Boss Daddy, page 18
My body was already so close to orgasm from lying over his lap, listening to his dirty words and having his fingers inside of my bottom. The submissiveness he had drawn from the center of my being remained heavy in my mind as his cock slammed me again and again.
My arousal heightened, my sheath tightening around him, milking him, squeezing his member. “I, I... I’m going to come,” I gasped after only a few more of his intense thrusts.
“No, you’re not.”
My head snapped back toward him, my eyes widening. “Why not?”
“Bad girls don’t get to come when they want. They come when they’re told. And very bad girls come with Daddy’s cock up their naughty little ass.”
My mouth snapped shut, my face burying in my hands on the bed. Shame burned on my face. I was the good girl. Until Hayes I had had very nice, though mildly boring, missionary position sex. Maybe to mix it up once or twice, I wore something lacy to bed. The way Hayes spoke, the way he took ownership over my body, it had me melting in my core. A carnal desire for him to own me, to make me come, to have his cock in my ass, took over. I lay over the bed, legs spread, ready to take him.
His hand stroked my back, massaging my shoulders. “I’m going to lube up, then I’m going to take you in that pretty little ass.” He spanked me twice, my teeth biting into my bottom lip as he did. There were a few soft noises, then, I felt the tip of his lube-covered cock pressed against my rosebud. The jelly felt cold against my hot skin. Overwhelmed by sensation, tears sprang into my eyes as the head of his cock pushed into my unwilling entrance. My pucker quivered, not wanting to accept him. I took a deep breath, relaxing as he instructed, and breathed as he pushed the head of his cock past my tight, pulsing rim. With another deep breath, I welcomed the entire head of his member into my ass. His hands went to my hips, holding me possessively as he slowly guided his cock further within my bottom.
My skin stretched to capacity. The burning pain made way to a pleasurable fullness. The muscles of my ass wrapped tightly around him as he moved back and forth within me. His fingertips dug into my hipbones as he moaned, “Such a tight little ass. There’s my good girl.”
The submission I had felt from his fingers was nothing compared to what I felt as his entire cock buried itself within my ass. I moaned, tears leaving my eyes as he pulled out, then thrust back in.
His hand reached around my pelvis, his fingers finding my clit. I cried out as he plunged deeper within me from behind, his finger pressing into my engorged bud. I moved my hips, rubbing harder against his hand. Waves of pleasure pulsed through me as he circled my sensitive nub and fucked my ass. My toes curled into the carpet, my cries were high and shrill. My ass tightened hard, my pussy clenching as my body experienced ecstasy. White lights flashed behind the lids of my eyes as I came in a weeping, pulsing, shaking mess.
A few more thrusts and I could feel his cock pumping his hot seed into my ass. He came with a moan. He collapsed against my back, our damp skin pressing together. His lips caressed my ear as he whispered, “You’re my entire world, Luna.”
That night at the hotel, I lay on the bed, recovering from my day and the intense fucking session. I was overwhelmed with emotion from having anal sex for the first time. I couldn’t believe how deeply I felt for Hayes and how the connection of our bodies further deepened the unbreakable bond between us.
Hayes and Brody went out to dinner, giving me a much-needed few hours to myself to decompress. Sometimes being grounded was a good thing.
I missed Little Peak.
I was too embarrassed to admit it to my friends, but New York just wasn’t for me. I knew I should be enticed, energized by the sites, the people, the culture. I wasn’t. I couldn’t help it—I was just plain old Louanne Dixon, born in Little Peak and happy on the ranch. I missed my house, my bed, the Mess Hall. I kept my opinions to myself, happy the others were enjoying the trip. They had earned it.
Picking up the phone, I ordered room service for dinner. As I waited for the grilled chicken and champagne to arrive, I flipped through photos of chalkboard menu ideas, and a misspelled text came through on my phone.
Memaw: Louanne I M texTING aren’t you proud?
Me: Memaw, is this really you? Or is Colton doing the typing for you?
Memaw: Are you kidding itSaturday nightcolton is at Buds
Me: You are doing great, Memaw!
