21 Taboo Tales

by Robin Pressley

  His threat of telling my parents makes my tummy clench with anxiety.

  “Please,” I beg in a trembling voice. “You wouldn’t tell my parents, would you, Cason?”

  The soles of his dress shoes scuff lightly across the hardwood floor, his toes kicking away tinkling shards of china as he goes. Then he suddenly stops, and the foyer is quiet except for the sound of our breathing and the hammering of my heart against my ribs.

  “What is that?” Cason asks sternly.

  I gulp.

  “What is what?”

  “That. On your lower back. Is that a tattoo?”

  My heart stops and all of the blood drains from my face. My poor tummy feels like I’ve swallowed a lead weight.

  Suddenly, Cason’s big fingertip hooks under the top of my skirt, teasing the waistband back so he can get a better look.

  “What are you doing?” I yelp.

  I try to turn my hips away from him, but I start to lose my balance again. The only thing that keeps me from tumbling over this time is Cason’s gigantic hand, which darts out and grips my upper arm, holding me steady, but also eliminating any possibility of escape. Amazingly, his powerful fingers completely encircle my arm and then some.

  “Hold still,” he commands flatly, and my body obeys him on sheer instinct. Even if he weren’t clutching my arm, even if I weren’t wearing these hazardous boots, I don’t think I would try to run away. Something in the timbre of his deep, confident voice rumbles straight to my core, locking me in place.

  His fingers touch the top of my skirt once more, pulling it away from my tailbone.

  “It is a tattoo!” Cason growls. “When did you get this? And don’t lie to me.”

  My breath is coming in short, ragged gasps now, and I feel like I’m on the verge of a panic attack. My parents are both super strict, especially my dad. If they find out that I have a tattoo, they’re gonna kill me.

  “I’m serious, Antoinette.” Cason gives me a light shake. “You’d better start talking, young lady.”

  “Okay, okay!” I cry, my voice trembling on the edge of tears. “I got it a couple of weeks ago. Me and some of my girlfriends were hanging out on the weekend, and we just decided to get matching tattoos on a whim.”

  “And what if your friends all decided to jump off a bridge? Would you do it too?”

  Gosh, Cason really is in Daddy-mode tonight isn’t he? I just shake my head at his question.

  “I didn’t want to do it,” I lie. “But the other girls all pressured me into it.”

  Cason snorts.

  “So you buckled under the pressure, and now you’ve got a butterfly tattooed over your butt.”

  Okay, I know, it’s not super original. But it was the only design that me and my friends could all agree on. Plus, the tattoo artist was really good, and I liked the design.

  I gasp again as Cason pulls the top of my skirt a little lower to inspect my tattoo even more closely.

  “Do you know what they call that?” he rumbles behind me, his hot breath ghosting over my exposed shoulders and stirring my long hair. When I don’t reply, Cason answers his own question for me. “They call it a tramp stamp, Antoinette. Is that what you want to be? A filthy little tramp?”

  I shake my head, biting back the urge to tell him to go screw himself.

  “And do you know why they call it a tramp stamp?” he whispers coldly. “It’s because when guys are fucking you from behind it gives them a target when they shoot their load on you.”

  “Cason!” I exclaim.

  I can hardly believe my ears. I’ve never heard Cason talk dirty like that before. I get that he’s trying to prove a point right now, but it sounds like there’s more to it than that. I try to squirm away from his grasp, but he just holds my arm more tightly.

  “Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that,” I blurt. “I’m a virgin.”

  Cason gets completely quiet for a moment. He’s even holding his breath. He takes his fingers away, and the elastic of my skirt snaps against my skin. His grip on my arm loosens, but he doesn’t let go completely. He turns my body to face him.

  “Is that true?” he asks, his voice tight. “Don’t lie to me, young lady.”

  I nod silently, letting my long hair fall in front of my face like a curtain to hide my blushing.

  “I said don’t lie to me,” Cason repeats. His voice is still stern, but there’s a funny warmth creeping in. “You were going out to see a boy, weren’t you?”

  “No.”

