by Maren Smith
“Please.” Her voice is hoarse and full of emotion, shooting a flood of need my way. I steel myself.
“Please what?”
“Please, Daddy.”
“Please what, Daddy?”
She is quiet. I don’t think she’s even breathing. I sure as hell am not.
“Please what?” I say again, so quietly that I almost don’t know if I spoke at all.
“Please… touch me… Daddy,” she finally says in nothing more than a whisper.
But I heard. I’m so attuned to her that I’ve heard it for a long time. I let my palm rest on her flaming skin, then caress her butt down to where the tips of my fingers meet her panties. Catching them, I stroke downward, sliding them down her smooth thighs until gravity makes them fall to her feet where I lift one foot at a time and free her of the garment.
Carrie gasps and juts out her ass for me. So precious. So needy. Ripe for the picking. I change direction and stroke up along the inside of her thigh, almost all the way to her pussy, stopping close enough to feel the warmth, then I kick her legs further apart and push my fingers inside her in one move, reveling in her tight heat that clenches around me.
“Oh god, Misha,” she gasps.
I slap her once, then thrust harder, in and out.
“Again,” she cries. “Please!”
I ache with the need to pull out my cock and bury it in her delicious pussy, but she’s never gonna have to plead with me twice to slap her ass. Fucking her with my fingers, I slap her again.
“What did you call me?”
“Meeesha.”
Slap. She’s absolutely soaked and rocks her hips back against my every push.
“Try again.” Slap.
She gets wetter each time my palm connects with her butt.
“Mi—”
Slap.
“You know what to call me, Carrie.”
“Mi—”
Slap.
“You’re only making it worse.”
“Mi—”
Slap.
I never met anyone who loved getting spanked so much. My palm burns. Her skin is deep red and mottled. I don’t know how she can take my force. I’m not even sure I’m holding back any longer.
“Daddy, please again!”
My fingers piston in her, and I let her have it, my hand bearing down on her butt over and over.
“God!” Carrie screams and thrashes before me as her pussy walls spasm around my fingers.
She’s sobbing loudly when I pull out my hand from her still-quivering flesh, pull open my pants and free my cock. I’ve never been so desperate to fuck someone before in my life. Sex has been nothing but a temporary release of tensions. This – this isn’t sex. I want to fucking merge with my printsessa. I want to fill her, take her, make her mine and keep her.
Always.
Carrie
I’m nowhere near done. My body hums with an orgasm that was much more than just some friction of my nethers. It feels as if he’s peeled off my skin, torn the flesh off my bones, and made a Lego out of me. I need him to put me back together. I need more. More Misha. More Daddy.
“Please!” My voice doesn’t sound like my own.
When the sound of his belt rattles, then a zipper, I thank whatever gods there might be who look out for a crazed, sex-deprived bookstore girl.
“You have been a bad girl, Carrie, begging me to hurt you, looking at me with those big, blue, innocent eyes.”
I flinch when I feel his hand on my hip, but he doesn’t spank me, only grabs hold, tight. My insides weep for more.
“I’m on the pill,” I whisper, my voice barely carrying the words.
“I know, dorogaya, I live with you. I see everything.”
My legs shake. I clutch the sides of the table and close my eyes. “I’ll be good, Daddy.” I almost weep with need. “I’ll be good.”
He moves something between my legs, a thick hard length, and strokes it up along my aching slit. I push back, wanting that something in me. Now.
“No, you won’t. I don’t think you will ever learn to always be good, printsessa. But I promise to be there to guide you, and teach you, and punish you when you fail. When you fall, I will pick you up.”
In one stroke, he slams inside me, filling me, stretching me, hitting my bottom, forcing all air out of my lungs from the impact. I gasp and choke, my knuckles whiten as I grip the table hard and hold on for dear life.
“Oh, you’re tight,” he groans.
“You’re big,” I pant.
“And you just”—he pulls back and then slams back inside, impaling me—”took all of me like the good, pain-loving girl you are.”
