The Institute, Daddy Issues(65)

“Of course I am want­ing to touch you,” Salt mur­mured, echo­ing my for­bid­den thoughts. “I am a man and you are beau­ti­ful wo­man. My beau­ti­ful wo­man to pro­tect and cher­ish and care for…how can I not also wish to bring you pleas­ure?”

“Salt…” I whispered, not know­ing what to say.

“Which is why I will wash you very care­fully with cloth between us,” he said firmly. Then he stroked my hair and mur­mured in my ear, “Come, mishka, spread your legs for Papa.”

His use of our role play­ing names sent a new wash of de­sire through me. I pushed away the con­fus­ing feel­ings and doubts that had sur­faced in my mind and leaned back against his broad shoulder again.

“Yes, Papa,” I mur­mured, spread­ing my legs un­der the wa­ter.

By now most of the peach scen­ted bubbles had dis­sip­ated and I could see what he was do­ing as his big hand came down to wash me. I bit my lip to stifle a moan as he star­ted on the in­side of my right knee and made a long, strok­ing mo­tion with the wash­cloth that ended at my in­ner thigh. Then he re­peated the mo­tion with the left leg and thigh…and went back to the right again.

I nearly cursed with frus­tra­tion. Damn it—even though he was com­ing really, really close to my open pussy, he wasn’t touch­ing me there at all. I couldn’t stand this much longer! I wanted his hands on me now, even though part of me knew it was a bad idea. Knew that Salt was right and do­ing some­thing so in­tim­ate would def­in­itely change the dy­namic of our re­la­tion­ship.

Just as I thought I would die of sexual frus­tra­tion, Salt stopped wash­ing me.

“Now, mishka,” he said softly. “I think is time to shave you—yes?” Abandon­ing the wash­cloth at last, he trailed his fin­ger­tips lightly through the small thatch of light brown curls that grew on the apex of my mound.

I couldn’t help moan­ing this time. To fi­nally feel him touch me there—even a little, made me crazy.

“Yes,” I whispered. “Yes, I…I think so.”

“Very good then. Stand up. I think it will be easier to do this if you sit on the edge of the tub.”

Salt helped me out of the warm bath and dried me thor­oughly with an­other big, pink towel. Then he fol­ded it and placed it along the broad edge of the marble tub, in­dic­at­ing that I should sit there.

I sat as he dir­ec­ted, though the terry­c­loth felt rough against my still tender bot­tom. Salt hummed softly as he went about set­ting up the shav­ing paraphernalia we’d got­ten in the bas­ket.

I watched him and felt some­thing shift in­side me. In the tub I had felt sen­sual and warm…ready to do any­thing. Yet now, sit­ting there na­ked and wait­ing to let my part­ner per­form an ex­tremely in­tim­ate ser­vice for me, I could feel some of my nervous­ness re­turn­ing.

He’s go­ing to shave me. I’m ac­tu­ally go­ing to spread my legs and let my part­ner shave me there.

It seemed un­be­liev­able and strange to think of al­low­ing this—of let­ting Salt do this to me. Shouldn’t we work up to this some­how? Maybe I should have him shave my legs first. But I’d had them waxed re­cently—I like to keep smooth be­cause of all the swim­ming I do—so that was out.

Then there was the little fact that we were quite pos­sibly be­ing watched. I really didn’t like the idea of Berkley star­ing at me on a video mon­itor some­where, watch­ing avidly as Salt touched me in all my most in­tim­ate and private places. It made me feel weird and wrong and even more nervous than be­fore.

By the time Salt was all ready to go with the peach shav­ing foam and the pink razor, I was sit­ting like a pret­zel with my arms crossed pro­tect­ively over my bare breasts and my legs wound tightly to­gether.

My part­ner seemed to sense my re­newed anxi­ety—(how could he not—my body lan­guage all but shouted it)—be­cause he knelt on the floor be­side me and put one big hand on my knee.

“Mishka,” he mur­mured, duck­ing his head so he could look into my eyes. “What is wrong? What has changed?”

“I don’t know, Salt. I just…this feels weird.” I shif­ted rest­lessly on the damp, pink towel, cross­ing my legs even tighter. God, my ass was still sting­ing from the spank­ing he’d given me. I wished I had some­thing softer to sit on!