Memaw: THX I saw ur speech on the compter colton liverstreamed it for me sogood
Me: I’m glad you enjoyed it, Memaw 😊 and great job texting. I’ll call you, now though. It will be easier.
Smiling, I hit the call button. The phone rang four times before she picked up.
“Hello? Who is this?” she yelled into the phone.
“Memaw, it’s Louanne. I just texted you that I was calling you,” I said, holding back a laugh.
“Oh, hi, honey. I thought it was you. Just wanted to be sure it wasn’t a telemarketer. You know how they love to call at this time of night. Right when you’re sitting down to eat your supper.”
“Nope. Just me, Memaw. Don’t you have me programed into your contacts? My name should come up on your phone screen when I call,” I said.
She gave a frustrated grunt. “I haven’t figured out this dagnab contraption yet. I’m still hooked on my landline. You just punch the number in that you want to call. Easy as pie.”
I held back an eye roll. I knew she could use easily use the cell phone Brody had bought her if she made any effort to. “I’ll show you how to do it when I get home from New York. You can even put a picture of each person in so it will pop up when they call you.”
“Now why on Earth would I need to see a picture of you all? I get to see the real thing nearly every single day when you are all sitting around the table telling me you’re hungry,” she joked.
I laughed, asking her, “How’s it going there on the ranch?”
“It’s going good.” There was a pause. When she spoke again, I was surprised by her tone. It sounded as if she were nervous. “I wanted to let you know that I took that Pamela’s advice.”
“What advice was that?” I asked gently.
“I-I started my own cooking blog on the ranch’s website,” she said.
“You did? Good for you!” I said.
“I wrote down my bit and I had Colton make a webpage and type it up and everything. That was why I was texting you. To tell you great job on your speech. And that I want you to read my blog.”
“That’s so awesome. I’ll be sure to check it out as soon as we hang up,” I promised. I couldn’t wait to read it.
She sighed. “I wanted to text you some of those Imogens too, but I couldn’t get them to work.”
“Memaw... what’s an Imogens?” I asked, my brow furrowing as I tried to think of what she could possibly be talking about.
“You know... Imogens. The little pictures of poopie and such? I was going to send you a four-leaf clover for good luck on your speech, earlier,” she said.
“Oh... emojis,” I murmured.
“Imogens. That’s what I said,” she huffed.
I smiled. “Tell Colton to show you. It’s easy once you get the hang of it.”
“Will do, girly. Now get on to bed and don’t let that cowboy fiancé of yours keep you up. You got another big day ahead of you tomorrow,” she said.
“Okay, Memaw. I will.”
“And Louanne—”
“Yes?”
Her voice was soft when she spoke. “We’re all real proud of you, honey.”
“Thanks, Memaw.” After saying goodbye, I flicked through my ‘Imogens,’ sending her a pretty one of a red heart.
I took my iPad out of my purse, clicking it on and enjoying the blue glow that filled my room. Pulling up the CLAS website, I saw two new tabs. One marked Louanne’s blog. The other marked Memaw’s blog. Smiling, I pulled up Memaw’s blog to read her first ever post.
Memaw’s Cooking Blog
Top Ten ways to not get carted off to a looney bin when cooking for a wedding
I’m gonna do this like one of those countdowns they used to do on the music charts—you know, all the songs are great but the last one is the best one? Gosh, I sure miss sock hop and Motown music. Don’t you? So much better than the trash they play on the radio these days. Though I do like that little Swift girl. She’s a feisty one! Ok, so like I said, these are the Top Ten ways to not go crazy when you are preparing a meal for a wedding. They are going to go up in level of importance as your read the list.
*Note if you don’t have all day to sit around on your butt reading because you have to cook for a wedding, just grab your wooden spoon and skip to number ten.
Keep any and all opinionated women (apart from yourself) out of the kitchen. The last thing you need when cooking for a wedding is someone standing over your shoulder telling you how things ought to be done. If you have been charged with the job of cooking for one hundred people, do you really need someone telling you the ‘right’ way to grease a pan? I don’t think so.
