Her lips pucker as with one motion she sucks it bone dry, my cock becoming furiously jealous and I know I need to have this woman, my little girl’s lips wrapped around my dick sooner rather than later, or else I’m going to go completely nuts.
I carefully reach down and pivot her body back, bringing her onto my lap and pulling her in close. She was vulnerable now and I needed to let her know everything was ok.
But there was nothing to say, no words to do what just happened justice so I continue holding her, feeling her warmth and both our bodies gradually still, coming down from the high we both just experienced. Together.
“You ok, sweetheart?” I offered softly, cradling her in my arms.
She nods into my chest and in this particular instance I accept that as her answer, verbal or not.
Because she’s accepted me as her Daddy, and that meant more than words can say.
8 Scarlett
Bliss is an understatement for what I feel this morning after the office.
After getting the spanking I needed, wanted, and deserved, and the aftercare that went along with it, I fell asleep in the guest bedroom in Silas’s arms. As much as it would have been nice, he didn’t try anything sexual beyond what happened over his knee. And as much as I want our relationship to continue developing, and know that I’m ready to give myself to him, the time wasn’t right.
But the time was right for exactly everything he did.
And in regards to time, I have to get on the ball when it comes to finding out information about my dad. Silas had to go into work early so I, of course, went in with him, even though he offered to have a car take me later, but still making sure that I’d arrive by 8:00 of course.
I sit at my desk and start researching various art styles from Miami nineteen years ago, knowing my dad would have probably been creating a lot of stuff around that time. At least I hope so. I hope he was excited to be a father, despite the fact that he barely knew I existed, including not even knowing my name. And combined with the fact that I don’t even know his, that doesn’t make this any easier.
I come across a lot of samples, and when Silas shows up at my desk and asks what I’m up to, not in an accusatory way but more as someone who cares and wants to lend advice if he can, I just tell him I’m looking at inspiration.
And he tells me he has to step out for a while to go to a breakfast meeting.
He kisses me on the cheek and all those feelings of joy come rushing back, and I don’t even think twice about being bratty or stirring up any trouble. Will I in the future? Sure, more than likely. But right now everything is perfect, and I’m not going to mess it up.
Or am I?
Seeing that we came in at five in the morning, and it’s only six now, it’s the perfect time to do what my mom always called The Monty Hall Problem, also known as, let’s see what’s behind door number three.
And door number three is the one I’ve specifically been told not to open.
Once a brat, always a brat I guess. Or at least someone who can’t be told what to do and not to do.
I make my way to the secret room and catch myself actually tiptoeing. I’m tiptoeing through an empty office, which causes me to laugh at myself.
When I arrive the door is locked, which is predictable if it’s so secretive and off-limits, but why would he have mentioned not to enter if I don’t have a means to enter it in the first place?
I look at the handle then look left and look right down the hallway. Considering all the times my mom locked herself out of the house, or in her room for days on end, it’s no surprise I learned how to open a quote unquote locked door without much difficulty.
I pull my sparkly hair clip from my head and try to work the door open that way, but the clip is too big.
No problem.
I make my way back to my desk and remove my driver’s license from my satchel and hurry back to the mystery that awaits.
I manage to wedge my driver’s license between the door and the frame and push down with a few hard swipes. Nothing, but I can see the lock is one of those angled ones so it’s only a matter of time.
I turn the handle as best I can and then start rattling it while I’m forcing my license down the crack and not thirty seconds later…bingo!
I sidestep inside and quietly close the door behind me, taking in the eerily familiar oversized works that are displayed throughout the room.
Familiar not in a way where I recognize the artist who did them, but familiar as in I sense my own style in these.
What the…?
Moving closer to the first piece I see there’s a tiny placard with the artist’s statement.
Wars are fought over a face like hers, although I will never know the curve of her cheek or the sparkle in her eye. Is it possible for a man to create a heartbeat, only to lose his own, when that heartbeat he’s created is taken from him. A heartbeat that would inspire him to work countless hours to impress, even though that baby’s yet to be born. A heartbeat that makes him want to be a better man, so he can protect what’s his, take a bullet if he
