The Institute: Daddy Issues (17 page)

A sud­den bolt of light­ning seemed to go through me and I groaned and threw my head back against his broad shoulder. I pressed my breasts up and out, try­ing to get more of his ad­dict­ive touch.

Salt made a soft, deep noise of ap­proval low in his throat. He pinched my tight buds care­fully, teas­ing me with the sen­sa­tion—he seemed to know ex­actly how I wanted and needed to be touched. And I swore that every move­ment of his big hands on my breasts res­ul­ted in an equal bolt of pleas­ure shoot­ing down to my pussy as well.

“Do you like this,
mishka?”
he mur­mured in a low voice as he stroked and teased my sens­it­ive nipples. “Do you like to feel my hands on your sweet, full breasts?”

“You…you know I do,” I whispered, un­able to lie.

“Good,” he said. “And I like to pet them. Love to tug your tight nipples and hear you moan when I give you pleas­ure.”

“I…I’m not moan­ing,” I pro­tested.

“Very well—not moan­ing. Purring like a kit­ten, then—one which wants very much to be stroked.”

I couldn’t ar­gue with that. I felt at that mo­ment there was noth­ing I wanted more than to feel his big hands on me, caress­ing my bare breasts, tug­ging gently on my tight, aching nipples…

Hardly know­ing what I was do­ing, I slipped one hand be­neath the bubbles and found the wet cen­ter of my sex. Even in the warm wa­ter, I could feel how slip­pery my pussy was be­com­ing. God, I was get­ting so close and it was all just from Salt touch­ing and play­ing with my nipples! I let my fin­gers drift into my cleft and star­ted to circle the aching but­ton of my clit…

Sud­denly Salt seemed to catch on to what I was up to.

“
Mishka,”
he said, his voice a low, dis­ap­prov­ing growl. “What ex­actly are you do­ing un­der the bubbles? Are you
touch­ing
your­self?”

“Um…” I froze, feel­ing like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “Well…”

“Is not for you to give your­self pleas­ure,” Salt lec­tured in that same deep, growl­ing voice. “Is for your Papa only. Take your hand away.”

“All…all right,” I whispered guiltily.

I think in any other con­text if Salt had caught me touch­ing my­self and told me to stop, I would have told him to go fuck him­self—after I died of em­bar­rass­ment, that was. But here and now, play­ing this par­tic­u­lar scen­ario, it seemed right to give him con­trol of my body and my pleas­ure to him. I don’t know why…maybe I had fi­nally found that elu­sive “Little-space” Dr. Lucy had wanted me to work on.

For whatever reason, I pulled my hand out of the wa­ter, away from my aching pussy and whispered, “Sorry…Papa.”

I don’t know what made me tack on that “Papa.” I cer­tainly wasn’t think­ing of my bio­lo­gical father as I said it. It was more that I was think­ing of my part­ner in a whole new way.

As “Salt” he was just that—my part­ner, my friend, my equal. But when I re­laxed enough to be his
mishka
and al­lowed my­self to give him the name we had agreed upon be­fore en­ter­ing the In­sti­tute, I found I saw him dif­fer­ently. Here he was an au­thor­ity fig­ure…a pro­tector, a com­forter who would never leave or be­tray me. He was my big, strong Papa and I was his little
mishka
and just for that small space of time, I reveled in our new roles.

“Very good,
mishka,
” Salt mur­mured in my ear. “And since you seem to think you need at­ten­tion in this area, maybe it is time for me to wash you there.”

“Yes,” I agreed breath­lessly. “Maybe…maybe it is.”

But then, to my in­tense dis­ap­point­ment, he picked up the wash­cloth again.

“Salt…uh, Papa,” I said quickly, be­fore he could start. “I don’t think you should use that on me, uh, down there.”

“Why?” he mur­mured, frown­ing. “Is also too sens­it­ive?”

“Yes…yes, ex­actly,” I said, al­though it wasn’t true. But I wanted to feel his big, warm hands on me—wanted to feel him touch­ing and caress­ing my pussy the same way he had been strok­ing my breasts.

Salt, how­ever, seemed to feel we might be go­ing too far.

“Andi,” he said in a low voice. “Con­sider what we said…that we do not wish to do any­thing that would hurt us—our re­la­tion­ship—out­side of this place.”

