She looked back at him, a pretty pout on her pursed lips. In front of her, the lined paper was halfway filled with the lines he’d assigned her to write over and over:
I will not hesitate to voice my needs when they arise.
“If you don’t fill those five sheets of paper, front and back, then it won’t just be your hand that hurts, young lady, but your bottom as well.”
“My bottom already hurts,” she grumbled, and shifted on the chair, wincing as the motion revived the sting where the bare skin of her bottom met the wood of the desk chair. Her panties were down at her feet, bunched just above her saddle oxfords. They’d been there since the man she called daddy had lowered them an hour earlier before turning her over his knee and spanking her cheeks to a throbbing cherry red.
I will not hesitate to voice my needs when they arise.
She studied the lines now, not just writing but reflecting on them as he’d instructed her to do. Even after a year of living as his little one, she still had to remind herself that it was okay to ask for what she wanted, that there were good daddies in the world who cared about their little girls, daddies who did not leave, daddies who never wavered and always did what they promised.
She went back to work, her spanked bottom throbbing beneath her as she ignored the cramping in her wrist and wrote and wrote and wrote, remembering with each line what he was trying to teach her.
When, with a sigh, she finally announced she was done, he walked over and picked up the papers. She worried her plump bottom lip with her teeth as she watched him inspect the lines. After a moment, he looked down at her.
“Voice your needs,” he said quietly.
She felt her cheeks flush, although she knew it was silly to be shy in asking for what she wanted. Wasn’t this the man who’d spanked her, made her come again and again with his mouth and fingers and cock, the man who’d taught her just how to stroke his cock with her tongue, how to endure and enjoy the exquisite pleasure pain of taking that same cock in her ass?
“I need you to fuck me,” she said, looking up at him. “I need you to fuck me… hard.”
He laid the papers down carefully, pulled back her chair, and raised her to standing. She trustingly allowed him to lead her to the sofa, to bend her over the arm. She did not look back. She did not need to. She knew he was undoing the soft leather belt beneath the edge of his tailored vest, knew he was lowering the zipper on his autumn brown wool trousers.
She was not surprised when she felt his cock slide with one hard, solid thrust into a pussy all but dripping with arousal. She was surprised when his large hand wound around one ponytail, holding it painfully tight as he began to thrust. Held as she was, she could not move, but only lie helplessly over the couch arm as he gave her just what she asked for, his cock ramming in and out of her, his pelvis slamming hard against red buttocks still bearing the imprint of his hand. He was possessing her, owning her, dominating her. But she needed it, needed to feel his power and her submission to feel whole, to feel grounded.
She could feel her pussy pulsing on his cock, harder and harder as the sweet waves of bliss rolled over her and she cried out, feeling perfectly sated.
“I love you,” she said.
He kissed her cheek. “Call me daddy,” he said.
A soft smile curved her mouth. “I love you, daddy,” she said.
One year earlier…
“Ellie, are you in there?”
“Just a minute!” Ellie Brewer moved the cursor up to the ‘save as’ icon, hastily typed the word ‘story’ into the box, and hit enter, storing the document in a folder labeled ‘recipes,’ which is what you named a folder if you didn’t want anyone snooping in it.
The banging on the door resumed.
Slamming the laptop shut, Ellie rose from the chair, trying to control her frustration as she opened the door. Her mother’s hand was raised to strike the door again. As soon as she saw her daughter, she lowered it and sighed.
“Are you all right? Why was the door locked?”
Ellie leaned against the frame, resting her head on the wood as she closed her eyes. “Mom, I just wanted some privacy. Is that really so hard to understand?”
Mildred Brewer smoothed the front of her robe. “No. It’s not.” She forced a smile. “It’s just that… you know, dear. When your door’s locked it makes me nervous.”
“Mom, it’s been over a year, okay?” Ellie could hear the weariness in her own voice. “I think you can stop worrying that something bad is going to happen whenever I lock my door.”
“I know. I know.”
“So what do you want, mom?”
“Oh.” The older woman reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out a piece of paper. “This came for you today. I didn’t mean to open it, but I thought it was mine.”
Ellie frowned. “You thought a letter from my psychologist was for you?”
Her mother dropped her gaze. “Honey, I…”
“Mom.” Ellie said. “You have got to stop doing this. If there’s a problem, I’ll tell you.” She took the letter from her mother, who didn’t give Ellie a chance to examine it before revealing its contents.
“It’s really nothing, dear, although it is interesting. Dr. Gruber is apparently recruiting patients who might want to participate in a study being done by some medical professor, a Dr. William Ashworth.” She paused. “It’s a paying study.”
“Paying?” Ellie’s eyes scanned the letter.
“Yes! Two hundred dollars a month!” Her mother smiled. “You could certainly use it.”
“Don’t remind me,” Ellie said. “I’m not interested, though.”
“Are you sure?”
Ellie tossed the letter onto the dresser. “I’ve been studied enough, mom.”
“Very well. Your choice.” Her mother lingered. “So, are you going to bed?”
Ellie sighed. “Not yet. I’m not sleepy.”
