Max Iver is not only rich, powerful, and ridiculously sexy, he is also my company’s newest client… and last night I got really, really drunk and shared my darkest secret with him.
I told him I need a daddy, and now he’s going to give me what I need, whether I like it or not.
He’s going to be my daddy. He’s going to take care of me, make rules for me, and spank me when I disobey. And though I’m terrified to admit it, deep down I know that soon I’m going to be begging for him to strip me bare and teach me what happens to bad little girls.
Book Trailer from Ava Sinclair
Author: Ava Sinclair
eBook Price: $3.95
Length: 40,600 Words
“Fuck!” I cry out. “That hurts!” I immediately try to rise, but his muscular arm goes around my waist, pinning me against the ridged muscles of his midsection.
“Spankings are supposed to hurt,” he says, and the room resounds with the crack of his huge hand landing once more across the lower middle of my bottom. I cry out again. And again. And again. Each blow increases the burning sting that seems to burrow into my skin through the fabric of my blue jeans. Hot tears sting my eyes. I bite my lip, determined not to give in to the wail I feel building in my chest.
“Let me go, you sick motherfucker!” I say. “I’m done with this. I want to go home. Fuck you. Fuck the tape. I don’t care what you do!”
My angry words are ignored. I feel his hand go under me, feel him unsnap and unzip my jeans. This is certainly not symbolic. He is making good on his promise to bare my bottom, and I begin to thrash and kick. If I were hanging over his lap rather than having my upper body supported by the huge sofa, I could bite or scratch his leg. But I can’t turn back. All I can do is flail and curse and threaten to call the police, threaten to have him arrested for assault although we both know I’d be too humiliated to report this on the heels of all that’s happened.
And didn’t I bring this on myself? Draping myself over a stranger’s lap is one more bad decision in a string of bad decisions. But blame doesn’t lessen the panic and humiliation of having a strong hand grip the waistband of my jeans and drag them down. Max Iver does this deliberately. He’s been methodical in landing solid blows that have the entire lower portion of my bottom throbbing with fiery hurt. He’s methodical now as he arranges the top of my jeans just below my knees.
“Don’t! Don’t!” My plea is plaintive as he reaches now for the waistband of my panties. I’m mortified as I realize I grabbed the first ones I could find after my shower today—the ones with the Wonder Woman logo on them. Is it my imagination, or do I hear him chuckle a bit as he tugs them down to join my jeans?
“Jill, stop fighting,” he says, his booming voice rising above the sound of my cries. The sound of it freezes me in place. I’m whimpering.
“Don’t,” I say. “Don’t spank me on my…”
“Say it,” he says.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Please pull my pants up.”
“No.” He rests his hand on the bare skin of my buttocks and there’s a jolt of pain as he gives my injured skin a little squeeze. But there’s another jolt, more jarring, between my legs—a sweet stab of arousal deep in my pussy that sends a flutter through the core of my lower abdomen. I groan, in shame this time. I can feel myself getting wet, and I’m mortified. I squeeze my legs together as tightly as I can.
“Oh, no,” he says. “Spread your legs, Jill. I want them open for the last half of your spanking.”