by Brianna Hale
The next evening, I unbutton her blouse and pull it off, and then her bra. I show her the two silver objects on my palm. Nipple clamps. I apply each one, screwing them firmly into place and giving them a small tug so I know they’re secure. I look up and wait a moment, giving her the chance to say orange or red if she needs to. Her expression is slightly pained, but she doesn’t speak.
I’m not finished yet. I take out two small metal weights on thin silver chain, and I hook each one to the clamps. The tips of her nipples are an angry pink.
“Do you want to say anything, Lacey?”
She shakes her head firmly, though her lower lip is caught between her teeth and her gaze is fastened on the other side of the room as if she’s concentrating hard.
“That’s wonderful,” I murmur, tracing her nipples with the tip of a finger. “You just stay there.”
I go back to my desk and continue with my work. I don’t look at her, but I’m totally aware of her. She’s breathing more sharply than normally so it must hurt. Good. Her silent fortitude is like a drug for me. It’s brutish, liking sweet girls in pain, but it fucking makes my dick hard.
When I go back to her ten minutes later, I see her teeth are gritted against the pain and there are tears in her eyes. I don’t release her immediately. I take a good, long look at what she’s enduring for me, knowing that when I release her she’ll be so grateful to me.
I unscrew the clamps and let them fall into my palm, and she gasps in relief, hunching over and burying her face in my shoulder. I palm the back of her neck and rub my fingers over her scalp.
“Good girl. You did beautifully.” Picking her up in my arms I carry her over to the sofa and lay her out along the cushions. I kiss her nipples softly and blow on them, easing some of the redness. Her arms and legs lock around me and she whimpers and pulls me closer, wanting comfort from the asshole who did this to her.
This is the exact state I want her in when she takes my cock, clingy and grateful for my mercy, and completely vulnerable to me. It’s too soon, though, so I slide down to my knees before her, which I’m sure is anathema to some doms. So is the daddy thing and giving cuddles, but that’s bullshit. You can’t be cruel to a girl without showing her sweetness. I like it, too. When Lacey’s endured so much for me, I want to show her how pleased I am. She described my mind as a calm ocean shore early in the morning, and when no one’s got on my nerves that’s more or less right. Doing this with her, though, smooths it to perfection.
I tug her underwear down her legs and spread her open. I lick her pussy slowly and tenderly, incredibly gentle with her now. Using my middle finger, I explore inside of her carefully. She’s slick with arousal, and though she’s tight as hell, I slip into her easily. Then I feel the barrier. I can push past it safely with just one finger, but now I know. Lacey is a virgin. No man’s ever done this to her before, and yet she’s not scared. She trusts me completely. No thought that I might harm her, and that simultaneously breaks my heart and puts it back together again.
I keep my finger where it is, rubbing her swollen g-spot as I lick her clit. Lacey’s eyes are closed, and her fingers twine through my hair. She so deep into subspace when she comes that she forgets where she is and starts to make long, loud moans of pleasure. It’s a shame to dampen them, but I quickly reach up and put a hand over her mouth as I keep licking her. Inside her pussy, I feel her clench on me rhythmically, and my balls spasm with the need to come deep inside of her.
Soon. I’ll make her all mine very soon.
I’m up on the couch with her before she’s very aware of her surroundings, and I pull her into my lap, enjoying her state of near nakedness. All she’s wearing is a skirt, and that’s rucked up around her hips. I get my hand around her cute little ass as she takes deep breaths and comes back to me.
“How was that, not too much pain?”
Lacey pushes her hair back with both her hands. “Oh, god. I forgot my own name for a while there.”
Good. I don’t want her thinking about anything but me when I’m working her over. There’s one thing I’m not pleased about, though. “Lacey, why didn’t you tell me you’re a virgin?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Oh, you noticed.”
“Of course I noticed.” I suspected it beforehand, but she still should have told me.
“I was going to, but it’s just so embarrassing, you know? I’m nearly twenty-five.”
“Why is that embarrassing?”
