Page 92 of For Her Own Good

“No one will bother us,” she says primly, her hands folded in her lap, and all it takes to set my blood aflame are those quiet words. Of course she’d want to guarantee our privacy—probably hers more than mine since I get the sense the people who maintain this place have known her since she was a child—and I have no inclination to share her whatsoever. Not with prying eyes, not with anyone at all.

Not able to keep my hands from her any longer, I set a hand on her thigh and slide it up the soft skin until my fingertips are under her skirt.

“Then why don’t you relax, sweetheart? There’s no need for you to be wound so tight.”

I rub her back, between her shoulder blades, and I can see when she drops her shoulders and slows her breath. That’s followed by her leaning against me, resting her head on my shoulder so that her breath is warm against my neck, and then she starts to swing her feet since from her spot nestled against me, they don’t reach the ground. Makes me want to bite my fist. And her. Jesus, I could devour her, eat her all up, my sweet little girl.

“That’s better, isn’t it? I love when you sit on my lap.”

“Why, Daddy?”

“Because I can do this…” I slide my hand farther up her thigh so that it’s not just my fingertips above the hem of her skirt, but my whole hand. A little farther and I’ll be able to graze her panties. Lace today? Or perhaps a pair of practical cotton because what do little girls need lacy panties for?

“And this…”

I snake my other hand around her hip to grab her bottom and squeeze. To which she responds by wiggling her hips and making my cock harden against the friction. My God, she’s going to be the death of me.

“Spread your legs for me, little girl. Come on, open up for Daddy.”

She makes a tiny sound, a little mewl, but does as she’s been told and widens her knees which gives me the access I was looking for. It lets me slide my hand up farther, through the folds of her jumper-shorts thing, and wrest aside her panties to drag my fingers along the seam of her sex. I can tell already that her blood is gathering there because her labia are thick and hot. If I could see them, they’d be a lovely shade of dusky pink. It’s probably best I can’t see because then I’d want to heft her onto the table, yank her skirt-thing and panties down and force her legs wide open so I could feast on her sweet pussy. As it is, I can smell her arousal and, God. My God.

“Little wider, sweetheart. Have to make room for Daddy to push his fingers into your tight little pussy.”

She chokes out another one of those tender moans and does as I ask.

It’s something, really, to have her follow my instructions. I’m entrusted everyday with people’s welfare, with their mental health, and I take that responsibility very seriously. Anyone who doesn’t shouldn’t be in the psychiatry business. But there is something incredibly special about a woman like Starla entrusting me with not just her body but her secrets. The ways in which I can light her up, send her into the stars via climax.

It can’t be an easy thing, to tell someone that what gets you off is being cooed to like a small child and that what you’d really like is to have someone take away all the power you’ve earned though lifelong struggle and clawing your way back from the brink. To be permitted to do as you’re told. Also she’s so brave to allow herself to be so goddamn pretty like a doll when she’s had to fight for her autonomy since before I’ve known her.

It seems almost a cruel joke: to force this woman to seek out things she’s fought against in order to take her pleasure. There’s nothing wrong with it, to be sure—people like what they like, and no one is being hurt by what we’re doing—and I wouldn’t want for her to be any other way, but Christ. Especially the first time, she must’ve been a nervous wreck even considering telling her partner that this is what she wanted.

And hell, she was the one who made the space for me to indulge in this with her. It’s all thanks to her, really, this incredibly strong person who’s tucked against me and still swinging her Mary Janed feet with her shins encased in knee socks. I’m more than a little in awe of her bravery, and also so very grateful. For letting me have her like this, for letting me have this, period, and for letting us be here and do this. For being so goddamn resilient that she could let me back in after what I’d done.

I hold her tighter and bury my nose in her hair, breathe in the delicate scent of her scalp mixed with the shampoo she uses. I think I’d very much enjoy bathing her, working my fingers through her long, chestnut locks as she surrenders the weight of her skull to my hands; soaping and rinsing every inch of her until she’s pink and warm and smooth and then I could dirty her all up again, rinse and repeat. Perhaps when we get home. For now, I’m going to make my little girl come all over my hand while she rides my fingers outside her childhood home.

* * *

Starla

I should maybe be embarrassed by exactly how tightly I’m clinging to Lowry’s shirt, but I can’t be. If he weren’t holding me so tight, I have no doubt that I would be breaking into pieces and tumbling all over the grass.

Exhilaration and exhaustion from learning to ride the bike earlier have made my skin thin. It didn’t take much for me to slip into this headspace where I want nothing more than to be cuddled and coddled and yes, okay, given orgasms at his hand. This is my reward for all my hard work, and also for…I don’t know, being me? That’s never something I thought would ever be looked upon favorably. But here we are, his hand between my legs while I sit on his lap after having been taught to ride a bike. When the fuck did I get a genie who grants wishes?

Lowry’s thick finger runs along the cleft at the apex of my thighs, and I want to beg him to push it into me already. I want to feel him inside me, but I can be patient, I can be a good girl. For a little while, anyway. I can still wriggle a bit and be considered well-behaved, right?

I rock my hips forward, trying to get firmer contact, begging with my body for him to stroke my clit or fuck me with his finger, or do something other than keep up this maddeningly slow, sensuous stroke.

“Don’t be greedy,” he murmurs into my hair, and it makes me all the more desperate.

“Daddy, Iamgreedy.”

Which of course makes him laugh. It’s not mean, and even in my fragile state I don’t feel it that way, but it does dial my feelings and arousal up even higher, to the point I think I might burst. At least that’s my excuse as to why my clinging has turned to clawing.

“Oh, oh. Easy, love. I’ve got you.”

He strokes me and envelops me as I lose my goddamn mind, squirming in his lap, licking and biting at his neck where he tastes salty from his earlier exertions, and digging my nails into the soft cotton of his shirt.

“You’re okay. Come on, settle down for Daddy. I want to fuck you with my fingers but I don’t want to hurt you, so you’ve got to be still for a minute. Long enough to stuff my fingers into your tight, hot cunt.”

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