Page 15 of Daddy Issues

  Salt reached into the bas­ket as well and pulled out a dainty pink razor. He held it out to me.

  “I do not think he has for­got­ten, Andi,” he said in a low voice.

  “That bas­tard.” I snatched the razor from Salt’s big hand and stud­ied it. “He’s prob­ably watch­ing right now.”

  “He prob­ably is,” my part­ner agreed. He looked at me. “So what do we do?”

  “We…” I star­ted to say we should tell Berkley to go fuck him­self but of course, that wouldn’t help the case. In fact, there was only one thing we could do. I lif­ted my chin and looked Salt in the eye. “We do it,” I said evenly. “We put on a show.”

  Chapter Nine

  “You are sure about this?” Salt asked as I stood there in the bath­room in front of the huge marble tub, filled with bubbles.

  As a mat­ter of fact, I wasn’t. Do­ing ex­actly what Berkley ex­pec­ted us to do had seemed like a good idea at first. But now that I was about to let Salt see me na­ked—not only see me but touch me and shave me, I felt sud­denly anxious.

  “Andi…” He touched me gently on the shoulder and I jumped.

  “What? What—I’m fine,” I said quickly, wish­ing my words wouldn’t come out so nervous and choppy.

  Salt looked un­happy. “If you do not wish to do this…if you want to change your mind…”

  “No—no of course not,” I said. “I mean…what choice do we have?” I took a deep breath. “I’m just…a little on edge. That’s all.”

  “Of course.” He stroked my shoulder again. “But Andi…I want you to know, I will be care­ful…will be gentle.”

  I nod­ded. “Sure. I know that.”

  “I am not sure you do. Not after what happened at din­ner time.” He got a look of re­morse in his eyes. “Please be­lieve me—I did not real­ize I was spank­ing you so hard. I was…also on edge. Will you for­give me?”

  “Of course, Salt.” I gave him a tent­at­ive smile. “There’s noth­ing to for­give. And I’m not afraid of you hurt­ing me or any­thing like that. I’m just, you know, shy.”

  “For me to see your body, do you mean?” He raised an eye­brow at me.

  “Well…yeah.” I shrugged un­eas­ily. “I mean, I know we’re not do­ing this for real to be, you know, sexual. But I still care about your opin­ion. I mean…what if you don’t like what you see?”

  “Is not pos­sible,” Salt said softly. “I know I will like.”

  I put a hand on my hip. “How can you be so sure?”

  “Be­cause I know you, Andi—you are what I like,” he said pa­tiently. “And be­sides, I have seen you in swim­suit, you know.”

  “A mod­est one piece swim­suit,” I poin­ted out.

  My suit doesn’t show much skin be­cause I only swim for ex­er­cise in the morn­ings at the YMCA. When I put it on, I’m not do­ing it to get male at­ten­tion—I’m there to swim my laps and re­lieve some stress be­fore I have to go to work. That’s all I care about.

  In fact, I couldn’t re­mem­ber the last time I’d dressed up to please a man or cared what any man thought of how I looked either clothed or na­ked…be­sides Salt, that was. I couldn’t help feel­ing if he didn’t like me na­ked it would really, really hurt.

  “I just don’t know what you’re go­ing to think,” I said at last.

  Salt frowned at me. “Do you want me to give hon­est opin­ion?”

  I bit my lip. Did I want that?

  Yes—do it. Like rip­ping off a band­age, whispered a little voice in my head.

  It seemed like a good idea. If I was go­ing to have to be na­ked and let­ting Salt give me a bath every night we were here, it would be much bet­ter to know what he thought and not al­ways be wor­ry­ing about it.

  “Well, all right,” I said. “Yes, I do. Tell me. Not just as a friend or a part­ner—as a man.”

  He nod­ded. “I can do this. Drop the towel.”

  It was one of the hard­est things I’ve ever done but I forced my­self to lose the death grip I had on the pink terry­c­loth towel I had clutched around me and let it drop to the marble tile floor. Then I held out my arms and lif­ted my chin, let­ting my part­ner look at me—really look at me for the first time.

  Salt sucked in a breath and his eyes roved over me hun­grily.

  “Andi…” he breathed softly.

  “Well?” I said tightly. “Go on. Don’t keep me in sus­pense.”

  “You are beau­ti­ful.” His eyes left my body and found my face. “Truly, I would not say so if I did not mean it.”

