back."
He quickly disappeared, leaving Meg standing in that unfamiliar hall in front of that unfamiliar door. Chewing her bottom lip, she reached out to turn the handle and pushed the door inward.
Hers was a corner room with a deep, plush, creamy white carpet and windows in both of the corners' adjoining lavender walls. The bed was made of a beautiful, light-colored oak, with high foot and headboards and drawn-up side rails that made it look like just like a crib. Where in the world had he found those adult-sized baby blankets? A wooden toy chest had been set at the foot of the crib, while a wicker chair, filled with an assortment of stuffed animals, rested next to the closet. Crowning that pile was a familiar, two-toned, beige and brown teddy bear.
"Bear," she breathed. Three quick steps had Meg out of the doorway and to the wicker chair. She scooped him into her arms and hugged him fiercely. Now where was comfort blankie? As she turned her head to more closely examine the crib-like bed, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the vanity mirror over the dresser.
Good heavens, she looked just like a little girl!
The one-piece, pink and white pajamas Daddy had dressed her in were exactly like something a toddler would wear. Even her feet were fully enclosed and a zipper ran all the way up the front, from just above her right ankle to her throat. She twisted her hips around to look at her reflection from the back. Shifting Bear to one arm, she ran her free hand down over the drop flap that folded up over her bottom, held closed at the corners by twin oversized, white buttons. Beneath it, her bottom was bare; no diaper, no pull-up pants, and certainly no panties.
Hooking the edge of the flap with one finger, Meg pulled it back barely an inch to reveal the rounded peak of one bottom cheek in the mirror. It was barely even pink anymore, though her skin still felt a little sensitive from her earlier spanking.
Daddy's heavier footsteps sounded in the hall outside her door. Quickly smoothing her pajamas back into place, she was hugging Bear with both arms again when he came into the room.
Meg started when she saw the hairbrush in his hand, her own snapping back to protect her bottom, and she backed up a step.
"Hairbrushes do have two uses," Daddy reminded her gently. "I was going to brush your hair."
"Oh." Meg tried to return his easy smile, but her composure was rattled and the trickle of panic winding its way through her belly wasn't dismissed so easily. "I-I want my blankie."
"It's in your crib."
Meg hurried to the bed. The top of the high side railing was as high as her chest and she strained on tiptoes to reach over the side and down into the bed to pull the blankets back. There was a stuffed lamb in one corner. She grabbed that and threw it across the room, ripping back the blankets to look underneath.
"Don't throw your toys," Daddy admonished behind her.
There was a rattle. She threw that, too.
"Meg."
"I need my blankie!" she protested. "I can't find it!"
"It's under the pillow."
Sewn to look like a fluffy cloud, Meg knocked it out of her way. Though she only meant to toss it to the foot of the crib, she misjudged the distance and the force of her arm, and it tumbled over the side railing.
"Meg!" Daddy said sharply.
Comfort blankie was folded neatly where the pillow had been. Stretching, she snagged it with the tip of her fingers and hugged both it and Bear fiercely. Glancing back at Daddy, she found him watching her with a very disapproving look on his face.
Her stomach flip-flopped uneasily. She squatted, grabbed the cloud pillow and dropped it back into the crib. "It was an accident."
"All right, Meg. Come here."
She looked at the hairbrush in his hand and swallowed hard. In a voice barely above a whisper, she asked, "Which end of me are you gonna use that on?"
He pulled the chair out from the vanity dresser and sat down. Holding out his hand to her, he said again, "Come here, Meg."
She bent her head to rub her cheek on Bear's soft fur. On trembling knees, she went to him. And when she finally drew close enough, he caught her arm and turned her around to face the mirror. Rather than laying her over his lap, taking down the bottom flap and putting that hairbrush to use, as she fully expected him to do, Daddy instead pulled her down to sit upon his knees. As Meg watched their reflections in the mirror, he raised the brush and gently eased the bristled through her tangled hair.
He was very gentle, careful not to let the tangles pull, the touch of his hands lulling her into relaxing against him. She couldn't help but close her eyes as, stroke after stroke, from her scalp to a point just below her shoulders, he brushed her hair until it was the softest and shiniest that she'd ever seen.
Parting the thick brown strands directly down the middle of her head, he twisted her hair into two short braids behind her and bound them into place with pink ribbons. Leaning forward, he lay the brush on top of the vanity dresser. When he smoothed his hands down over her shoulders, she opened her eyes to find him smiling at her in the mirror.
"Once upon a time," he said, gently tugging one braid. "There was a beautiful little girl, who didn't know how very special she was. Until, one day, her daddy decided to show her."
Meg couldn't help but smile back. "Was he a good daddy?"
