by Selena Kitt
He waited, standing silently by until she'd picked through her mounting reservations and made a decision. She bent slightly and, slipping her thumbs into the elastic, pushed her underwear all the way down.
Nolan looked his fill, admiring the curves of her waist as it rounded into soft, pale hips, the equally luscious rounding of her bottom cheeks, and the slender slope of tense thighs. Her fingers tapped a nervous rhythm against her legs as she waited for him to make his next move. Her buttocks clenched. It was all he could do not to run his hand down over them, rubbing. Squeezing. Perhaps even letting his fingertips skim down into the shadowy place between to feel for himself the source of all her feminine heat. He wondered if he'd find her wet.
"Good girl," he said, just a little huskier than normal, but wanting to reward both her obedience and the courage it had taken to bare herself to him for the very first time. Digging for one last item, Nolan set the rest of his duffel bag aside. The handle of that old-fashioned wooden hairbrush fit as if it had been molded into his hand. The once-white bristles had yellowed a little with age, but that didn't matter. This was one hairbrush never meant to be used on hair.
Tricia's eyes widened when she glanced back over her shoulder and saw that brush. Her entire body stiffened before she snapped away again.
Catching her shoulder, Nolan walked with her up to the nearest wall. She had to take little shuffling steps in order not to trip on her tangled jeans. Nolan kept her moving, but not farther or faster than she could safely go, and he did it with his hand cupping the nape of her neck the whole time. When it came to discipline, he could think of nothing more important than touching—both because it let him feel her panic, and it gave him the chance to soothe it away. To tell her with a comforting squeeze and a caress that he would never hurt her, not in any way that mattered. Because that wasn't what Daddies did.
"You know what a safeword is?" His thumb brushed up and down, following the gentle slope of her tense throat. She was trembling now. Trembling and rubbing her hands against her bare thighs. He wondered if she knew that each of her hands had fallen into up and down sync with his thumb.
Head still bowed, clothespin dangling off her tongue, Tricia nodded.
"Do you want to use it?" he asked, letting his voice convey that he wouldn't judge her if she did, or hold it against her.
She hesitated, but ultimately shook her head.
"Traffic signals?" he asked, just so they were clear.
She nodded.
He let his thumb wander another caressing path down to her shoulder, then gave her a squeeze. "Put your hands on the wall and don't take them off until I tell you. If you reach back, I might not be able to stop in time to keep from catching your fingers, and that's going to hurt a whole lot more than anything I'm about to do to your bottom."
He felt her shiver and saw her bottom tighten, the fleshy mounds tensing as if she could already feeling the crisp assault of his hairbrush bearing down upon her, before she bent to brace her hands upon the cool cement wall. He could feel every twitch of movement she made now, each wince and indrawn breath as she tried to anticipate what was coming. She seemed far more nervous than the situation warranted.
"Did your last Daddy spank you?" Nolan asked, letting his hand caress a comforting path down her spine until it came to rest at the small of her back. He was a little surprised when she shook her head.
"I had Time Outs," she slurred around the clothespin. "Sometimes he'd make me write lines."
"He never spanked you for punishment, or he never spanked you ever?" Nolan asked, eyebrows arching at the thought. When it came to Littles or Middles, spanking was almost always involved at some level. It wasn't hard to understand why some Doms preferred not to use it for discipline, especially when so many submissives viewed it as anything but something to fear and avoid.
"I did a lot of lines." Lifting her head, she wiped at her chin again, but made no attempt to take the clothespin off her tongue. Once she was sure he wouldn't see her drooling, she looked at him hopefully. "I'm all done being smart now, Daddy. Can't I write lines for you too?"
Shaking his head, Nolan tsked. "Sorry, sweetheart. That's not how this works. You need to know when I say I'm going to do something, I mean it."
"I'll pay attention." A sheen of moisture flooded her eyes and her tone turned Small as she pleaded, "I'll be good, I promise."
"After this, I'm sure you will. Hands on the wall," he reminded, his hand on the small of her back becoming the anchor now meant to keep her still.