  Right then, the doorbell rings, and my heart sinks because I know that Cason is about to catch me in another lie. But before I even have a chance to say another word, Cason marches to the front door and flings it open.

  And there’s Dustin. His hair is perfectly styled, and he’s wearing a leather jacket thrown over his deep V-neck shirt. He’s got one elbow leaning casually against the door frame.

  “Who are you?” Cason growls.

  “I’m here to pick up Antoinette,” Dustin says in a too-cool-for-school tone.

  “That’s not what I asked you,” Cason snaps, and I can see the color rising in his tense neck. “Now get your elbow off my door and tell me who you are.”

  Dustin rolls his eyes and smirks, but he does as Cason tells him and removes his elbow from the door frame.

  “I’m Dustin,” he snorts, “I’m Antoinette’s date.”

  He flicks his eyes toward me and adds, “I’ve been waiting for five minutes out there. And I don’t like to wait.”

  “Well you won’t have to wait anymore,” Cason says flatly. “Antoinette isn’t going out tonight.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says me.”

  “Oh yeah,” Dustin sneers, “And who are you? Antoinette’s daddy?”

  I want to run to the door to stop the altercation that I can see brewing, but the best I can do in these dumb boots is hobble. It’s too late anyway. Cason’s short fuse has already burned down.

  Lightning fast, his big, rough hands dart out and clutch two big wads of Dustin’s jacket and shirt, lifting him up until the toes of his sneakers come off the ground and his feet kick and flail.

  “Listen to me, punk,” Cason hisses. “I may not be Antoinette’s daddy, but I’m the man of the house. That means I call the shots. And I say Antoinette ain’t going nowhere tonight.”

  He drops Dustin like a heap of dirty laundry.

  “And I say that you had better get the hell off my front porch before I kick your scrawny, punk ass into next week. Am I getting through to you, son?”

  Dustin doesn’t even answer. He just scrambles to his feet, nearly busts his ass as he stumbles down the front stairs, and sprints off down the sidewalk, looking back over his shoulder a couple times, his eyes wide with shock and terror.

  Cason watches until Dustin gets in his car and pulls away. His face is beet red with emotion, and angry red veins are bulging at his throat and on his temples.

  “Little punk,” he grumbles.

  Shutting the door, he slowly turns to face me, his eyes locking me in an intense glare.

  “What did you do?” I shout. “You can’t treat people like that! Dustin was my date.”

  I leave out the part about my plans to have Dustin pop my cherry.

  “So,” Cason rumbles like thunder, “you lied to me again Antoinette. You said you weren’t meeting a boy tonight. But obviously that wasn’t true. And judging by the way you are dressed, you were planning to be a very bad girl. What if you got pregnant, Antoinette? Did that ever occur to you? What would your parents think if I let you get knocked up while you’re living under my roof?”

  “Fine, I admit it!” I shout, my voice cracking. “Yeah, I was going out with a boy. But I don’t even like him, okay? And I certainly haven’t done anything with him.”

  Tears are welling in my eyes, and I just know that my chin is doing that stupid, ugly, dimply thing that happens when I cry.

  Cason’s expression softens. He crosses the foyer, stepping around th
e shards of the broken vase to stand in front of me. He strokes his thick fingers through my hair, brushing it back behind my shoulders, first one side then the other, exposing my face. My cheeks and ears are hot with rushing blood, and my eyes are blurry with trembling tears. Cason gently knuckles my chin, raising my face to look at him.

  “When you say you haven’t done anything with him, you mean you haven’t had sex with him?”

  His voice is so much softer now. Gentle. But still full of that deep, rumbling confidence that stirs all those in appropriate feelings in my tummy and lower down between my legs. I squeeze my knees and thighs together tightly as I start to cream inside my panties, and the blush in my cheeks is renewed by my sudden shame at my forbidden feelings.

  Cason is old enough to be my daddy. I shouldn’t be getting all hot and bothered by him. It’s so messed up. So sinful.

  “Antoinette,” he says gently but firmly. “I asked you a question, young lady.”

  “I mean I haven’t done anything with him. Nothing at all. Not sex and not anything else either.”