"The best."
"Did he ride a white horse?"
"Of course," he murmured near her ear. "All heroes in 'Once-Upon-A- Time' stories ride white horses."
"What about a bad guy?" she asked.
"Baby girl, I don't think this story has one."
"All stories have bad guys."
He thought quietly for a moment. "No, not this story. But I think there might be an
occasional conflict to keep the story interesting."
"What kind of conflict?" she asked.
"What kind do you think the story should have?"
Now it was Meg's turn to be quiet. "Maybe she's a bad little girl."
"There's no such thing." In the mirror, his reflection gazed down on hers. His hand reached up to brush the tips of her bangs from her eyes. "I think she's a good girl, with a tendency to act fairly naughty upon the rare occasion. Not to worry, though. In this story, our daddy knows all sorts of ways to make his most precious baby want to behave."
Leaning back against him, Meg lay her head on his shoulder. It felt good when his arms came around her, cradling her much the same way she cradled Bear. "How's the story end?"
"That remains to be seen, but I'm hoping for a happily ever after." He kissed her ear, then patted her hip. "All right, baby, it's time for your nap."
"No." The whine was automatic and out before she could stop it. Her shoulders slumped. "I'm not tired. I don't wanna nap!"
And the very last thing she wanted right now was to be out of his arms. Not when he felt so warm and comforting and safe.
"No arguing, Meggie." He stood her up and walked her to the crib. Without giving her to the chance to disobey, he turned down the blankets and lifted her over the rail and into the crib. "In you go."
"No-o!" she whined, rolling onto her knees. Sheer frustration had her bouncing up and down on the mattress. She wanted to stay up; she wanted to stay with him! It was barely one in the afternoon, and she'd just got here! How could he possible expect her to take a nap?
The bouncing ceased abruptly when he turned a very stern eye on her.
"Little girl," he pointed to the dresser. "I have a very capable hairbrush right there. Do you really want to throw a fit?"
She lay down, but she did it with as little acquiesce as was possible when the only venue for argument was pouting.
Daddy pulled the blankets up to her chin and, she promptly rolled onto her side away from him. He tugged one braid playfully. "I'll come and get you at three, then we'll have play time."
Her back to him, arms folded across her chest, she glared at the wall and didn't say a word.
"Aren't you going to kiss me night-night?" he asked.
She pouted even harder.
"You know," he half laughed as he peeled the blankets back from her shoulders. "The hairbrush hasn't left the room." His large hand slipped under the edge of her pajamas to caress the bare swells of her bottom. "Also, the advantages of your wearing drop-seat pajamas are all in my favor. Now, would you like to kiss Daddy night-night in comfort, or do you want to wait until after you've had a very sound attitude adjustment?"
The warm touch of his hand made her shiver as he cupped her. Sucking in her pouting lip, she crawled up onto her knees and faced him.
"Give me a kiss."
Her heart couldn't help but skip a beat as she braced her hands on the rail and leaned into him. At the last second, her cowardice got the best of her and she shifted direction to buss a quick peck upon his cheek. Feeling awkward and blushing, when she tried to crawl back under the blankets, he caught the back of her neck and pulled her close again. With his other hand, he tilted up her chin to capture her lips with his.
Unlike her fumbled attempt at a kiss, his was hungry, self-assured, demanding. It stole her breath and sent a cascade of warm arousal flooding all through her. Her body tingled, every nerve ending remembered the bath and instantly awakened into an almost painful awareness of him. It turned the soft cotton of her pajamas to sandpaper, rasping over her skin. Against the taut, little peaks of her nipples, the feeling was unbearable.
"That," he murmured against her lips, "is a proper kiss."
It wasn't until she felt the cool touch of air on her belly that Meg realized he'd unzipped her pajamas almost to her knees. She shivered when he touched her, his hand gliding down between her thighs, his fingers deftly parting the moist folds. As one slipped inside her, piercing as deeply as it could go, his gentle kisses drank the moans from her lips.
He stroked in and out of her only twice, then his hand withdrew. Bringing it to his nose, he breathed deeply. "Mm," he rumbled, his voice husky and deep. "I love your scent. Now that I know it, I had best not catch it upon your own fingers. You are my baby to pleasure and enjoy. You may not play without my permission."
Meg groaned her frustration and loss while he zipped her back up again. Her body alive and throbbing with desire, she pressed against the rail to cup his face in both hands. Though clean shaven, whiskered stubble pricked her palms. Her initial awkwardness abandoned, she nibbled at his lips, coaxing him without words to kiss her again.
Disengaging her hands, Daddy pulled back from the crib. "Go to sleep."
"No," she said and reached for him again.
