Page 2 of Daddy!

Ten smacks with the paddle for each unanswered message brought me around very quickly to using my words, instead, as he'd suggested while he was setting my butt on fire.

So, I sighed and opened his bedroom door. "Yes, Sir."

"You called him what?"

"DAAAAAAAADDDDDDYYYYYYYYYYYY!" I managed a reasonable imitation of myself, if muted, since we were in a crowded restaurant.

That got me the absolutely stunned look I was going for. She put down her French fry and sat back. "You. Did. Not! Really?"

I nodded my head as I fed a thin, crispy onion ring into my mouth. "Full on. Not even the slightest hesitation. He was on top of me—I fucking screamed it in his ear, with every bit of whatever lung power I had left—you know how heavy he is. I shit you not. The perv in the next apartment probably heard me."

"Then, what happened?" Bette now looked entirely too eager to hear my tale of woe, but then, she was probably getting off on it, too.

I nearly snorted the mouthful of margarita, with which I was washing the onion ring down, through my nose. "What the fuck do you think? I got the fuck out of there as fast as I could!"

"I thought he was your Dom—sort of, anyway. I know you guys are taking it slow. He let you go?"

"Yes, he fucking well did! Jesus, I was not going to have that discussion with him—ever. Much less, since I blurted it out during sex!"

She seemed to be thinking—which was never a good thing with Bette. There was no telling what was going to come out of her mouth. "That's—that's very telling about how you feel about him—if unconsciously—isn't it?" she asked, being unusually intuitive.

My hand went immediately to the gold heart necklace at my neck, and I fiddled with it reflexively, as if in a trance, saying stubbornly, "I don't want to talk about that."

"Okay. Did he stop?"

"Stop what?" I asked, forcing myself to take a bite of my barbecue bacon cheeseburger.

"What do you think? Fucking you? When you said it? Did he, you know, stop and look down at you or what?"

A surprisingly apropos question. "Yes—no—I'm not sure." I frowned.

Always desperate for details—since she was stuck in a vanilla marriage—she urged, "Well, think! I have to have something to masturbate to later!"

My frown became deeper and more pointedly aimed at her. "TMI."

"Oh, please. Compared to what you tell me, that was incredibly boring. So?"

"You're on your own, girlie girl! I was too busy drowning in humiliation and mortification to notice."

But Bette wasn't about to be deterred. "Try to think back. Might be an interesting clue as to how he feels about it."

"Uh huh," I agreed skeptically, but then I decided she might have a point, so I scrunched up my face, thinking hard. What had he done?

I knew what

I'd done—in the midst of one of the hardest orgasms I'd ever had in my life, as it seemed they all were with him, for some reason—I froze.

Well, most of me did, anyway. Parts of my body hadn't gotten the message and were still clenching away around him. I remember feeling the continued pleasure almost from a distance, as if I wasn't really experiencing it.

As a matter of fact, he hadn't missed a beat. He'd raised himself up by extending his arms, catching my eyes for the barest second before mine slunk away to stare anywhere but at him as he continued to stroke heavily into me. Then he reached down and hitched my legs even further up his waist, spreading me more open for him, growling slightly as he began to fuck me even harder, the finger that had been dancing on my clit continuing to swirl around it.

"Stop—oh, fuck—you've got to stop!" I pleaded.

Although his voice was rough and husky from panting, his response was silky smooth, and unmistakably dominant, "Oh, I don't think so, little one."

I knew he'd never used that particular endearment with me before, and my eyes widened, but not for long—he was too damned good. He effortlessly roped me back in, bringing me across the finish line another three or four times—utterly against my will—before issuing a long, low groan and slamming himself into me one last time.

I relayed all of these memories to Bette, of course, and she sat there, spellbound, as if I was telling her a not-safe-for-work bedtime story.

---