Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 66851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
“We don’t even have to look at all the footage,” he had told me. “Selecta’s image tech will tell us if you put on the robe when you shouldn’t.”
But I hardly even thought about it, and thank God the buzzer didn’t even sound once. I read just about everything I could find about my daddies’ job, and the time seemed to go by very quickly. Much too quickly, really, because I could guess what Daddy Jacob and Daddy Phil had planned for tonight: Daddy Phil had patted my bottom with a very significant look in his eyes as he had said goodbye, and I had watched the corner of his mouth quirk upward at the flush of crimson that I had felt come instantly into my cheeks.
A bad girl only gets fucked with a sore bottom.
And if the fucking was a kind of fucking she had never thought she might have to have? A kind that made her bottom even sorer, and in a much more shameful way?
I swallowed hard every time I thought about it, and I looked at the clock, and the time seemed to go by at a supernatural rate. I had supposed I could make it pass more slowly—crawl, even—by reading the technical stuff in the office. I had done fine in Language Arts at school, but reading had never really been my thing, in any way, shape, or form.
To my dismay, (but not really, I guess) I got lost in what should have been the dry, boring details of my daddies’ job. Something about knowing that my real, gorgeous daddies had to go out and do the stuff I read about made the memos from Selecta corporate mean more to me than any novel my teachers had made me read. It didn’t seem to matter that I’d only met them yesterday, or even that they had paddled me and used my body so long and so hard for their dominant pleasure.
What did matter was the other side that I had seen of them, and especially of Daddy Jacob. As I sat there and read about recommended procedures for using firefighting robots to contain and extinguish the kind of raging inferno that I understood my daddies might have to put their lives on the line to fight, I saw Daddy Jacob’s look of care and concern. I felt my face heat up anew, like some kind of bodily echo inside me of the searing heat a firefighter had to know how to survive. I tried not to think about the pleasure my brown-eyed daddy’s hard manhood had brought as he drove it into me, but I kept having to pull my hand away from the place it had drifted to, down between my thighs.
Daddy Jacob had told me about the other thing the surveillance cameras could detect.
“You don’t have permission to masturbate, honey,” he had said, very frankly, as if it were the kind of thing a daddy said to his little girl all the time. “I’m sure you can guess what will happen if you do.”
How can I possibly be horny? I wondered over and over. My butt still hurt from the paddle, and my pussy still felt sore from my daddies’ huge cocks. Walking to the bathroom to pee, or to the kitchen to get lunch, I felt sore down there. Every time I moved in the barely cushioned desk chair, I winced with discomfort. They literally spanked me and fucked me until I could barely sit down, my mind whispered, bringing a deep frown to my face and making me look for something else on the desk or in the office to distract me.
Then I would think of the noises I had heard coming from Ashley’s room, though, and I would have to swallow again, and chew on the inside of my cheek, and look at the clock as I pulled my hand away from my naked lap one more time.
You don’t have permission to masturbate, my daddy had told me. No wiggle room there. My backside wiggled anyway, over the plastic upholstery of the chair, and I let out an involuntary little noise—a very little noise, that went with the little voice I had discovered inside me yesterday, when answering my daddies.
Did Ashley have permission? Is that what she’d been doing?
I glanced at the clock yet again. Somehow it had already gotten to four-thirty. My daddies had told me they would get back to the firehouse at five. An idea for something I could do—that my daddies hadn’t told me I shouldn’t do—came into my head. I knew the moment I thought of it that it wouldn’t matter to my daddies that they hadn’t explicitly forbidden it.
I had just spent nearly a full day naked and alone in an office, though, during which I had answered exactly one telephone call with the prim “Safety Services 6521” that the Office Assistant Manual specified and taken a message that Daddy Jacob should call Bob in Human Resources. I needed something to do. Plus, I felt pretty sure I could get away with it, because the sleeping quarters of the firehouse were kept in pitch-black darkness. No surveillance camera would see me.