“It won’t hurt us,” I prom­ised breath­lessly. “Re­mem­ber the prom­ise we made—that noth­ing we do will change any­thing.”

“I can­not help it,” he growled quietly. “Touch­ing you like this
will
change things. I can­not pet your soft little pussy without want­ing to do it again, even when we leave. I am already fight­ing such thoughts every day, even be­fore we came here.”

“You…you do? You are, I mean?” I asked him breath­lessly.

I’d had no idea be­fore the In­sti­tute that Salt had any sexual feel­ings to­wards me. I mean, I knew he felt ex­tremely
pro­tect­ive
of me, which was nice. And I had felt his body re­act when I sat on his lap—but I had told my­self it was only that—just a phys­ical re­ac­tion. But here he was ad­mit­ting he’d fan­tas­ized about me—prob­ably on more than one oc­ca­sion. For some reason the idea made me feel even more hot and swollen between my legs.
He wants you,
whispered a little voice in my head.
Your Papa wants you…

“Of course I am want­ing to touch you,” Salt mur­mured, echo­ing my for­bid­den thoughts. “I am a man and you are beau­ti­ful wo­man.
My
beau­ti­ful wo­man to pro­tect and cher­ish and care for…how can I not also wish to bring you pleas­ure?”

“Salt…” I whispered, not know­ing what to say.

“Which is why I will wash you very care­fully
with
cloth between us,” he said firmly. Then he stroked my hair and mur­mured in my ear, “Come,
mishka,
spread your legs for Papa.”

His use of our role play­ing names sent a new wash of de­sire through me. I pushed away the con­fus­ing feel­ings and doubts that had sur­faced in my mind and leaned back against his broad shoulder again.

“Yes, Papa,” I mur­mured, spread­ing my legs un­der the wa­ter.

By now most of the peach scen­ted bubbles had dis­sip­ated and I could see what he was do­ing as his big hand came down to wash me. I bit my lip to stifle a moan as he star­ted on the in­side of my right knee and made a long, strok­ing mo­tion with the wash­cloth that ended at my in­ner thigh. Then he re­peated the mo­tion with the left leg and thigh…and went back to the right again.

I nearly cursed with frus­tra­tion. Damn it—even though he was com­ing really,
really
close to my open pussy, he wasn’t touch­ing me there at all. I couldn’t stand this much longer! I wanted his hands on me
now,
even though part of me knew it was a bad idea. Knew that Salt was right and do­ing some­thing so in­tim­ate would def­in­itely change the dy­namic of our re­la­tion­ship.

Just as I thought I would die of sexual frus­tra­tion, Salt stopped wash­ing me.

“Now,
mishka,”
he said softly. “I think is time to shave you—yes?” Abandon­ing the wash­cloth at last, he trailed his fin­ger­tips lightly through the small thatch of light brown curls that grew on the apex of my mound.

I couldn’t help moan­ing this time. To fi­nally feel him touch me there—even a little, made me crazy.

“Yes,” I whispered. “Yes, I…I think so.”

“Very good then. Stand up. I think it will be easier to do this if you sit on the edge of the tub.”

Salt helped me out of the warm bath and dried me thor­oughly with an­other big, pink towel. Then he fol­ded it and placed it along the broad edge of the marble tub, in­dic­at­ing that I should sit there.

I sat as he dir­ec­ted, though the terry­c­loth felt rough against my still tender bot­tom. Salt hummed softly as he went about set­ting up the shav­ing paraphernalia we’d got­ten in the bas­ket.

I watched him and felt some­thing shift in­side me. In the tub I had felt sen­sual and warm…ready to do any­thing. Yet now, sit­ting there na­ked and wait­ing to let my part­ner per­form an ex­tremely in­tim­ate ser­vice for me, I could feel some of my nervous­ness re­turn­ing.

He’s go­ing to shave me. I’m ac­tu­ally go­ing to spread my legs and let my part­ner shave
me
there
.

It seemed un­be­liev­able and strange to think of al­low­ing this—of let­ting Salt do this to me. Shouldn’t we work up to this some­how? Maybe I should have him shave my legs first. But I’d had them waxed re­cently—I like to keep smooth be­cause of all the swim­ming I do—so that was out.

Then there was the little fact that we were quite pos­sibly be­ing watched. I really didn’t like the idea of Berkley star­ing at me on a video mon­itor some­where, watch­ing avidly as Salt touched me in all my most in­tim­ate and private places. It made me feel weird and wrong and even more nervous than be­fore.

