The Institute, Daddy Issues(64)

“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…