She caught her breath when she felt him, but promptly lost it again as the first crisp impact of that hairbrush met the center of her right buttock. Stiffening, Tricia sucked a startled gasp. A flush of bright pink rose to stain a perfect oval upon the surface of her skin.
It was a brisk spanking, one meant more catch her attention than to impart pain, although judging by her reaction, a significant amount of both was happening. She twisted, her hips waggling from side to side as she squeaked and squealed and finally threw back her head and wailed. She bounced and stamped, but her hands never left the wall. Neither did she cry out 'red' or 'yellow' or 'platypuses are for pussies' or anything that could remotely be mistaken for a safeword. She only yelled once, in fact, and that was just as the hairbrush rebounded off her for the sixth and final time.
"Owie! Owie, Daddy!" She must have bitten the clothespin, because it flew off the end of her tongue, ricocheted off the wall, and clattered to the floor at her feet.
"It's okay," Nolan soothed, slipping the hairbrush into his back pocket before allowing his hand to rest upon the flushed and heated surface of her naked backside. He rubbed gently. "You're okay."
She sniffled, bouncing and stomping in residual pain. But she never once protested his touch, or tried to twist away, and though he continued to rub for far longer than six relatively light swats required, before it was over, she was arching her hips back as if offering herself for more.
"Can I take my hands off the wall?" she asked in a very small voice.
"Yes." He expected her to turn around then, so he could draw her into his arms, kiss her brow, murmur how proud he was that she had taken her punishment like a big girl—all the little things that his Daddy-Dom side so loved to do once discipline was done, but she didn't. She bent instead. Picking up the clothespin, she put it back on her tongue.
They both of them knew damn well what had been on this floor.
Then she began to cry.
"Don't." He tried to take the clothespin from her, but she turned away from him. Cupping her shoulders, he brought her gently back around, but she averted her face. "Hey."
It was definitely not okay, and he knew it the instant he tried to catch her chin, only to have her turn that much further from him. And when he finally did manage to catch her jaw and gently force her gaze back to his, her shoulders slumped and then she covered her face with both hands. All he could see of her now was that silly clothespin, sticking out between her palms. He took it off, tucking it into his pocket to keep her from trying to put it back on her tongue.
Pulling her in close, he folded his arms around her. He didn't know if it was his touch or the spanking, or perhaps even a combination of the two, but it broke her.
"I'm sorry!" she wailed, dissolving into tears.
Taking her arm, Nolan tossed the hairbrush into the top of his duffel bag on his way past it. He headed for the antique chair that had, up until only minutes ago, been hidden behind the wall. It creaked when he sat, but it held him. It creaked even more ominously when he pulled her down to sit on his lap, but it held her, too. She offered absolutely no resistance when he drew her to lie against his chest, her head upon his shoulder. With her face tucked right up into the crook of his neck and chin, he could feel each shaky exhale as she alternately sucked for air, swallowed hard, and tried to calm down.
"I don't like the hairbrush," she eventually quavered.
"I know." He had already decided it would take some major misbehavio
r before he dared use it on her again. "But you should know, baby girl, I don't like being ignored when I tell you something. Sometimes, it's not about what you like or want; it's what you need that matters the most. When you're with me, you'll get what I think you need and you'll get it—unless you use your safeword—whether you want it or not. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"You're going to spank me with the hairbrush even if I say no," she sniffled, paraphrasing back to show she understood.
"Unless you use your safeword," he repeated. "I don't care how many times you say no, or how hard you kick, fuss or cry. The only thing I pay attention to is making sure your needs get met. But if it makes you feel better, I've decided to only use the hairbrush when something particularly severe is required. From here on out, I think my hand should be enough."
Sniffling, she scrubbed her wrist across her eyes and began to play with the hem of his t-shirt. She wiggled, as if she could feel his next spanking already. For all her tears though, he noticed she was not shifting to put distance between them. Rather, she was wriggling closer.
"Can I tell you a secret?" she whispered.