  “But my breasts are too small,” I pro­tested.

  “Per­fect for your size,” he as­sured me. “Per­fect to fit in a hand…or a mouth.”

  I could feel my cheeks get­ting hot.

  “My thighs and hips are too big,” I poin­ted out.

  “Your curves are lovely,” Salt said softly. “So of­ten the clothes you wear at work hide them. But the dip of your waist…the way it curves out to your hips…” As he spoke, his big hands de­scribed an hour­glass in the air between us. “Beau­ti­ful,” he breathed again.

  “My legs aren’t long enough,” I chal­lenged.

  He smiled. “If your legs were long like gir­affe how could you be my little mishka? I love the dif­fer­ence between us—the way you are so little and per­fect.”

  “All right,” I said. I didn’t know how I felt about the ‘little and per­fect’ re­mark but I de­cided to let it slide. “But you have to ad­mit,” I said, turn­ing to the side. “That my ass is way too—”

  “Red.” There was a slightly hor­ri­fied look on Salt’s face. “Andi, for­give me. You said I spanked too hard but I never thought…” He reached out to cup my bare ass gently. I jumped at his touch but some­how man­aged not to pull away from his big, warm hand.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “It…it hardly hurts at all any­more.”

  “It looks pain­ful.” Salt looked really up­set now. “I am usu­ally so care­ful with you—so aware of how del­ic­ate you are. I never thought—”

  “Hey!” I frowned at him. “I am not del­ic­ate. And just be­cause I’m small doesn’t mean I can’t take a little rough treat­ment from time to time. I’m not made of crys­tal. I won’t break.”

  “I am still sorry,” he said softly. “I re­gret this more than I can say.”

  “Well you can make it up to me later,” I said as I climbed into the tub. The wa­ter was warm and I hissed a little as it hit my still red bot­tom. “Ouch!”

  “See—you are hurt,” Salt said. He looked really up­set with him­self.

  “It’s just the hot wa­ter against my ass,” I said. “Look, Mandy said there’s sup­posed to be some kind of cool­ing gel you can use that’s es­pe­cially for after spank­ings. Find it so I can put some on after the bath.”

  “I will look while you soak in the tub,” Salt prom­ised. He turned to go, then stopped. “But wait—I be­lieve I am not sup­posed to leave you un­at­ten­ded. In fact…” He cleared his throat. “I think I am sup­posed to be scrub­bing you.”

  “I think you are.” I bit my lip. “Um…do they have a sponge or a loo­fah or any­thing around here?”

  Salt searched the bath­room but all he could come up with was a thin white wash­cloth.

  “There is just this,” he said, apo­lo­get­ic­ally.

  “Well, damn.” I eyed the wash­cloth as he dipped it in the wa­ter and poured a drizzle of peach scen­ted body-wash on it. It seemed like everything in the bath­room was peach.

  “Here, give me your hand.” Salt took my hand in his and began wash­ing my arm in long, sooth­ing strokes. “I can do just this—only wash your arms and legs and back,” he offered.

  “Right,” I said dryly. “Berkley is prob­ably watch­ing us right now. He’s go­ing to know we’re not who we say we are if we play it safe. No…” I took a deep breath. “Wash me all over, Salt. If…” I felt sud­denly shy. “If you don’t mind.” r />
  “Of course I do not mind,” he said, his voice com­ing out low and rough as he fin­ished one arm and moved on to the other. “It will be my very great pleas­ure, Andi.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  “You are more than wel­come,” Salt as­sured me. He did my back next and then looked at me. “Is time to wash the front of you now, mishka,” he mur­mured. “Un­less you want me to wash down be­low first?”

  “No.” I bit my lip. “Bet­ter to, uh, work up to down be­low—if you know what I mean.”

  Salt gave me a little half smile.

  “Da—I know what you mean. Come then, lean back against side of tub.”

  He had taken off his suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his crisp, white linen shirt in or­der to bathe me. Now he knelt be­side the tub so that we were al­most on the same level and beckoned to me.

  I saw what he wanted and scooted un­til my back touched the chilly side of the marble tub. Salt was right be­hind me with the wash­cloth, ready to wash my breasts. He put his hands on my shoulders first and just sat there for a mo­ment. I found the firm pres­sure helped the but­ter­flies flut­ter­ing around in my stom­ach settle down. With a little sigh, I felt some of the ten­sion leave my body.