Do not, I repeat, do not let the bride enter your kitchen. Food is ugly when it is being cooked and it doesn’t look pretty till it hits the serving tray with the garnish. She does not need to see the process, only the final product. Have you ever seen a fish that still had its head attached to it? Those beady little eyes staring up at you? I rest my case.
Make sure you communicate very clearly with your Louanne—whoever that may be. Though I pity you trying to cook for a wedding if you don’t have yourself a Louanne as good as we do. She makes lists. Lots of lists. With little checkboxes on them so we don’t forget anything. So, communicate. And make lists. Number three was a two for one. Lucky you.
Don’t burn the food. This one is self-explanatory but too important to not be mentioned.
Don’t undercook the food. Have you seen one hundred people with food poisoning? I haven’t either but I’m imagining it right now while I’m writing this blog and it isn’t pretty.
Do not serve gaseous foods. The wedding party does not want to be out on the dance floor, shaking their junk, just to be rocket launched across the room by a booty explosion. Beans, beans, the magical fruit, the more you eat, the more you toot. You get the picture? Some lesser known but highly powered foods to avoid are broccoli, cheese, and cabbage. (Side note: If you are planning on serving cabbage at a wedding, stop reading this blog and hit some cookbooks for new ideas.)
I second Louanne when she says to serve foods the bride and groom like. Let’s be honest... that bride probably hasn’t eaten in days, trying to fit into her perfect dress. And, now that she has that man on lockdown, she can gain all the weight she wants. Fill up her plate with all kinds of goodies and give her some energy for her wedding night. She’s going to need it if you know what I mean. Wink, wink.
Don’t lift all the heavy grocery bags yourself. You don’t want to get a crick in your back and be laid up on the big day, having to holler instructions at your grandchildren from an armchair you had your grandsons drag into the kitchen. It isn’t pretty.
Always cook more than you think you need. Do you really want hungry guests? I don’t think so. Also, people go home sooner when they are chock full. That always works in the couple’s favor because by the end of the night those two lovebirds are ready to get the heck out of there.
If you don’t heed any of my other advice... heed this. The single most important way to keep your sanity when cooking for a wedding: Keep the men out of your kitchen. If you don’t you will work all day and at the end of the day you will only have half the food to show for it. Those men pick and pick at the food till there is nothing left. Especially when you are frying bacon. Also, they are messy. You already have enough cleaning up to do at the end of the day. Hit them with your wooden spoon if you must. Just get them out of there.
Stay tuned for my next blog post... Mysterious stains on your kitchen linens; what they probably are and how to get rid of them.
I put down my iPad and picked up my phone. Finding my thread with Memaw, I typed in, “Best blog post ever, Memaw.”
* * *
After ditching the conference the day before, I felt like I had to make up for lost time and attend every class possible. The day was a whirlwind of lectures. How to blog, how to get more blog followers, how to make more money on your blog, how to find new content for your blog. If I heard the word ‘blog’ one more time, I was going to lose it.
And then there were the adoring fans I didn’t know I had. They circled me in between each and every class, demanding to know where I got my ideas, my décor, my food. How had all of these women heard about me, Louanne Dixon from Little Peak, Wyoming? They expected so much from me, their eyes gleaming with excitement, their voices strained with curiosity about what ideas I had for my own wedding.
The truth was... I did not have one single idea for my own wedding.
Returning to my hotel room, I collapsed onto the bed, only to find three emails from Eloise asking me for the details for my ‘show-stopping,’ big day for the article. Hayes came back from dinner to find me in a sobbing heap.
Gathering me into his arms and rubbing my back, Hayes asked, “Luna, what’s wrong?”
“Hayes, I can’t... I can’t... I can’t... marry you!” I wailed.
He froze, his arms stiffening. “What do you mean, sweetheart? You don’t want to marry me?”
“Oh, no, Hayes! That’s not it. I just mean, I can’t possibly have a wedding!” I cried.
Hayes placed his hands on my cheeks, steadying me. His gaze locked on mine, concern flashed in his eyes. “Louanne Dixon. Tell me what is going on.”
