Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 57270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
This is the tricky part about telling people about the anorexic voice. Sometimes people hear what I’m saying and get defensive, thinking I’m blaming them for my disease. I can still hear my mother saying to my doctor, back in the first days after my diagnosis, “I never told her that she needed to lose weight. How dare she put this on me?”
Mum didn’t tell me to lose weight, but the voice said it’s what she wanted, a daughter who isn’t so disgusting and greedy. Doctor Loftin once asked me how often the nasty voice talks about what other people think of me. Ninety-nine percent of the time, I told her.
“Why has it been hard to eat this week?” he asks me.
“Because I had to tell my therapist about you. And now I have to tell you that I told her.”
I bury my face against his thighs and wrap my arms over my head, seeking to hide as much as I’m seeking comfort. I feel again the unfairness of it all, that I can never just enjoy something. It always has to be raked over and analyzed.
Mr. Blomqvist strokes my hair and doesn’t say anything.
“I’m scared because if I slip, she’ll send me back to the anorexia ward,” I say, my words slightly muffled against his thigh. “It’s the worst place in the world. You have no idea what it feels like. Not because of what they do to you, though that’s bad enough. Because of the shame you feel in your heart.” I take a deep, shuddering breath. “But I’m not going to slip.”
He goes on stroking my hair.
“I looked up this daddy dom thing online the other day. It’s called daddy dom, little girl. You never call me your little girl. You probably made a mental list of danger words never to use with me. I’m grateful, but it’s hard, you know? Realizing that you’ve had to censor yourself around me.”
Finally, he murmurs, “Being my girl is not about your size or the way you look. I don’t feel censored because it’s easy to call you other things.”
I lift my head and look up at him. “Convince me, please. Convince me of everything, in that way you do. Especially, convince me that I haven’t just made you hate me because I told you the truth about me.”
Mr. Blomqvist stands up and helps me to my feet. His mouth descends on mine in a kiss that takes my breath away, and he pulls me so tightly against his body that the heat from his chest envelops me. He’s kissing me like a lover, and I need that so badly, and when his hand creeps up to take tight hold of my hair, I need that even more.
“Take off your underwear,” he orders me.
I do as I’m told, and he grips my hair the entire time, and each movement I make tugs sharply on my scalp. He holds out his hand for my panties, and then spins me around so I’m facing away from him.
He picks me up and sits me on his desk, and ties my hands behind my back with my underwear. “Open your legs.”
I draw my knees up to my chest and open them while he takes vicious hold of my ponytail again and pulls me back against his chest. His other hand reaches down and strokes my thigh. The play of his fingers is gentle at first, and he trails over the seam of my pussy and back again. Then he grips my thigh, hard, his fingers digging in, and I hiss in pain.
“Do you think I would stand for anyone hurting my käraste?”
I hesitate, not knowing if I’m allowed to speak or not.
His tongue curls up the rim of my ear. “You may answer me. Is that what you think?”
“No, daddy.”
His hand travels back to my sex and delves between my pussy lips. I’ve grown wet while he’s handled me roughly and sweetly and then roughly again.
“Good. I would have to be angry with you otherwise. Do you know what I do to girls who start believing dirty little lies?”
“I—”
I start to answer, but he takes his hand away and then smacks it against my sex. Bright pain fizzles through me. I try to curve my body around the pain, but he grips my hair mercilessly and pulls my legs open again.
“Did I say you could move?”
“No daddy,” I whimper.
“I won’t stand for you disrespecting yourself. Not looking after yourself is disrespecting you, and it’s disrespecting me as well. I expect better than that from you. Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
He smacks my pussy again, harder than before, and it makes a wet, smacking sound. “What was that?”
Fuck, that hurts so bad. He’s spanking me far fewer times than if it was my ass, but it’s ten times more intense.