"Of course." He brushed a kiss on the top of her head.
"Promise you won't tell?"
"Cross my heart and hope to die," he assured.
She stared at her fingers, still playing with the neck of his t-shirt. "I-I…" She stole a quick peek up at him before gushing out, "I used to fantasize about that."
He let his fingers play upon her back, much the way hers were under his chin. "About getting spanked with the Bad Girl Brush?"
"No." She shook her head, but stopped and thought about it for a moment. "Well… yes. B-but that's not what I meant."
She looked so cute when she stammered like that and tucked her chin. She wasn't playing coy and she wasn't acting. There was a confusion and worry and a helluva lot of insecurity haunting the stormy depths of her eyes. Nolan continued to caress her back, his fingers trailing up and down, up and down along her spine.
"What did you mean?" he coaxed, his tone as soft and non-judgmental as he could make it.
"Sometimes…" Her breath hitched, a soft puff of frustration as she tried to find a way to explain herself. "Sometimes I think about how it would b-be to have a… a Daddy who…" Another soft puff and peek at him stolen up through the dark of her eyelashes. She steadied herself with a deep breath, her nervous fingers at last falling still as she said, "Who would spank me—but not just that," she rushed to explain. "I mean, spank me hard. Without even caring if I kicked and screamed and cried and pleaded with him to stop. He'd just keep on doing it. Not just until I was done, but until he decided I was done." She suddenly sat up straight, fingers plucking and worrying at her bottom lip the way she'd plucked and worried at his shirt. "Am I bad for wanting that?"
"No," he replied, tone firm enough to put such fears permanently to rest. Or so he would have thought, but if anything, her eyes grew even more concerned.
"Am I weird?"
Nolan leaned in to press another soft kiss to her forehead. Her skin there was very soft. Very smooth. She smelled of dust and basement and ever so faintly of baby powder. His lips came away tingling from the effort it took not to dip in lower for a taste of her quivering mouth. Once he started doing that, he wasn't sure he'd have the strength or will to stop.
"You're not weird," he assured her, bending to brush another soft kiss against her cheek. He tasted the saltiness of her drying tears. Beneath his hand, her hair felt as soft as silk. He couldn't stop touching it.
"How do you know?" she whispered
"Because," he said, slipping his hand beneath her hair to cup the warm, wondrous heat at the nape of her slender neck. His touch made her eyes drift closed; he loved seeing that. He loved feeling it—the heat of her body in his hand, the heat of her spanking burning into his lap.
"Is that Daddy logic? Just because?"
He smiled. "Absolutely. Well, that and the fact that my little girls are never weird."
And she was his. Even if he couldn't quite bring himself to kiss the hell out of her yet.
Chapter Five
Two days later, the first fireworks of the season went off. It was a quarter to ten on the last night of June, and it brought Nolan up out of a dead sleep, up off the couch—heaving and shoving to get out from under the warm weight he only belated realized was Tricia, right before they both fell on the floor. It was the first time since he'd been discharged that Nolan had felt that irrepressible urge so many Vets claimed to feel when certain sounds triggered them. Had he not been dreaming he was back in his unit, he never would have come up fighting. He certainly never would have thrown Tricia off him or landed on top of her, with every muscle screaming for him to army crawl behind the sofa arm before enemy incoming shot his fool head off.
"Upff," Tricia said, rubbing the back of her head. She blinked twice, and in the fuzzy light of the blue TV screen (the movie they'd fallen asleep to having long since finished playing; one of these days, he really ought to think about signing up for satellite), she looked at him. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," Nolan said. But he was anything but okay, and he knew she knew it the minute their eyes met. He pushed up off both her and the floor.
"What happened?" When he offered, she accepted his helping hand up.
"I don't know," he lied. Another burst of sporadic pops and crackles made him flinch, however, and she saw it. And then he saw it too—that look that came over her face. The one that was half cautious and half concerned. It was the same look his aunt had given him back when he'd first been discharged and she found him sitting in nothing but his boxers in a corner of her kitchen because he hadn't slept in three days. Because no matter what he did, it was too damn quiet for him to sleep. His irritation shot a notch higher.