  My bottom lip trembles as Cason’s finger traces the line of my jaw and strokes my cheek. He pinches a stray lock of my hair and places it fastidiously behind my ear.

  “And what about with other boys?”

  “Nothing,” I answer. “I mean I’ve kissed a little, but not even very much of that.”

  I blink away the tears from my eyes, and Cason tenderly thumbs the wetness from my cheeks. The faintest trace of a smile curls at the corners of his perfect lips.

  “I want to believe you,” he says. “But your outfit has me concerned, Antoinette. And then there’s the matter of that tattoo. Do you have any other tattoos I should know about?”

  I make an exaggerated sweeping gesture down my body. My skimpy outfit exposes a lot of skin. My shoulders and arms are bare, as are my midriff and thighs. Cason has often seen me barefoot in shorts around the house, so he knows there’s nothing on my calves or feet.

  “Do you see any other tattoos,” I ask, in a voice that is a bit too bratty for my own good.

  “No,” Cason says gruffly, “but you might have a few hidden away. As tiny as that outfit is, there are still a few places that I can’t see.

  “So what, do you want me to strip for you, Cason?”

  A wicked grin spreads across his handsome face.

  “Yes. That’s exactly what I want.”

  “What?” I gasp.

  I was expecting to get naked tonight, but not in front of the man of the house.

  As a reflex, I raise my arms to cover myself as if I were already nude in front of him. One arm crosses my exposed tummy, and the other raises in front of my chest. As my forearm brushes my boobs, I realize that my traitorous little nipples are so hard that I may as well be topless. Meanwhile, more of that uninvited warmth pools between my thighs. I’m getting so wet that it’s soaking through my panties. Before long it’ll be running down my leg.

  “Cason, we can’t do that,” I whisper. “I mean, you’re my…”

  “I’m your what?” He grins. “You said yourself, I’m not your daddy.”

  He’s right. He’s not my daddy. But he’s certainly old enough to be. And he sure likes to treat me as if I were a little girl. This is so taboo that it’s not even funny. So why is it making me so freaking excited? I’m supposed to lose my virginity to a boy my own age—not to the man of the house.

  And why did I make that sudden leap in logic? Cason only suggested that I undress for him. He didn’t say he was going to fuck me. But that’s the first place my pervy little mind went. Then again, the growing bulge at the front of Cason’s pants suggests I might not be too far off.

  “Come here,” he growls, taking me roughly by the arm and dragging me toward the living room. I stumble in my high-heeled boots, but Cason’s strong hand keeps me upright.

  The living room is spacious, with high ceilings and massive windows that let in the sunlight in the daytime, and which now give a view of the swimming pool rippling and glowing blue-green with underwater lights.

  The furnishings of the room are modern and elegant—a long, black leather couch is positioned in front of the enormous television screen that is set into some minimalistic cabinetry. A few matching leather arm chairs are positioned around the room, and in the center there crouches a low, glass-topped coffee table. On the television, a pair of men in suits and overly-well-groomed haircuts are arguing about stocks.

  Cason leads me to the middle of the room. He drags the coffee table back to open up a space in front of the couch. He clicks a button on the remote, silencing the talking heads as the TV screen goes black. Another button automatically closes the vertical blinds on the windows, giving us some privacy.

  Last, he shirks off his suit jacket, and I can see the bulge of his powerful muscles working and flexing under his dress shirt. He tosses his jacket over the arm of the couch before dropping his sexy butt on the leather cushions, slouching like a barbarian king, and staring me down with his intense, smoldering eyes.

  I just stand there awkwardly, twisting my fingers nervously and worrying my bottom lip with my teeth. Cason’s intense glare threatens to crush me beneath its weight.

  “Sweetheart,” Cason says casually as if it’s something he calls me every day. “Be a good girl and fix Daddy a drink, would you?”

  “A…a drink?”

  He smiles and gestures lazily toward the sleek, marble-top credenza along one wall. There is a tray with a crystal decanter of whisky and a few matching lowball glasses.