My pussy clenches around his cock. His words set me ablaze again. Yes. I love pain. His pain. Only his. I love his touch. I love his soft growls and his stern ways. I love how he saw my need and forced his way into my life. I love how we are from two different worlds and still can become one so flawlessly, like peas in a pod, like a jigsaw puzzle.
Misha pushes up my blouse and bra. Sneaking his hand between the table and my body, he finds my nipples, twisting them, torturing them into tight buds. He makes me ache in all the right ways.
“More,” I gasp. “Please, Daddy.”
His growl sends a shiver running down my spine, and I swear his cock grows even thicker. I never had a daddy kink. Until Misha. I don’t know if I have one now either. I know he sees me as a woman, fully and completely, but I also know he wants to be my caretaker, my man, my everything, for the duration of his stay here.
Then we’ll part.
But I won’t think of that just yet. We still have some months to go.
He pulls out, and I want to cry with frustration. I stagger on the verge of a second release, and he pulls out. Cruel! Unfair.
“Turn over. I want to see my baby girl.”
I scramble to lie on my back, wondering if I can ever have dinner at this table again. Misha stands before me like a dark god, his huge cock jutting out, glistening with my juices. His normally light eyes seem to have turned black with ravenous hunger. For me. He holds my gaze and flicks open the top buttons of his shirt, then pulls it over his head and drops it to the floor. I hurry to pull off my blouse and bra that already sit askew. His chest heaves, and his nostrils flare as he looks me over. I’m suddenly self-conscious. I have a few pounds extra. More than a few. More like ten. Or twenty. I’m not a pretty, skinny little model. He’s probably used to those.
“Don’t hide yourself from me,” he snaps.
“I wasn—” I clutch my hand into a fist and force my arm back to my side. I tried to cover myself without even thinking about it.
“You are beautiful, my printsessa. I will taste every inch of you. I will fill you with my seed. I will make you forget you ever had a life before me.” He leans in and pushes I don’t know how many fingers inside me, while he catches a nipple between his teeth. I draw a hissing breath, half with pleasure, half with fear.
Kissing and licking a path across my chest, his beard tickling deliciously, to the other nipple, then up my throat, he keeps talking while he thrusts his fingers in my pussy, making me arch with the rising tension and the increasing desperate need for release.
“I will punish you and I will reward you. I own you now. No one else will ever touch my printsessa. You don’t ever need to be alone, or afraid, or feel that you have lost your direction. I’m here now.”
Oh. My. God. He mumbles words against my skin. I don’t know half of the things he’s saying, but the possessive tone, his handling of my body, strumming it, playing it, making me sing a tune never heard before, makes me want to go along with anything and everything he says and does.
“I’m yours, Daddy! Please.”
I’m so close. I’m so fucking close that I think I’ll die if he doesn’t let me come this instant.
His face hovers over mine and our eyes lock. His strikingly green eyes hypnotize me, then he becomes a blur as he moves in, pressing his lips against mine, coaxing my mouth open, stealin
g my breath and sanity in a brutal kiss.
“I know,” he mumbles into my mouth. “I know, baby girl.”
After two more mind-blowing, soul-splitting orgasms – after we’ve fucked not only on the table, but on the kitchen floor, up against the wall in the hallway, on the sofa in the living room, after he’s fucked me raw, leaving me with bruises and barely able to walk – we finally rest, sated, exhausted.
“That was—” I say.
“Intense,” he fills in.
“I don’t think I can move again. Ever.”
He hugs me closer and presses his lips against my temple. He’s drenched in sweat, and our bodies are glued together. “Are you hungry, little one? Thirsty? Let me go fetch you something. I bought lemonade. I will bring us some. Don’t move, dorogaya.”
My heart swells, bursts open. For my Russian gangster. He cares for me like no one ever has.