I took a deep breath, pushing the sobs deep down into my chest. “It’s too much pressure! From the magazine spread to the blog followers... they’re all expecting this to be the end all, be all wedding that will put all other weddings to shame. And I just can’t do it. I can’t pull it off. Every time I try to look at flowers, or vases, or food platings, I break out in a cold sweat and get sick to my stomach. If I even hear the wedding march, I start to break out in hives. I-I love wedding planning for other people, but I can’t plan my own wedding!”
He considered my face for a moment. Then, he murmured, “It’s like the doctor who smokes, or the housekeeper who you find out is a hoarder. Or Mrs. Macklewitz.”
My brow knit in confusion. “Mrs. Macklewitz? The sixth grade English teacher from Little Peak Middle? What does she have to do with this?”
Hayes said, “She couldn’t spell. Remember? But she made you fall in love with the story. Taught you how to pick apart a book and delve into its every nook and cranny. Find foreshadowing hidden deep within the sentences. She was great at her job, but man, she was a bad speller.”
I sniffled. “You’re right. She was a great English teacher. And a terrible speller.”
He stroked my hair in the most loving way as he spoke. “Does this have anything to do with your father not being there to walk you down the aisle?”
A cold chill ran through my body. My dad had left before the Jenkinses even moved to Little Peak. Hayes and I had never spoken about my father, or his leaving our family. “I-I suppose some of the... upset I’m feeling may be coming from that place. But I don’t want to talk about it, Hayes. Ever.”
“And we don’t have to, Luna. I’m your daddy now. I’ll take care of you till death us do part.” He kissed the top of my head in the most endearing way. I melted under his caress, letting his words calm my mind. “You’re under too much pressure, sweetheart. You say it yourself—planning a wedding can be the most stressful event of a young woman’s life. And that’s without all of the eyes of the world watching her, expecting to be wowed by her. It is too much. I hate to see you this unhappy, baby girl. Weddings are supposed to be happy.” His mouth moved to the lobe of my ear, nibbling and biting. He whispered, “Let me make you happy again, baby girl.”
I wiped the tears from my eyes with the backs of my hands. Hayes slid on top of me, pressing my back into the bed. I turned my head as his kisses trailed from my ear, down my neck. The tip of his tongue licked the tears from my skin. When he kissed my lips, I tasted the salt.
My mouth pressed against him as my body rose to meet his. My peaked nipples hardened against the muscles of his chest. My breasts felt heavy and longed to be freed from my bra. Hayes quickly unbuttoned my shirt, reaching his hand into the cup of my bra and squeezing my breast as he kissed and bit my neck. He murmured, “Let Daddy make it all better. Let all your stress go. Just feel everything Daddy is doing to celebrate your beautiful body.”
I groaned, my eyes closing. His hand slipped up and into my skirt. “Such a beautiful woman. Such a good girl. I want to please you. I want to hear you sing for me.” His hand grabbed my mound, squeezing. My aching clit longed for his attention. It did not have to wait long as Hayes disappeared underneath my skirts, murmuring, “Sing for me, baby,” as he slipped my panties from my legs.
His tongue flicked between my slippery folds, finding my swollen, pulsing clit. As he licked and sucked, he slipped one, then two fingers inside of me. Cupping his palm around my bottom, he held me up in one hand, moving his fingers in and out, as his mouth continued to massage me. I forgot the stress of the day—I forgot everything. I focused on the sensation both inside and outside of my body as my hips rocked with pleasure. High, breathy noises escaped me as my sheath tightened around his fingers. My heels pressed into the bed. My hips stilled, my pelvis raised in the air, frozen as I waited for the delicious explosion to overtake me. I came in a burst of light and passion and sing for my daddy I did as a loud guttural scream left my chest. I shuddered, unable to move.
But he didn’t stop. My knees were like jelly, my breath coming in pants. I begged. “Stop. I can’t take it—” My words were cut off by whimpers and moans as his mouth brought me to a second orgasm. Tears stung my eyes as my insides constricted around his fingers once again. I came quietly, then collapsed onto the bed.