  Feeling more than a little self conscious, I walk carefully toward the credenza. But I’m finally getting the hang of these boots, and for the last couple of strides, I put a little extra swing in my hips. A quick glance over my shoulder reveals that Cason’s eyes are glued to my barely covered behind. My skin heats, and every inch of my exposed flesh erupts in goosebumps.

  This little game that we are playing is so naughty. I’m ashamed to admit that I’m enjoying it so much. The decanter clinks musically against the rim of the glass, and the amber fluid makes a satisfying glug as it flows out.

  “That’s good,” Cason calls from the couch, letting me know when to stop pouring.

  As I turn around, carrying the whiskey in both hands, I do my very best runway model walk toward the demanding older man slouched on the couch. I place one foot directly in front of the other like I’m walking a tightrope. I only stumble once.

  I advance until I’m standing right in front of him, my legs bracketed by his spread knees. But Cason doesn’t reach for the glass.

  A quick flick of his eyes tells me what he wants.

  Bending over at the waist, I offer the glass to him. He sits still for a moment, smiling as his gaze delves deeply into my exposed cleavage. I’m sure he can see the outline of my pebbled nips poking against the tight fabric too.

  “Good girl,” he whispers, taking the glass. “Very good. Now, I want you to stand right there in the middle of the room.”

  My feet seem to move of their own accord.

  “Here?” I ask, my tummy tickling with anxious anticipation.

  Cason nods as he takes a sip of his whiskey. He makes a lazy twirling motion with his finger.

  “Turn around, let me get a look at you. Slowly…”

  I do as he says. Even when my back is to him, I can feel his gaze wandering over my body like a physical touch. Even more heat pulses in my recesses, beneath my chin, under my arms, and most of all at the shamefully wet place where my legs come together.

  Coming back around to face Cason, I gasp. Goodness, he’s pitching a tent in his dress pants, and it’s freaking enormous.

  “All right sweetheart, here’s the deal. If you’re honest with me, I promise to go easy on you. But if I find out you’re lying to me again—and I will find out—then your punishment will be severe?”

  “Punishment?” I stammer. “Cason, you can’t—“

  “I already know about your tramp stamp, Antoinette,”
he cuts me off. “If you have any other tattoos you’re hiding, now is the time to let me know.”

  “I told you, it’s just that one.”

  Cason takes another long sip of whiskey. He tugs his tie, loosening it further.

  “Prove it,” he says.

  “But Cason—“

  “Quiet,” he snaps, his voice thick with dark command. “No buts, Antoinette. Do you want me to tell your parents about your little tramp stamp? Or do you want to keep that little secret just between you and me?”

  I consider asking him if he wants me to tell my parents about this dirty game that he’s playing with me, but I stop myself. I know darn well that I will never tell my parents about this. Even though it’s so sinful, I can’t deny that I want to play with Cason. I want to see just how far he plans to take this.

  “First,” Cason says casually, “Take off those boots before you fall on your ass again.”

  I do as he tells me, sitting down on one of the leather chairs so I can unzip and slide the boots off. When I stand up again, it feels like I’ve gotten off a boat.

  “Now take off your skirt,”

  When I hesitate, Cason quirks an eyebrow that silently seems to say, “want me to tell your parents?”

  I slowly lower the zipper at the back of my skirt. Then I slide it down my bare legs and gingerly step out of it, kicking the tiny swatch of black fabric off to the side.

  The tent in Cason’s pants jerks and grows. His eyes are wide and focused with laser-intensity on my crotch and the teensy strip of black lace that is covering up my wet, aching pussy. I know that he can see the sheen of moisture on my inner thighs.

  “Turn around,” he demands, his voice growing as tight as the fabric of his pants.

  I do as Cason tells me, and he gets a full view of my bare booty since my cheeks are totally exposed by my thong. My face blushes as Cason groans loudly on the couch. I could almost swear that my tushy blushes too.

  “Stop,” he commands before I can complete my turn.

  I freeze in place with my back to him, and his intense stare is practically setting my bum on fire. I hear the clatter of a belt buckle and the sound of a zipper that could only be Cason’s fly.