Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 66851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
The look on Daddy Jacob’s face stopped my next word from emerging out of my throat. My mouth hung open, my heart racing. I hadn’t had any idea that a man’s face could look that way: both terribly stern and deeply concerned.
My mouth closed and I felt my forehead crease. I had to swallow down what felt like a lake of saliva. My daddy’s brown eyes seemed to make me turn my own imaginary eyes inward, to see inside me.
You do need this, a voice—my own voice said. Then, Never tell them. Even Daddy Jacob, even Jacob Garvey the heroic firefighter.
I pushed the first part away. The second part, the never telling thing: that I could accept.
I put a bad-girl sneer on my face, though I felt my hands clench into nervous little fists when I saw Daddy Jacob react to the defiant expression. Trying very hard not to tremble, I rose from the desk chair and pushed it backward on its wheels.
“Fine, Daddies,” I said, emphasizing the word as sarcastically as I could. “Whatever you say. You wouldn’t want to piss off human resources, right?”
I tossed my head and stepped towards the desk, bringing my upper thighs into contact with the edge of its laminated fake wood top.
“Bend over, Marianne,” Daddy Phil said, his voice so hard I almost regretted my sneer. He started to walk around to the other side of the desk, tapping his doubled belt against his left palm. “I’m going to wipe that naughty-girl look off your face.”
CHAPTER 13
Marianne
Part of me wanted to beg for mercy. I told that part to go fuck itself. That thought made me bite my lip, briefly, before I returned my features to full brat mode. Sure, all of me, the dismayingly weak part included, would definitely get fucked, soon—and not by me.
I had spent all day at this fucking desk. Oh, God… they’re not going to fuck my ass here, are they? Over this… fucking desk? I had read about them, my brave firefighter daddies. I had started to feel safe with them.
They could go fuck themselves, if they thought that turning minor shit, like looking over at one daddy when another daddy was speaking to me, into an excuse to whip me with a goddamn belt would turn me into some obedient little lady.
Little lady fuck toy. My tummy flipped over as the words strung themselves together in my head. It took all of my self-control to keep turning my head from side to side defiantly, flicking my scornful eyes from Daddy Phil behind me to Daddy Jacob in front of me.
My brown-eyed daddy’s face still told the terribly ambiguous tale of that humiliating conversation with human resources. He intended to watch Daddy Phil whip me, and then he intended to take my anal virginity. He had said so to the bureaucrat at the other end of the phone, some corporate peon appointed to oversee my sexual degradation and bullshit rehabilitation from afar.
He intended to do it, his dark eyes told me, for my own good. Yes, for his pleasure, also—Daddy Jacob’s face said that, too: the slight curve of his lips made my heart skip a beat, so clearly did it seem to me to indicate that my daddy’s huge cock had gotten hard at the thought of the fucking I had in store. But, his calm forehead declared, as if it could speak for itself, this man, this Jacob Garvey, firefighter, wouldn’t want to watch my first belt-whipping, or even want to deflower my virgin asshole, if he didn’t know—not think, not believe, but absolutely know—that in me he had the sort of bad-girl sexual plaything who needed to be become his little lady fuck toy.
It infuriated me, all the more because of the stupid little-girl voice that as far as I could tell I would have to somehow kill with the mental equivalent of a bunker buster. Or maybe extinguish, like a fire, with one of the chemical drops I had read about today. The part of me that for some impossible-to-understand reason thought that being my daddies’ little lady fuck toy was the kind of thing a bad girl like me should feel lucky to have a chance at.
So I met Daddy Jacob’s patient, stern gaze with an extra curl of my left nostril—a supremely bitchy expression I wished I could see in a mirror, both because I thought it should be eligible for an acting award and because I thought if I could see the look actually on my face, it might help me keep it there. Because, I told myself, there wasn’t a chance in hell I was going to let fucking Daddy fucking Phil fucking “wipe it off” my fucking face.
I waited. Just for a moment. Just until I could see Daddy Jacob’s smile fade slightly, and I knew he was about to repeat Daddy Phil’s command to bend over.