For a moment she plucks the buttons on my shirt. “It’s because I’ve been sick. Yet another thing to add to the long list of things that everyone else has got to experience, and I haven’t.”
I watch her steadily. There’s no point telling her it doesn’t matter, because it’s clear she finds it troubling. I cover her hand with my own and press it against my chest. “It doesn’t matter to me.”
“Thank you,” she says softly, and then looks up at me impishly through her lashes. “Can you, um, un-virgin-ize me?”
I feel my mouth twitch. “I’m trying to be stern with you, and then you say cute things like that.”
She giggles and puts her arms around my neck. “How can you be stern with me daddy? I’m just too sweet.”
“Hmm, yes. Too sweet for your own good.” She rests for a while against my chest, stroking her nails along the back of the hand I have resting on her bare thigh. Yes, I will un-virgin-ize you, as you put it, Lacey. It would be a pleasure.
“What are those symbols tattooed on your fingers? I’ve wondered since you interviewed me.”
“Runes.” I point to each of them in turn, sounding them out for her. Ehwaz, laguz, raido… They must sound harsh to her, but I hope they sound beautiful, too.
“Does it spell out a word? What does it mean?”
I run a finger across my knuckles, reading it out. “Ek erilaz. I am the runemaster.”
She sits up, snorting with laughter. “You are the runemaster?”
I grin at her. “It sounds grand but it just means, I wrote this. I studied runes in Sweden as part of my doctorate and saw this phrase over and over. On standing stones. On jewelry. It’s very common.”
“But you like it because it sounds grand, right?”
“Of course. Words are important. Words have power.” I wrap my hand around her wrist, and say, “Kneel.” Like the good girl she is, Lacey immediately slips from my lap onto her knees. “See?”
She leans forward and runs her tongue over the symbols on my knuckles. “Yes. But it’s not just what you said. It’s the way you said it.”
I clench my hand tighter and angle my hand so she can better see the sigils inked into my flesh. “I don’t have to say it. I am the runemaster. Does this look like I don’t mean it?”
Lacey smiles up at me. “No, daddy.”
I look at her down there for a moment longer, enjoying the sight. Then I help her up onto my lap again, because I’m not done cuddling her. In my arms, she’s light-hearted and happy. I hate sending her back out into the world where her anxieties will get their claws into her again. I wish I could always keep her with me.
She traces the markings on my fingers, and then the faint pattern of the tattoo on my chest through my shirt.
“Tell me about Sweden?” she asks.
“Sweden? Well, the summers are good and hot, but it’s cold and endlessly dark in the winter. If you’re in the countryside, then it can be romantic. Winter days in Stockholm are black and miserable. They gave me the motivation to study English hard and I took the first job in London I could get.”
She laughs. “Are you telling me you came to Britain for the excellent weather?”
“No. The food.” Joking about British food with my colleagues has become a habit, but I glance at her quickly, hoping I haven’t said the wrong thing, but Lacey just grins.
“Hey, don’t go making fun of our cuisine. Fish and chips. Egg and chips. Curry and chips. What more variety could you want?”
I want to tell her about the food I miss in Sweden.
Pickled herring salads. Open sandwiches piled high with shrimp, slices of boiled egg, cucumber and crème fraîche. The displays of green Prinsesstårta in bakery windows, and how a summer gathering isn’t complete without a slice. Food is something I enjoy very much when I’m not focused on work. I would like to be able to share that with her. Not just the food, but the experiences that come with them.
A picture forms in my mind, very clear, of Lacey at my parents’ house near Söderhamn. It’s Christmas and the garden is deep with snow, and she’s bundled up in a quilted white coat and a fluffy scarf and beanie. Her lips are cold but her tongue is warm as I bend down to kiss her.
“When did you come to London?” she asks, pulling me out of my daydream.
“I was twenty-eight. A city like Stockholm starts to feel very small after a while. I was ready for something new.” I was also coming out of a very intense and destructive relationship that’s made me hesitant to embark on anything too serious since. We were on again and off again for years, each breakup more dramatic and stressful than the last.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” she asks softly, as if she knows where my mind has gone.