“Can I get you something? Chamomile tea? Warm milk? Or how about an Ambien?” Mildred Brewer’s tone turned hopeful. “Or we could sit and talk until you fall asleep…”
“Mom… I just want some time to myself, okay? Just some quiet time.”
“All right.” Mildred leaned over and pecked her daughter on the cheek. “Just let me know if you need anything.”
“I will.” Ellie turned and shut the door, pressing her back against it until she could no longer hear her mother’s receding footsteps on the other side. Walking to the window seat of her room, she sat down and picked up the pack of Marlboro Lights that lay next to the battered stuffed teddy bear she’d had since she was seven. She cracked a window before lighting up; it was bad enough that she smoked, but Ellie felt worse about it since her mother had been diagnosed with early COPD.
Plopping down on the thick cushion, she looked out over the rooftops of the other houses in her cluttered neighborhood.
“So many little houses,” she mused to herself, taking a drag on her smoke. “They all look alike, but inside the stories are all so different.”
It was a good line, she decided. She’d have to write it down and use it in one of her books. The growing file hidden on her computer was full of them. When she’d told Dr. Gruber how much she loved to write, he encouraged her to continue, even after what her mother would only refer to as That Day. Writing was good therapy, he told her. He said that writing often helped his patients admit things to themselves they couldn’t tell him in person, or craft the world they’d like to have. So Ellie had continued with her stories, but had drawn the line at sharing what she wrote with her psychologist.
“It might help if you showed it to me,” he said, but she’d demurred. If Dr. Gruber didn’t already think she had problems, she decided, he would after reading the kind of stories she wrote.
They were mostly period stories featuring a young intelligent woman of low birth, often betrayed by someone she trusted, rescued by a nobleman who loved her and nurtured her. But his kindness always came with a price—the heroine’s freedom. The hero demanded full sacrifice, full control…
Ellie had been in therapy long enough to understand symbolism. She was the woman of low birth. The betrayer was her father. And the nobleman was some nonexistent savior—one of those educated, benevolent man who’d never think twice about a woman like her. She exhaled another stream of smoke and smirked. Dr. Gruber would have billed her insurance policy a couple of grand for what she’d figured out on her own.
Her mother was going to bed. She could hear her rattling around in the next room, coughing. Ellie felt a stab of guilt over smoking in the house. Grinding out the remains of the cigarette, she flicked it out the open window. From across the room she heard the muffled sounds of the theme from Star Wars. Rising quickly, she fanned the smoky air as she rushed for the bed and pushed aside blankets until she found her cell phone. The grinning face of her gap-tooth best friend filled the screen.
“Noni!” Ellie flopped down on the bed. “What’s up?
“Are you sitting down?” Noni was raising her voice over the thrumming base of background music.
“I’m lying down. But I can barely hear you.”
“Just a sec.” Ellie heard the sound of a click. When Noni spoke again, there was a slight echo to her voice. “I’m in the bathroom. Can you hear me now?”
Her friend sighed. “Brad posted the schedule tonight. He’s cut our hours. Again.”
Ellie sat up. “Fuck, no.”
“Fuck, yes. And guess who’s getting extra hours? I’ll give you two guesses, in fact.”
“The Flannery twins?”
“Bingo,” Noni replied bitterly. “Did I call this one or not? I knew as soon as they walked in here looking for a job that Brad would try to get into their pants.”
“It won’t work,” Ellie said. “Brad’s a middle manager with a comb-over. Those girls are way above his pay grade.”
“Like that matters.” Noni snorted derisively into the phone. “Until Brad figures it out for himself, he’ll give them all our hours. We only got sixteen each on next week’s schedule, Ellie. Sixteen! Oh, and they’re on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Worst tip nights.”
Ellie was seized by the desire for another cigarette. “Shit, Noni. I’m never going to get away from mom at this rate.”
“Don’t be harsh. She just worries about you, El.”
Ellie bit her tongue. “I know. But she’s smothering me, Noni. She treats me like I’m made of glass, and it’s making me feel like I am made of glass.” She paused. “I’m never going to feel strong until I’m away from her. And at this rate, I never will be.”
“I hear you,” Noni sighed into the phone. “It’s not like there’s a lot of jobs right now.”
“Yeah…” Ellie’s eyes strayed to the dresser by the door where the casually thrown letter her mother had given her still sat beside an assortment of perfume bottles. “I’ll talk to you later.”
She clicked off and rose from the bed. Outside she could hear someone’s car backfire and set off a chain of barking dogs. Ellie walked over and picked up the letter.
“A study, huh?” she said aloud, rereading it.
Interested subjects should respond at 10 a.m. at Room 314 in the Hilliard University Psychology Department located in the Kidd Building.
She almost laughed at the irony of walking back through the doors of Hilliard University. She imagined spilling her guts to some bespectacled PhD candidate paid to pry into her psyche. She imagined him sitting there, some young man with adult acne and glasses paid to conduct the survey for his boss. It was hardly appealing, but she needed the money. And it was little use begging for more hours at the club, especially not with the twins as competition.
“You don’t have much of a choice, do you?” she asked herself aloud, before answering her question. “Of course not. Choices are for other women.”
Folding the letter, she tucked it into her purse and set her alarm for 7:30.