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Big Bad Daddy Wolffe by Maggie Ryan (1)



“Head down and that pretty little ass high. That’s my good girl.”

The words had my entire body heating with shame. If the flush suffusing my skin came from the knowledge that I should be appalled at the command, there might have been some hope for me, but that wasn’t the case. No. The pink coloring of my flesh came from the pride I felt hearing the last two words—I was his good girl. How that simple endearment could have a rush of moisture flowing into my panties, I’d never understand.

I bit the inside of my cheek as I felt his hand descend to caress my bottom and the moan I’d attempted to stifle escaped when his fingers slipped into the waistband of my panties.

“No, please…” Even as I spoke, I knew the request was futile. This man wasn’t interested in my plea. He had a plan and my embarrassment was not going to keep him from following said agenda.

I felt the fabric being tugged over the generous globes of my ass and even with my eyes clenched tightly closed, could easily visualize the white lace turning inside out.

“Some little girl protests too much, I do believe.” His chuckle told me that my fears had come to pass. With the panties’ journey, the evidence of my arousal soaking the gusset of the garment was instantly evident, negating my protest at being bared. He didn’t take the panties all the way to the floor, didn’t ask me to step out so that he could remove them altogether. That would have been too easy. Instead, he left them at my knees, a bare fraction of an inch away from where my cheek was pressed so tightly against my legs in an attempt to hide my shame. There was no escape from my humiliation. Every inhale, every breath I dragged into my lungs brought with it the scent of my arousal.

“Spread your legs,” he instructed, a hand sliding between my thighs to give assistance. When I’d managed to widen my stance a bit, he assured my body would continue to betray me with a single slow slide of a fingertip along the seam of my dripping sex. “Perfection,” he murmured. “Hold that pose.”

Pose. Oh God, that one word brought enough heat surging through me to start an inferno. How could I have forgotten that this wasn’t a preface to some scene where he’d soon have me not only forgetting my shame but even my name as he took me to heights of pleasure I could only imagine. No. He’d told me that I wasn’t yet ready for such a night. Not yet ready to join him in what he assured me would not be the games of my imagination. This was just another step in that direction. Another layer of anticipation that would provide me hours of thought as I wondered at how this helped prepare me… where my feet would take me when I was finally allowed to step onto that path.

The sound of a pencil scratching along a parchment page reminded me that we weren’t even alone. An artist was seated behind me, sketching me… well, the portion of me that was totally bare and lifted high.

I wasn’t even conscious of the fact that I’d broken position, that I’d begun to collapse until an arm snaked around my waist and I was dragged upwards. My whimper of protest was cut off by my cry as the crack of his palm connected to my quivering buttock. He didn’t speak—he didn’t need to as the single stroke did exactly what he intended. It silently reminded that this one man didn’t believe in the ingrained lessons of a prudish society. The heat of his splayed fingers against my skin told of his desire to have this most intimate part of me be the very center of attention. I’d not be able to ever explain it, but that single stroke not only settled my body into the humiliating position required for the artist to do his work, but calmed my mind. After all, everybody knew that women who bent over, who lifted their naked bottoms and wantonly spread their legs to display their sex slick from their cream deserved to be burning…