After kissing my temple, he then gets up with amazing vigor despite his size and despite the fact that he has to be exhausted. It’s night. We’ve fucked for hours. Like in the books I love to read, when two soulmates crash into each other and nothing can hold them back. Three weeks of pent-up frustration sure took its toll. I look at his delectable ass as he leaves the room, then I fall on my back with a loud groan. I feel… complete. I feel like I won’t need anything ever again. If I die tomorrow, I’ll have no regrets.
A tall glass comes into my vision, its outside already damp from condensation. The liquid inside is white and semi-opaque. Ice cubes rattle against each other. I shoot up and grab it with greedy hands, gulping down several large swallows of the tart-sweet drink.
“Thank you.”
Misha sits beside me, comfortable in his nudity. Like so many times before, I steal glances at his intricate tattoos. They cover parts of his chest, there are several on his arms, and a couple on his knees and back. They look like nothing I’ve seen before. Symbols, he explained once. Each one has a meaning. It hammered home what I already knew but hadn’t wanted to think about.
Misha Mikhailov is Russian mafia.
It’s scary. It’s enticing. It shouldn’t make me want to crawl up in his lap and beg him to take me again. It shouldn’t make me feel so safe. But he is safe. To me. He’s become my everything in the few short weeks since he moved in. I know I avoid thinking about what he does, because it would seriously screw with my sense of morality if I knew more.
“One of my father’s younger brothers—”
“Your uncle?” I suggest.
“Correct, uncle, lives here in the US of A.”
“Really? Where? What does he do?”
He gives me a deadpan look.
“Oh.”
“He lives in San Francisco.”
“That’s not far. Did you visit?”
“Of course. Family is everything. He lives a good life.”
“Does he have a wife? Children?”
“Ivan Sokolov was always married to his work.”
Work. I put the glass against my cheek, trying to cool off, suddenly less at ease. “I don’t think I should ask more.”
“Correct, little one. You should not.”
“Am I safe, Daddy?”
“Safe?”
“From… your work? When you came, you asked for protection money. Protection from whom? Will your work ever come visit me again?”
His eyebrows knit together into a frown, then he smiles that smile that makes my heart stutter. “I’ve handled it. You will always be safe with me.”
I nod. I believe him. I don’t know everything, and I won’t ever want to know everything, but Misha is so capable. I know he will keep me away from any danger.
He strokes along my jawline, tucks some stray hair behind my ear, then leans in and gives me a quick kiss with lips cool from his drink. “Your house is yours again. I took care of it.”
It takes me a moment, then I recoil and dart up, staring at him, my heart slamming in my chest. “What? You took care of what?”
He laughs. “Easy, easy. I paid off your loan. The dog is all right. I couldn’t live in a house with another man’s name on it.”
“Ethan? Did you hurt Ethan?”
“I told you he’s all right. Sit down. If I hear his name on your lips again, I might consider going back. I don’t like you to speak of any man besides me and your late father. Ever.”
The dog. Oh. My mind spins. For a horrifying moment I thought Misha had gone and killed him.
“You… I…” I try to recover from the instantaneous shock of thinking Misha had hurt Ethan. Not that I ever want to speak to my ex again, but I wouldn’t want him dead. “So now I’ll live indebted to you instead?”
“Until I leave, printsessa. Until I leave. Then you will have your life back.”
Four months.
He’s going back to Russia in about four months. That’s when his family’s debt is paid off.
Why doesn’t that feel as good as it should?
“Or you could come with me, dorogaya.”
Chapter Six
Carrie
Or you could come with me, dorogaya.
He calls me ‘my love,’ says I’m his, wants me to leave everything behind and go with him to Russia.
Russia!
I’ve been out of state once in my life. That’s it. I have everything here. What about my store? Who’ll care for Cookie?
As weeks turn to months, our relationship settles into a new normal. Misha is sexually insatiable. He is always ready to go, it seems. It’s dirty. It’s hot. It makes me feel female on a primal level I have never experienced before. He worships my curves, makes me feel attractive and wanted, proud to be just me.
