Dirty Daddies(52)

“It’s not fucking soap I want to wash your mouth out with,” Jack growls, and Michael stops hitting me.

He lets go of my hair and helps me to my feet.

And then he pulls my knickers and jeans up.

I feel sick as I see the guilt in his eyes. He feels guilty. Uncertain. I know it and I hate it.

“I was a good girl, right?” I ask, hating how much I need reassurance.

“You were very good,” he says. “Be even better and go to bed now so I can talk to Jack.”

I look at Jack and he nods. “Make sure you take a glass of water up with you, you need to hydrate yourself after the tequila.

I want to stay and hear what they’re saying, but I daren’t.

My heart is in my throat as I look between them one last time before heading out to the kitchen to grab a drink of water.

I make sure my footsteps are loud on the stairs and that I slam my bedroom door so they’ll hear it.

And then I crouch, like a little mouse on the top of the stairs, loving the way my ass burns from where they hit me.

And relieved how good it feels to slip my hand down the front of my jeans.





Jack



Michael looks mortified, and I can’t say I blame him. This wasn’t exactly on the menu as his ideal way to handle one of his waifs and strays.

But it was the right way to handle her.

I’ve no doubt we’ve done the right thing, even if things veered dangerously close to the edge.

“She needed that,” I tell him and he nods even though I’m unsure he believes me.

“She needs to stay away from Eddie fucking Stevens,” he says and I’ve no argument there.

“She will stay away from him. She has us to keep her on the straight and narrow.”

He lowers his voice. “By spanking her every time she does something we disagree with?”

“By spanking her every time she deserves it.”

“It’s wrong,” he says.

“No,” I argue. “It worked. How can that be wrong? The girl is crying out for discipline. She’s crying out for people who’ll stand up to her shit and stay firm through it.”

“And that’s us, is it? We’re going to be the ones to do this?”

I shrug. “Unless you have any better ideas?”

He runs his hands through his hair. “I wanted to fuck her, Jack. I was so fucking close to fucking her. Her pussy was right there by my fingers. I could’ve just…”

“Maybe you should have,” I tell him, and I know how fucked up it sounds. “Maybe we both should have.”

He shakes his head. “No, Jack. No fucking way. This is so fucking fucked up.”

I haven’t smoked in over a decade but I’m gagging for a cigarette right now.

“One of us is going to fuck her,” I say.

“And what about the other one?”

I shrug, because I have no fucking idea. We’re both in deep. Too fucking deep.

“Unless we don’t work out which one,” I think aloud. “Unless we just let it run its course.”

“Like it did tonight, you mean? With both of us on the edge of fucking the girl. I nearly got my fucking dick out when she was over your knee.”

“I nearly got mine out when she was over yours, what’s your point?”

His mouth flaps and I have the strangest urge to laugh at all this.

“My point is,” he says finally, “that we can’t do this. It’s wrong.”

“Probably,” I agree. “So what next? Ask her who she wants out of the pair of us?”

The thought of rejection scares me and I can tell a mile off it scares him too.

“She said she wants both of us,” he says, like I’m not perfectly aware of that. “She can’t be serious, and even if she were, that would never work. It’s insane.”

“Everything about this is insane,” I tell him. “Everything about this whole fucking spectacle is insane.”

His eyes widen as he stares at me. “Don’t tell me you’re even contemplating it.”

It surprises me to find that I am. It surprises me to find that if I had it my way, I’d drag her back downstairs and we’d take it in turns right here and now to fuck that tight little pussy.

She wants it.

We want it.

But the horror on Mike’s face tells me he’s not nearly so sure.

“I have to go,” he says. “I’ve got to think.”

I nod. “Sure.”

“I can’t believe I’m involved in this.”

I get to my feet. “I’m pretty sure none of us fucking can.”

I’ve the strangest urge to ruffle that scruffy hair of his, like I did when we were kids and he was getting stressed about some shit or other.

I’m two months older than Michael and it counted back then. I was always the daring one. Always the one who’d cross the rickety bridge first, just as I was today.