Page 32 of For Her Own Good

All I can see is her. Eyes and soft curves, teeth sinking into a plump bottom lip, expanses of skin even though I did my damnedest not to look at her when she needed help with her top. At least I kept from audibly groaning. Thank God for small favors. Though a bigger favor would have been her sleeping through the night, resting on me. That was more than I could ever ask for, yet still not nearly enough.

Inside my own home, still a relatively bland and sparse bachelor apartment, I can’t escape her. There’s nothing here that interests me more than her, and restlessness prowls in my chest. I wish there were a way to get rid of this feeling, to be less obsessive. I could try meditating, but in this state, it would only result in meditating on her, which wouldn’t be any better.

But…

Would it truly be the worst thing to get myself off to thoughts of her? Would it make being around her easier or harder? I know how she feels now, the weight of her in my lap. Too, I know the maddening worry and hands-raking-through-hair torment of waiting for a verdict on whether or not she’s all right. Perhaps selfishly, I’d rather focus on the former. She hadn’t gotten up when she’d come to earlier. Wisely, I’d say. But she could have demanded I put her down. She didn’t.

Can I think of her willingly cradled on my lap and looking up at me as though she trusts me to keep her safe? May I pretend she’d allow me to see her vulnerable and understand I don’t resent her soft spots but treasure them?

It’s not that I want her weak. She’s not. Anyone who thinks so is completely daft. But everyone needs help sometimes, everyone needs a shoulder to cry on, a hand to help them up when they get knocked down, a safe haven when the world is a fucking awful place. I want to be those things for her, be worthy of her most tender thoughts and feelings.

I’m not the physically strongest man; I’d fight for her without question if it came to it, but that’s not where my strengths lie. I do like to think I’m responsible, measured, can shoulder a considerable psychic burden, would let her be carefree to the extent that she wishes it because I could handle everything she didn’t want to, or couldn’t bear. Wouldn’t my head and my heart swell if I could have those things from her?

To what extent are those desires intertwined with the thoughts I’ve had about her before—the ones where she calls medaddy, the ones where she bites the pad of a finger and gazes at me from under her lashes with those doe eyes, the ones where it’s not a single item of her outfit that’s darling but all of it?

It’s a lot. More than I can parse, more than I can handle. How can I want these things, how can I want her like this, but also be so terrified of my own desires? It’s not the same as if she were still my patient, still a girl instead of a woman, and yet it’s hard for me to logic my way out of this as it’s all part of my relationship with her, part and parcel of what makes her both my basest and most precious desire.

Because the truth is I did want these things from her back then. I did. And doesn’t that make me the kind of man who’s always turned my stomach? Don’t those desires make me the worst kind of vile?

Or do they?

I left, didn’t I? Didn’t take the things I wanted though she may have been willing to hand them to me. I had convinced myself that all of those feelings were bad and wrong but perhaps they weren’t. Oh, acting on them would have been. I’d’ve wanted to slit my own throat for that had I taken action other than leaving.

But she’s not eighteen anymore. She’s thirty-three, and that hasn’t slaked my thirst for her, hasn’t changed the feelings I have toward her. If anything, the craving has grown. Sharpened in a way I wasn’t expecting, and every time there’s a hint of it, it’s another pass over the whetstone.

There’s more, too, always more. I’d like to discipline her, whether for real or as a game. Whatever she’d agreed to. Not only have her sit in my lap, but turn her over my knee and scold her. Or perhaps she wouldn’t need scolding, just a reminder that she’s mine, and if I’d like to spank her bottom, then I will. For my pleasure and hers as well.

I make quick work of getting ready for bed, scrubbing my face, brushing my teeth, stripping off my clothes that smell like the hospital in favor of some loose cotton pajama pants and a tee, one for the Cubs because no one in their right mind is a White Sox fan.

Once in bed, I still can’t shake Starla from my thoughts. Indeed, my brain is playing the worst parts of tonight over and over on loop, making my pulse race and my stomach twist. If I ever want to get to sleep, I’m going to have to replace those thoughts with something else. Surely the universe will forgive me if I rub one out to thoughts of her so I can sleep and be my best for patients tomorrow? I’d ask God, but I don’t think much of the one I grew up with anymore.

So, I close my eyes and let my thoughts jog to the place I so rarely let them go. To Starla, sweet in a dress the hem of which swishes around her legs at mid-thigh. If she twirled—and she would, for me—I’d catch a glimpse of toothsome panties. A golden yellow honeycomb with bees buzzing about. A hint of the playful and darling the small black sundress wouldn’t entirely bely. Those are the things that make my brain hum, the secrets she keeps from others that she’d give to me.

In a meadow, because sure, why the hell not, she’d be picking wildflowers while I lounged on a picnic blanket and watched her. And when she was done, a handful of riotous color clutched in her fingers, she’d come back to me, show me her bounty and smile because I’d tell her they were lovely, just like her.

“Do you want a treat?”

Her eyes bright and wide, she’d say of course, because there’s little she likes better from me.

From the basket we’d carried our picnic in, I’d take out a pouch, cold to the touch because it would be full of freeze packs, and from their midst, I’d extract a Popsicle. Honey lemon with edible flowers frozen in it, it would have to be pretty enough to be seen with her. She’d grab for it, forgetting her manners because she would covet it so badly. I’d know what she likes, how to make her happy and desperate.

“Ah, what do you say?”

“Please, Daddy?”

“Aye, that’s a good girl.”

But I wouldn’t hand it to her, no. I’d hold it in front of me and she’d crawl on her hands and knees toward me, dress loose enough at the top that I’d catch a glimpse of lush, bountiful cleavage, and my mouth would water.

In the present, I’ve shoved my pants down, taken my cock in hand and begun to stroke, because this fantasy is too good. Almost never do I let myself indulge in these thoughts, but this fantasy’s run wild and for once, I’m not going to rein it in. I’m going to let it run.

She’d lean over, use that sweet kitten tongue to take a few licks of the Popsicle, and my head would about explode. It’s not fair, the power this woman holds over me. I would’ve been turned on before, but how she slowly, sensuously, purposefully uses her mouth to tease… She’d know exactly what she’s doing and bat her lashes at me because she’s a saucy little minx.

“Ah,” I’d say, tugging her treat out of reach. “You’ll have the rest in my lap.”

She wouldn’t be sorry for that, but climb eagerly into a straddle, be able to feel precisely how her show’s made me feel. She’d rock up against me on purpose to make me groan and shut my eyes. Probably not entirely so she could snag the Popsicle from my hand.

Her giggle would make me open my eyes and then narrow them.

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