We have worked through my house and then my store at a relentless pace, throwing out or donating things I don’t use, sorting everything, replacing rickety door knobs and loose hinges.
Misha likes order.
I kinda like… to be ordered around.
I’ll even admit I like to make a mess, and then be forced to count as he disciplines me for my messiness.
In the early evenings, right after work, he’s often closed off, and a dark cloud hangs over him. In those moments he likes it when I take over, taking care of him instead of him taking care of me.
I caress his thick, dark hair, comb my fingers through his beard. He’s lying on the sofa, his head on my lap. He’s even more beautiful now than the day I first met him. I know I have feelings. I can’t hold back any longer, and knowing this will end hurts more and more with each passing day.
“Tell me something about your home, Daddy.”
He closes his eyes, a wistful expression passing across his face. He misses it. “Moscow can get hot, but it’s a dry heat, and only for a rare few days. Not like here where the summer never ends. The cafés are suddenly flooded with people, and everyone relaxes, drinks coffee and talks about important things.”
“Strong coffee?”
A fleeting smile on his lips. “Oh yes.”
“What important things?”
“Politics. State of the world.”
“Isn’t that dangerous? Isn’t Russia like… really supervised?”
“You need to know your friends. People get murdered for their allegiances. That’s what I like about my home. It’s honest.”
“It sounds so different from here.”
He sits up and pushes his fingers through his hair, looking like he just woke. “Do you think it’s so different in the USA?”
I frown. “We’re a free country, a democracy.”
Misha barks out a loud laugh that makes me jump. “You Americans… You believe you live in the greatest country in the world.”
“So, tell me,” I say. “What do we believe that’s wrong?”
His eyebrows shoot up on his forehead. “You want to talk about politics?”
“What? Did you think I was just some dumb blonde?”
His features lighten, and I know I’ve reached past whatever he brought home tonight. The rest of the ni
ght he’ll be funny, talk about his crazy brothers, or American soap operas, or his favorite books. He strokes my cheek, along my throat, brushes my nipple and then pinches it into a tight little bud. Arrows of desire shoot from where he touches me to between my legs, and I automatically part my thighs for him.
“I do not think you’re some dumb blonde.” He pinches my nipple harder, making me gasp. “I do think you have needs, though. I think you need Daddy to be a little rough tonight.” He moves, pulls me under him, and pushes his hand inside my panties.
My only answer is an unintelligible moan.
Misha will take my body and make me his. Over and over until there is nothing but slick, warm skin and sated souls.
“You grew up with your father, no? Just the two of you. What was it like?”
It’s Sunday, and for once we can lie a little longer in bed. He’s not off to some grim ‘work,’ and my store is closed. His arms and legs are wrapped around me, and I feel safe, almost… loved… in our cocoon.
It always hurts, still after so many years, to think of my mother and that I never got to know her. It’s so unfair. There were so many times when I needed her.
“My father was a good man. Full of stories. He loved books. He was a loner. I don’t think he ever really got over my mother’s death.
“My father killed my mother.”
“Oh my god, what?” My stomach plummets and an intense ache spreads through my chest. Poor Misha. “He killed her? What happened? Where’s he now?”
“I work with him.”
My mouth falls open. I try to process this. “That’s insane. You must hate him.”
Misha tuts and shrugs. “Mother had struck a deal with the authorities. Lesser time in prison, no going to the Gulag work camps. She wanted to come back to her children. To me and my brothers. She betrayed my father.”
“You must hate him so much.”
He is silent, purses his lips. “It’s the life in the Bratva, little one. Lives are not valued the same everywhere.”
“I think I would hate your father.”
“My father had Mother executed in her sleep. She never knew. It was merciful and he mourned her for a very long time. He has never remarried. If he hadn’t taken care of it, someone else in the organization would have, and they would have tortured her for days, maybe weeks. There is no mercy for traitors. He did all he could to protect her.”