"Time for bed," he said shortly, and shut the TV off.
Tricia perked. "Together?"
Instant images flooded his mind: the hills and valley slope of her body lying on its side beside him, the welcome heat of her bottom pressed back against his groin, the fan of her hair—soft brown with a swath of pink fanned out across his pillow—so much for taking it slow. How in the hell could he be expected to sleep with that and keep his hands to himself? No. No fucking way. The platonic feel of those images vanished beneath a rising tide of a whole different kind: Tricia lying flat on her back, her creamy thighs splayed as wide as the bonds above her knees could make them, leather restraints as pink as her hair binding her wrists to his headboard, the equally pink bow of her mouth yawning eagerly as he crawled up to kneel upon the pillow beneath her head and feed his cock into the wet sensual heat of her mouth.
His skin was still crawling, and yet his cock stirred and his balls grew tight. Neither sensation helped his mood. "Honey, I don't think I've got it in me to be a gentleman tonight."
For the second time that night, she blinked at him. "I don't know who you've been talking to, but when did I ever say you had to be?"
Exasperation that had everything to do with how he'd awakened and nothing to do with her lit his temper like a Roman candle. He tossed the TV remote onto the couch where they had been lying and then swatted her. "Bed," he ordered, without bothering to answer that question.
She went, rubbing at her bottom (although he hadn't struck anywhere near that hard) and shooting him a disgruntled look over one shoulder. He could have swatted her again for that, but he didn't. He followed as far as the door before she whipped around, bouncing on the balls of her feet, all signs of disgruntlement gone and a sunny smile now in its place.
"I have a novel idea," she declared, clasping her hands behind her back. "How about I sleep here for the night?"
"On my lovely fold out couch—oh wait! Sorry, I forgot." He gave her a pointed look. "My couch doesn't fold out. My ex-couch did. Which is probably why my ex-girlfriend took it with her when she ex-left me."
"Oh, we are grumpy tonight."
"Yeah, well, falling on the floor will do that." His skin cr
awled as another burst of fireworks crackled somewhere out in the night. He had his hand on the doorknob, but was having trouble making himself open it. He rolled his shoulders and tried hard to convince himself that there was nothing wrong with opening his front door. His tightly knotted gut was not convinced.
Tricia smiled again, though not as brightly as before. "You could come stay the night at my house. I've got a really comfy queen-size bed."
Instead of his headboard, he now envisioned her bound to her own. Spread-eagle now. Wrists and ankles both tightly restrained and ass arched up high on a small mountain of pillows, baring her precious, vulnerable body to his every whim, every desire… when, of course, he wasn't jumping half out of his skin each time the fireworks went off, showing his baby girl in irrevocable detail just how much of a basket case he really was.
Nolan didn't answer her. He couldn't. Instead, he jerked the front door open and gruffly said, "I'll walk you home."
Her smile faded a little bit more, but never quite disappeared entirely. Ducking her head, she fell into step beside him. All the way from his porch and across the lawn to hers, they walked in silence. He reached her porch first and, following what had become his tradition, started up ahead of her to open her door, but that was when the silence broke.
"Daddy," Tricia said, her tone as grown up as it could be without any trace of her usual, bouncy Little side. "What are we doing?"
Another burst of fireworks. Nolan popped his neck, but could find no relief for the tension mounting on tension, mounting on tension, currently building up the ladder of his spine. No matter how fiercely he tried to relax, all he could feel was the systematic tightening of every muscle he owned. "What do you mean?"
He tried to keep calm, to sound normal. Like a civilian instead of a soldier with every nerve screaming to get behind something sturdy enough to take the barrage of bullets that mentally he knew—knew—weren't anywhere incoming. And yet his body was on full physical lockdown, stubbornly ignoring the ranting of his common sense and supplementing its own remembered reality to overlap what he knew was real.