“Yes. Please let me come.”
“You come when I say so. Open your legs wider.” I do and he pushes his fingers deep inside me and I moan loudly.
“Does it feel good to do what I say?”
“Yes,” I manage between moans. And I mean it. It does feel good—scarily good. As good as it does to hear him talk this way. Not only now, but at other times, too, when he’s prompted me to speak to him with more respect. I like the tone of his voice when he talks to me like that. His voice thrums deep inside me and I can’t help but want to obey.
“Are you going to remember that in the future when you think it would be fun to talk back to me?”
What’s fun about talking back when there’s this? “Yes—ah. Oh god.”
“Good girl.” And his fingers press down on my G-spot, rubbing hard, firm circles. The orgasm builds quickly from some place very deep, and then I’m over the edge, clenching around his fingers. He doubles down on that sensitive spot and the orgasm goes on and on, longer than I ever thought it could.
Finally my body unclenches and I lie still, breathing hard. He withdraws his fingers and strokes his hands down my back. Then he’s lying down and gathering me against him, whispering, “Come here, sweetheart.”
I feel spent, and it’s not just the orgasm. The way he was talking to me, drawing it out, making me agree to be good, all worked to center me. It was that feeling I was craving more than the orgasm—though it was pretty amazing, too.
“Do you feel better?” he whispers against my hair.
I nod sleepily, burrowing into him. “So much. Thank you.”
“Good. I’m glad.” And he kisses my temple. I breathe in the warmth of him, my eyes closed.
“You’re so sleepy. How about I take you back to your own bed? I’ll be here, just down the hall if you need me.”
That doesn’t sound so bad. I do like my bed with its pretty colored sheets and my stuffed animals. I nod, and he lifts me in his arms and carries me back down the hall to my own room. I wrap my arms around his neck and rest my cheek against his chest. When we’re in my room he sits down on my bed, still holding me in his arms. “Well, aren’t you sweet when you’re tired?” he murmurs into my hair.
A few minutes later he eases me off his lap and tucks me beneath the blankets. “Now, go to sleep,” he says, brushing the hair from my face. My eyes are closed and I just nod.
“Funny little brat,” he murmurs with a smile in his voice. I think I’m asleep before he even leaves the room.
* * *
When I open my eyes in the morning my first thought isn’t dread at what the day will hold, like it has been every other morning this week. I remember Dieter’s shape in the darkness, the weight of him, the growl of his voice as he told me he should have given me a spanking long before now. I thought getting my own way was the only way to feel good, but talking with Dieter, having him be concerned and then severe and then indulgent—so much better.
But then the inevitable intrudes: today is the preliminary hearing. My mood sinks, but not as much as I expected it would. One thought buoys me up: Dieter will be with me.
There aren’t many sober, court-appropriate clothes in my wardrobe, but I do own a cream pantsuit that’s demure and neat. I wear it with a pale pink jersey top, the same color as my hair, which I braid over one shoulder.
By eight a.m. I’m downstairs, fiddling with the charms on my silver bracelet. Dieter comes in a few minutes later, freshly shaved and his hair wet from the shower. I find myself feeling shy, and I only just manage to flick my eyes up to his when he says good morning.
He gives me a once-over and then says approvingly, “You look very smart,” before turning his attention back to fastening his cuff links.
“Thank you.” I blush. I’m not a blusher. Then again I’m not someone who likes being told what to do, either, but Dieter’s managed to make doing what he says a pleasurable experience.
I wonder if we’re going to talk about last night, but he just adjusts his suit jacket and tie, glances at his wristwatch and says, “We should get going. There will be traffic and reporters around the Old Bailey and I don’t want to rush. We can pick up some breakfast on the way, all right?”
“All right,” I manage, and follow him to the front door. There is the sound of journalists milling about outside, as usual. We’ve got this part down pat: he opens the door and goes out first, I pull the door closed behind us and we walk down the stairs together. He keeps one arm hovering around my shoulders, not quite touching me, and the other arm raised to fend off the press. They’ve been getting more aggressive the last few days, practically following me into the car and getting physical with Dieter. He never shoves them back but I’ve seen a dark glint in his eyes that tells me he’s sorely tempted to.
A few minutes later we’re twisting though the streets of Knightsbridge, past white Georgian town houses, and then out onto Piccadilly. It’s a cold, bleak morning, rain spattering on the windshield. Green Park is shrouded with wet mist that clings to the bare trees and dull winter grass.
I wonder what it’s been like for my father, kept in cells all week without any newspapers or the internet and only occasional access to a phone. Has he been cold? Lonely? We’ve spoken a few times, short, unemotional calls in which he tells me he’s all right and the food’s not too bad. Did you do what they say you’ve done? I want to ask him. What happens to me and Mum now?
Near St James’s Palace Dieter spies a parking space outside a Starbucks and pulls over. Inside the coffee shop it’s warm and sweet-smelling. I want to stay there, drawing and drinking flavored coffee all morning.
“What would you like?” Dieter asks me, approaching the cashier.
“Caramel mocha latte,” I say.