I level a look at her. “Would I really be sitting here with you if I was with someone?”
She gives a shy half-shrug. “A girl just likes to be sure.”
I settle my arms around her. “You can be sure, käraste.”
“You could see other people, though. I mean, that’s what people do, right? It’s casual until decided otherwise.”
I study her, feeling puzzled, wondering if there’s something she’s not telling me. “Is there anyone I should know about?”
“Oh, god no.” She chews her lip, looking stricken. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like I don’t like you or that I’m seeing other people. I remember what you said, about not saving things for other men. I’m not. I’m just, um, inexperienced at this sort of thing. Whatever this is.”
“This is very serious to me. If I expect things of you, you can be damn sure I expect them of myself. I’m not saving anything for anyone else. There’s only you. Bara du.”
I’m so sick of drama for the sake of drama. Lacey might struggle, but I can tell she enjoys peace as much as I do. She just has to fight for it, and I want to fight with her.
“Thank you,” she says softly, twining her fingers through mine again. “That makes me very happy to hear.”
“Good. Because I meant what I said. I always want everything.”
Shy pleasure shines in her eyes, and a possessive thrum goes through me. Soon.
She puts her hand up and strokes a finger down my cheekbone and along my jaw. “You would have made an excellent Viking warrior, you know,” she tells me. “Do you ever regret that you were born now and not 900 AD, when you could have set forth across the seas in a longship with all your raider comrades, and demanded tributes of gold on pain of death?”
“Who, me? I’m far too soft and bookish. I would have been a scribe.” Her fingers trail across my lips, and I nip playfully at them with my teeth.
“Do you want me to start calling you runemaster?” she asks with a giggle.
“No. Daddy is just fine. What about you, ever wish you were a Vestal virgin in Rome or the spoiled daughter of an olive oil merchant in Ancient Greece?”
“Always,” she answers quickly. Far too quickly for my liking.
I catch her chin and guide her face gently up until she’s looking at me. “Hey. I think you’re wonderful just as you are. When you’re happy, I’m happy. Do you believe me?”
Lacey takes a deep breath and lets it out heavily, as if she’s struggling beneath the weight of the world. “I believe you, daddy. I’m trying to be happy, but I have to do something I’m dreading.”
Chapter Twelve
Lacey
Wednesday. It’s fast become my most hated day of the week. Two Wednesdays have gone by since I’ve started being submissive to Mr. Blomqvist and I’ve not mentioned it to Doctor Loftin. It’s been difficult because I’m leaving out the thing that’s taking up a huge, happy space in my head. Doctor Loftin can tell that my mood has improved, and I know she’s suspicious as to why. Beyond saying, Is there anything else you’d like to add? though, she hasn’t outright asked me what’s up.
The morning after Mr. Blomqvist puts clamps and weights on my nipples, I fidget my way through most of my session with Doctor Loftin.
She prods me here and there about my routine and whether anything has changed, and I pretend to think carefully and tell her about the various work assignments I’ve been given.
Finally, where there are just five minutes left, I run my thumbnail along the seam of the armrest and say, “I’ve become intimate with Mr. Blomqvist.”
I was going to say my boss, but the point isn’t that he’s my boss. It’s that we’re sleeping together. Well, not sleeping together. We’re doing things together. Wonderful, crazy things.
Annoyance flits over Doctor Loftin’s face, and she glances at the clock. “Is that what you call him? Mr. Blomqvist?”
The question sits heavy in the air, and I know she’s wondering why I don’t call him Stian if we’re intimate. Actually, I call him daddy. “Sometimes.”
Doctor Loftin closes her notebook with a suppressed sigh. “All right. We’ll pick this up next week.”
I leave her office knowing she’s irritated and disappointed in me, but I did it, didn’t I? I told her, and she’s got a whole hour to look forward to next week in which she can ask open-ended and judgy questions about whether I think it’s a good idea to sleep with my boss.