"Meg," he said, even more firmly. "Lie down now."
"I'm not sleepy!" she protested. "I wanna stay up!"
"I'm serious, little girl. You mind me now or I won't allow you any pleasure at all later on. Lie down."
Her pout returning full force, Meg flopped stomach-down on the mattress. Hugging Bear, she scowled hard at the wall again.
Shaking his head once at her stubbornness, Daddy tucked the blankets around her shoulders. She promptly kicked them off again.
"I don't wanna go ni-night," she sulked. "I'm not tired."
"Good night, Meggie." He bent well over the rail to press one last kiss to her forehead, covered her again with the blankets, then walked from the room and softly closed the door.
Growling, she kicked the mattress three times.
From out in the hall, Daddy said, "That's enough of that, little girl. Close your eyes and go to sleep. I'm not going to tell you again."
Then his footsteps retreated down the hall. For a while, the only thing heard was the sound of bird singing outside the open windows. Half-drawn shades allowed a cool afternoon breeze to waft through the lacy, white curtains, billowing them gently in and out until they almost seemed to be breathing.
How could anyone sleep at one in the afternoon? Meg had always been a night owl by nature. Any time she made it to bed before midnight was an early night. And she'd never-at least not for so long as she could remember-ever taken a nap.
She rolled from her stomach onto her back and something squeaked under her hip. Digging under the blankets, Meg pulled out a yellow rubber giraffe. She squeezed the middle and it squeaked again. Sitting up, she sent the giraffe flying across the room. It squeaked as it bounced off the wall and onto the floor. Then she sat there, hands in her lap, wondering how in the world she was ever going to pass the time until three.
Her eyes shifted to the dresser. After a moment, she stood. Holding onto the foot board, she swung first one leg and then the other over the side rail. As quietly as she could, she lowered herself the last few feet to the soft, white carpet.
A floorboard squeaked as she tiptoed to the dresser. Looking at the hairbrush first, she turned it over to look at the smooth, polished back and then set it aside. She found a neat assortment of diapers in one drawer, pull up pants in another, and a variety of underwear in a third. Some had ruffles, some had cartoon characters on them. A very pretty pair had a little purple bow on the front. In the very bottom drawer, she found cotton tights and little girl socks with turn-down tops, ruffles and lace and ribbon bows.
In the closet, hung neatly on plastic hangers, was every kind of little girl dress imaginable. Some plain and simple, some very fancy-the sort a child might have worn to a birthday party-but none of which would have come down any farther than mid-thigh on her. And beneath them, in a neat row on the floor, were three pairs of buckle-style shoes: one shiny black, one pink pair with white bows on the tops, and one white pair with little silver jingle bells attached to the heels.
She pulled a box of lincoln logs from the toy chest along with Disney and Sesame Street coloring books, picture puzzles with eight to ten hard wood pieces each, and several story books includ
ing a collection of Mother Goose and Shel Silverstein rhymes. There were plastic monkeys in a little plastic barrel, a Mister and Missus Potato Head, a bucket of legos and several dolls-both Barbie and a pretty blonde baby with a bottle and a diaper that would then need changing.
Selecting the book of Mother Goose rhymes, Meg went to the windows. From one, she saw the front of the house, her car still parked where she had left it, a small tool shed tucked between two old maple trees well off to her right. From the other, she glimpsed the wide meadow clearing and partway into the back yard, where a small pond was currently being utilized by two mallard ducks. A step-stone walk trailed from the front porch, past the flowerbeds below her, and wrapped back around the opposite end of the cabin. And on the very corner between her two windows, grew an ancient oak tree, its massive, sprawling branches reaching up and around the house. One branch came so close that, if she crawled onto the windowsill and leaned out only a little, she could probably have climbed onto it. It had been a long time since she'd last climbed a tree. Meg was almost tempted to try.
Basking in the warmth of the afternoon sunshine, she sat on the windowsill and opened her book. Despite all her protests to the opposite, she was just stifling a sleepy yawn when she heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs.
Daddy.
Meg panicked. She dropped the Mother Goose book and scampered first to the closet to shut the door, then to the dresser to slam closed the drawers. As the footsteps reached the top of the stairs and started towards her door, she flung the toys back into the toy chest.
He was almost right outside her door.
The panic intensified. Abandoning the giraffe and Mother Goose where they'd been dropped, Meg scampered back to the crib. The rail bars were only an inch or two apart and too close for her to step between. She hopped, trying to get at least her tummy over the top so she could slide headfirst onto the mattress, but didn't jump high enough and dropped back to the floor. It was too late for a second attempt. Daddy had already reached her door, and he wasted no time in opening it.