By the time Salt was all ready to go with the peach shav­ing foam and the pink razor, I was sit­ting like a pret­zel with my arms crossed pro­tect­ively over my bare breasts and my legs wound tightly to­gether.

My part­ner seemed to sense my re­newed anxi­ety—(how could he not—my body lan­guage all but shouted it)—be­cause he knelt on the floor be­side me and put one big hand on my knee.

“Mishka,”
he mur­mured, duck­ing his head so he could look into my eyes. “What is wrong? What has changed?”

“I don’t know, Salt. I just…this feels
weird.”
I shif­ted rest­lessly on the damp, pink towel, cross­ing my legs even tighter. God, my ass was
still
sting­ing from the spank­ing he’d given me. I wished I had some­thing softer to sit on!

“Why should it be ‘weird’ to let me take care of you?” he mur­mured, strok­ing my knee.

His big warm hand on my thigh made me shiver. I wanted his touch—there was no deny­ing it. But it felt wrong to let him do this—felt dan­ger­ous.

“It’s just, I’m a grown wo­man, I should do this kind of thing for my­self, Salt. And you’re my part­ner. You were right be­fore—things are go­ing too far. We shouldn’t—”

“You are not grown.” He stroked my cheek gently. “Right now you are Little. My little
mishka.
Can you not feel it?”

“I…” I bit my lip. “I
guess
so. I did be­fore—in the bath.”

“And I am not your part­ner,” he con­tin­ued. “I am your Papa—your pro­tector. Your safety in any storm. I will not hurt you,
mishka.
I will not desert you.” He looked into my eyes and said in a low, em­phatic voice, “You…are…
mine.
”

I felt my heart swell at his words and at that mo­ment, all I wanted was to be his, com­pletely and ut­terly. I knew it was wrong—knew it was un­real­istic. I had spent years telling my­self I couldn’t trust any man not to leave or hurt me—years con­vinced that I could only rely on
me
. And yet here and now, I felt some of that res­ist­ance crum­bling as Salt claimed me aloud for the first time.

“Salt,” I whispered. “Papa…”

“Mishka…”

He pulled me close for a mo­ment, hug­ging me to his broad chest, press­ing my cheek down on his shoulder. I closed my eyes and breathed him in, breathed in the scent of his ocean scen­ted af­ter­shave, feel­ing the crisp Egyp­tian cot­ton of his shirt and his warm skin un­der­neath it. He felt so solid and I was so safe when he en­fol­ded me like that. For a long time we sat like that un­til my heart rate slowed and the ten­sion that had been coil­ing in­side me like a nest of snakes fi­nally dis­sip­ated.

When he re­leased me, I was ready to let him in.

“Open for me,
mishka,”
he mur­mured, strok­ing my thighs.

Without a word of protest, I spread my legs, bar­ing my pussy for him.

“Very good. Such a good girl,” Salt mur­mured. He sprayed a dol­lop of the peach scen­ted shav­ing foam on his fin­gers and dabbed it gently over my mound. Then he picked up the pink razor. “Lean back a little,” he told me. “Let Papa reach you.”

“Yes, Papa,” I mur­mured. I was mes­mer­ized by the sight of his big hand hold­ing that dainty pink razor. I had seen Salt shave his own face once or twice—I’d picked him up for work sev­eral times and had come in dur­ing his morn­ing routine—but I had no idea how he would ap­proach shav­ing me.

The an­swer ap­peared to be very care­fully and very slowly. He took small, gentle strokes with the pink razor, be­ing ex­tremely del­ic­ate around the lips of my sex. Luck­ily, I usu­ally keep that area pretty well trimmed any­way so it didn’t take much for Salt to shave me com­pletely clean.

When he fin­ished, he stroked a very warm, wet wash­cloth over my newly shaven sex to wipe away the last traces of the foam.

“Stand,” he said, mo­tion­ing at me. “Let me make sure I have done good job.”

I might have ar­gued or re­fused if my part­ner had asked me to stand so he could get a bet­ter look at my pussy in any other con­text. But I was still in that strange, half-eu­phoric state of mind where I felt like he owned me—and fur­ther­more felt that I
wanted
to be owned and pro­tec­ted and cher­ished by him. So I stood without com­ment and even spread my legs for him to give him a bet­ter view.