“Something for her to look forward to,” I mutter darkly, pushing through the glass doors into the fresh air. The bigger part of me knows that she doesn’t ask me hard questions because she enjoys watching me squirm, but right now I feel malicious pleasure in imagining that she does.
That evening when I’m cuddled against Mr. Blomqvist wearing nothing but my underwear, I start thinking about what I’m going to tell Doctor Loftin next week. How am I going to describe Mr. Blomqvist to her, and what we have together?
“Daddy,” I say hesitantly. “I know a little bit about doms and subs, and usually subs have rules, don’t they? You haven’t given me any rules.”
“You want some rules?”
I don’t know about want some rules, but shouldn’t I have rules? There are a few little things I know he wants from me that fall under being good. No talking during our sessions until he says so. Being respectful and polite when I do speak to him. Calling him daddy. “You never tell me what to eat and when to eat, for instance.”
“You know what’s best for you in that area and what you can cope with. If you want to talk about it, I’m here for you.”
That’s fair. Being an in-patient on an anorexia ward means I know more than most people about macro and micronutrients and how carbs and proteins are metabolized. In fact, it’s made me angry in the past when people try to take control of something I know more about. I had a friend at university who was always peppering me with advice and quotes from self-help books and nutrition articles. She thought she was helpful, but it just felt arrogant. I’m the one with the eating disorder. I’m the one that reads about specialized nutrition and goes to therapy for it. We had a huge fight because of it. I already feel powerless most of the time, so it doesn’t take much to send me spinning out of control.
I didn’t win the fight. I was never going to win because what she was—helpful, interested and supportive—meant she was the good guy and I—defensive, churlish and ungrateful—was the bad guy. But that’s not what it felt like to me, and I couldn’t make her understand how patronizing she was being. She wouldn’t entertain for a second that maybe I knew better, because if I knew better then why was I failing so much?
Okay, so rules about food are probably not for me, but sometimes I worry that I’m not “subby” enough for Mr. Blomqvist. “I still think you should give me rules. I don’t want you to feel like I’m too fragile to
treat me the way a sub ought to be treated.”
“Your rules are to be in here at six o’clock, wait on your knees for further instructions and be a good girl for daddy. You do those things wonderfully, käraste. I couldn’t ask for more.”
I smile at him and kiss his cheek. Because it’s late in the day, it’s rough with stubble, and I love how it rasps against my lips. “When we’re together I feel so normal for the whole hour that I start to wonder if it might be permanent. That you might fix me. Can you fix me?”
His eyes are gentle as he smiles back at me. “I can’t fix you, because you’re not broken. But I’ll try to help you in any way you ask me to.”
He’s only saying that because I haven’t shown him everything. Eating in secret, freaking out at social gatherings, that’s nothing. I think of the hospital records detailing all my failures and denial. My mother crying when she saw me in just my underwear at my lowest weight. The things I screamed at my father. Because I work for Mr. Blomqvist, he gets to see the best of me. I’m a good worker, and he makes it easy for me to give the impression that I have it all together.
I’m dreading my conversation with Doctor Loftin so much that I struggle to eat all my meals that week. As I throw unfinished breakfasts and dinners into the toilet, I know I’m going to regret this when Doctor Loftin sees my weight on the scales. Inside her box, the other me laughs.
Wednesday morning rolls around, and I’m sitting in Doctor Loftin’s office. My weigh-in didn’t go well. I’ve lost nearly a pound since last week, and that’s definitely not allowed when I’m already skirting the lower end of the healthy weight band. The other me screams, You’re finally doing something right, you stupid, greedy bitch.
You’re not me, you’re in the box I made for you, and you’re never getting out again, I repeat to myself, taking deep breaths. Her voice fades a little, but she’s never really silenced. She sneers something about Mr. Blomqvist, and I feel my eyes prickle with tears.
Just shut up, I tell her. I hate you so much. Why can’t I have anything nice? Why can’t I have one thing that’s mine?