  “That’s right, mishka,” he mur­mured in my ear. “Now is time to be­gin. Just re­lax and let me wash you.”

  I didn’t know how I felt about him call­ing me by my Baby­girl name while we were do­ing this but some­how it seemed to fit. Not be­cause we were about to do some­thing sexual—or some­thing that seemed sexual for the hid­den cam­era, ex­actly—but more be­cause he was tak­ing care of me.

  As Andi, I was a strong, take-charge, in­de­pend­ent wo­man—a dec­or­ated, tough-as-nails de­tect­ive who re­fused to back down from any­one. But as mishka I felt I could let my­self go a little…could al­low my hard edges to soften as I al­lowed Salt care for me in the way he so des­per­ately seemed to want to. As mishka I could be rocked and held and com­for­ted. As mishka I could be more open. More…what was the word I was look­ing for?

  More loved, whispered a little voice in my head. But I pushed it away. That was silly—I couldn’t love Salt and he couldn’t love me. We were part­ners and that was all we were. All we could ever be. Right?

  Right, I told my­self as he squeezed more peach body wash on the cloth and pre­pared to scrub my bare breasts.

  But the minute the wet terry­c­loth made con­tact with my sens­it­ive nipples, I winced and jerked away.

  Salt was in­stantly alert.

  “Prob­lems?” he in­quired anxiously. “Did I hurt you?”

  “Not you ex­actly.” I frowned at the wash­cloth. “It’s that damn cloth—it’s really rough.”

  “Oh?” Salt frowned and rubbed the terry­c­loth between thumb and fin­gers. “Feels all right to me.”

  “Be­cause you’re just touch­ing it with your hand,” I poin­ted out. “Look, I can’t help it, Salt. I’ve al­ways had very…very sens­it­ive nipples.” I felt my cheeks get­ting hot but went on any­way. “It’s a prob­lem some­times when I’m try­ing to find bras. And in the shower, I never use a sponge or scrub­bie on them.”

  “Then what do you use?” he asked and I could hear the frown in his deep voice even though I wasn’t look­ing at him dir­ectly.

  “Well,” I said awk­wardly. “Just my hands, mostly.”

  “Do you wish for this?” Salt mur­mured. “For me to put down cloth and just use my hands?”

  I bit my lip, ima­gin­ing how that would be—hav­ing my part­ner’s big, warm hands all over my bare breasts. I had never ad­mit­ted it to Salt and had tried to for­get it my­self, but I’d ac­tu­ally had sev­eral erotic dreams about my part­ner that went along those lines.

  You shouldn’t, whispered a voice in my head. It’s cross­ing the line. But wasn’t that a line I had already crossed when I took Mandy’s dare to suck my part­ner un­der the table at din­ner? How much worse could it be to let him wash my breasts? And after all, we had to do this for the case—we had to make it look real, I ar­gued to my­self.

  “Andi…mishka?” Salt asked in my ear and I real­ized I was tak­ing too long to an­swer.

  “Yes,” I whispered, nod­ding my head. “Yes, Salt, just…just do it.”

  “As you wish,” he said simply, hanging the cloth over the side of the tub. He drizzled a few drops of the peach body-wash onto his fin­gers and rubbed them to­gether un­til they were slip­pery. Then, gently, he cupped my breasts in his big hands.

  I sucked in a breath as I felt him stroke up­ward, lightly brush­ing over the outer curves of my breasts. Even that barely-there caress had my body hum­ming and I found I wanted more.

  Hardly aware of what I was do­ing, I pressed my breasts for­ward, more fully into his hands. I was hop­ing that Salt would un­der­stand what I wanted.

  To his credit he seemed to get it. Long fin­gers traced del­ic­ately around the wide pink bands of my are­olas, al­most but not quite touch­ing my nipples. He was either try­ing to be very care­ful or he was teas­ing me on pur­pose.

  “Salt!” I pro­tested breath­lessly as his fin­gers slowly circled me. “It’s okay—I told you I won’t break! You can…can touch me—I mean wash me—harder than that.”

  “Like this, do you mean?” He stroked firmly over my aching nipples, mak­ing me moan.

  “Yes,” I gasped. “Just…just like that. Only more.”

  “As you wish, mishka.” He took my tight, pink peaks between his thumbs and fore­fingers and tugged gently but firmly.

  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 sc
en­ario, 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.