He scoops me up in his arms and carries me into the walk-in shower in the bathroom. “Pull that one,” he says, nodding at a lever. I do, and water shoots down on us. It’s cold at first, and I squeal, but it quickly warms up.
He peels the slip from my body, and then the stockings, and then he soaps me all over with a sponge. I find myself grinning up at him. All these firsts that might have been strange and scary are not with him. Feeling brave, I take his hand and place it between my legs.
“Do you want to come, princess?” he murmurs, and he smiles against my cheek.
I think of all the rules he’s given me, the time he’s spent disciplining me, and I wonder that such a large, austere man can be so gentle, so patient. I feel not only his arms around me, but the warmth of his affection and care.
I nod, wriggling against him, eager for him to touch me. “Please, daddy.”
He pushes two fingers between my cleft, and back, and then stops himself as if he’s remembered something and clutches my shoulders. “Jesus Christ, I want to put my fingers inside you.” But he doesn’t, and instead he turns me around, holding me tight against his chest with an arm around my waist, and uses the middle finger of his right hand to rub circles on my clit, like I’ve told him I do.
I come in minutes, arching hard against him while he holds me tight against his chest where nothing else can touch me.
* * *
A short time later I’m bundled in a blanket on the couch, wearing one of his T-shirts. It’s soft and large and makes me feel small. I watch him pull his jeans back on.
“Want to watch a movie while I make dinner?”
“You don’t want any help?” I ask, snuggling deeper into the blanket.
He grins. “Nope.” Passing me the remote, he shows me where the TV guide is, where the on-demand channels are and where I can stream films. I spend a few minutes flicking around while he heads into the kitchen.
I bite my lip, conflicted. I want to watch something childish, like a cartoon, but I’m sitting in such a grown-up apartment. There are lamps and hardcover books and art on the walls, for heaven’s sake. Losing my nerve, I find a Friends box set and start from the first episode. Friends isn’t so bad. It’s funny, and Rachel is adorable. When she stresses out I want to hand her a coloring book.
The title music starts rolling and Rufus puts his head round the door. “That’s what you want to watch?”
“Yeah,” I say, my voice going up at the end.
“You don’t sound too sure about that, babygirl. It’s not what you wanted to watch on your day off the other week.” He comes over and sits down next to me, taking the remote from my hand and pausing the show. “I know there are times when you might want to watch a sitcom or a drama or even a horror film, but don’t feel like you have to. You can be yourself here, whatever mood you’re in. Do you want to watch Friends?”
“No.”
“What do you want to watch?”
“Beauty and the Beast.”
He finds it for me and hands the remote back. “There you go, kitten.”
I hug a cushion to my chest and lay my head down on the arm of the couch. I watch the film, and listen to Rufus chopping things and filling pans, and I don’t think it’s possible for me to be happier in that moment.
Forty-five minutes later he calls out that dinner is ready. He’s carrying two plates and I follow him into the dining room. He sets down poached salmon and rice, and a mountain of vegetables. Remembering my rules, I say nothing and pick up my fork. I eat the salmon slowly, peeling off a flake at a time and chewing it with care.
Noticing the effort with which I’m doing this, he says, “I thought you liked fish. You ate all your smoked salmon the other night.”
“I didn’t want you to think I was fussy.”
“And now?”
I wrinkle my nose. “I’m fussy.”
He points his knife at my plate. “Eat it. It’s good for you.”
I do, and I get a kiss when he clears the plates. I follow him into the kitchen to help clean up but he shoos me out again. “Not tonight. It’s your first night here. Go. Sit.”
After he’s washed up we watch the rest of the film together. Before he sits down he presses his forehead against mine and says, “Would my poor, starveling sugar-junkie like some Pocky sticks?”
“Yes!” I clutch at his shirt. “Please.”