Chapter Ten
My father cries at the wedding, but they are tears of happiness.
“I couldn’t have pictured my princess with anyone more worthy,” he says to Silas at the reception. “Take care of her. It’s not every day a father hands off his baby to the care of another man.”
Silas shoots me a grin. I think he’s impressed, too, to find that my father is as old-fashioned as he is.
“Mr. Clement,” he says. “I will treat her as if she’s my little girl.”
My father smiles. I nearly giggle. My poor dad has no idea how literally my husband means those words.
The wedding is everything my father could have dreamed of for his little girl, and he enjoys himself once he gets over the hit to his pride. In typical fashion, Silas insists on paying for everything. He likes my father, and the feeling is mutual. I think the wedding details—in which my husband took a keen interest—were tailored to make this day as special for his future father-in-law as it would be for me.
Like everything else, it reaffirms that my instincts about Silas were right. Even when he tried to pull away, I could see something deeper in the man who first misled me, then quite literally held me captive in his house. I confided in him that in so many respects, I have lived my own fairy tale with him.
“Then a fairy tale wedding is only fitting for my special princess,” he told me.
And it is a fairy tale wedding, but pulled off in a way that’s still elegant and dignified, from the ceremony in the gothic family church to the reception in the rented ballroom of an old country manor let out for such occasions. My dress is beyond beautiful; the tiny tight bodice flaring into a wide skirt of ivory tulle glittering with thousands of tiny crystal beads. The ceremony is held at dusk, the church lit by hundreds of candles. Silas stands tall and straight as my father, sniffling slightly, walks me down the aisle.
I am transferred from one doting daddy to my daddy dom as we exchange vows that have special meaning to both of us. He promises to guide, to protect, to cherish, to never forget the incredible responsibility of my gift, which we both know is my submission. He promises to nurture that gift, to grow it. In turn, I promise to cherish and love him, to encourage his gifts—which we know to be his authority and protection—to honor, to obey.
We wondered how the last bit would be received, and ultimately decided we didn’t care. All that mattered were our promises to each other. We did a lot of talking before our big day, about life beyond the wedding, expectations, whether we could maintain the dynamic.
We agreed not only that we could, but that we should continue as daddy dom-little girl. Silas does not want kids. “You’re enough for me,” he says, and asks me if I can be happy with a lifetime of being doted on. His own experiences with his father have him doubting his capacity to be a good father; he’s terrified of repeating the patterns of his father, of being too jealous to love a child. I am too smitten to imagine anything beyond what we have. There are enough children in the world, I tell him.
He offered me any place in the world for a honeymoon destination—London, Paris, Milan. But I told him we had our whole lives to see the world, and that I only wanted to focus on him for now. Silas had smiled at this, so he rented the entire manor where the reception was held, and now here we are, man and wife, in a grand suite.
“Well, princess,” he says as we sit on the bed sipping impossibly expensive champagne. “Tonight marks the beginning of the next stage of our life. It’s been a fantastic day, so let’s keep it going. Is there some fantasy you’d like me to make come true between these four walls? Some dark desire you’ve not yet revealed?”
I think about this. “Well…” I say. “Anything I come up with could never top the best fantasy.”
“Which is?”
“The one in which a sneaky young woman seeks to find a sugar daddy, only to find the tables turned on her by a gorgeous and mysterious gentleman who masterfully unlocks her taboo desires for a read daddy figure, one who gives her something worth more than all the riches in the world.”
He takes my champagne flute. “That, my pet, is sweet. You should be a writer.”
“I like numbers better these days,” I say. “We could talk about the stock market if you prefer.”
He chuckles. “Not tonight. Tonight, I have something else in mind.”
“Oh?”
“Tonight,” he says, “I’m going to be your real sugar daddy.”
He takes my hand and lifts me from the bed. I’ve already changed from my wedding gown into a diaphanous nightie and sheer thong panty. Silas lifts the nightie up and over my head, strips me of my panties, and lays me down on the downy coverlet.
“A sugar daddy,” he says, “needs a sugar baby.” He reaches into a box on the nightstand and takes out an ornate jar and what looks like a miniaturized squat version of the feather duster I used to use when I was doing my chores. Now he tells me to relax as he dips the duster into the jar, coating it with a powder finer than anything I’ve ever seen.
“Honey dust,” he tells me, but of a special blend he had made just for me. It’s sweeter than sweet, and he applies with the duster, starting by sweeping it over the hollow of my throat before moving it between my breasts. He dips the duster back into the jar, focusing on my left breast now, and I watch. It feels highly erotic, the tickling of the feathers as they move in concentric circles from the base of my breast to the nipple. I’m already so aroused, and the lightest brush of the feather causes my nipple to harden. He continues, painting my body like a canvas. Everywhere he brushes, the dust sticks, coating me in a sweet, powdery glow.
“Spread your legs, my sweet,” he says, and I comply. He coats my lower belly, the top of my labia, but avoids the slick folds of my needy pussy, telling me I’m naturally sweet there in a deep growl that makes me squirm and blush.
The tops and insides of my thighs, the hollows of my knees, my calves, my feet. Then he turns me over, lifts my hair and starts coating me at the nape of my neck.
Who knew my spine was an erogenous zone, or the hollow of my back? Silas talks as he coats me, telling me how he’s going to lick every minuscule grain of sweetness from my body as I shudder at the feather’s touch.
And he does, and the effect is that I feel utterly consumed by his dominance, a living feast for a powerful master whose tongue dances over my body. I wriggle under his mouth, crying out as his teeth nip the base of my buttocks before his tongue soothes the hurt away. I lose track of time, and when he finally lays me on my back once more and spreads my legs, the surprises aren’t over. Silas coats my clit with a gel that heightens the nerve endings. The need I feel for stimulation of this sensitive bud of flesh is overwhelming. I writhe on the bed, moaning, begging.
“Focus,” he demands. “Tell Daddy what you need.”
“Fuck me!” I cry. “Please!”
“In a bit,” he says, dipping his head between my legs and giving me my first shattering orgasm of the night. I buck against his mouth, unashamed, unbidden, and when I feel as if I can take no more, he slides up over me and pushes his cock between my quivering thighs.
He fucks me hard as I fist the covers and dig my heels into his back. I feel him tense, and draw him closer, eager to be rewarded by the warm flush of seed into my core, but he pulls back, turns me around, pulls my hips toward him.
I look back. He’s lubing his cock, his eyes focused on my ass. And I know what he has planned; for all of our play before marriage, I come to bed this night as a virgin in one final respect. The inflatable trainer, which we’ve employed over the months leading up to our wedding, has prepared me for this moment. But I’m still slightly afraid as I watch him fist lube onto his huge cock.
The nudge of his head against the tight asterisk of my bottom hole feels different than the pressure of the pointed plug. The flared tip of his cock is larger, and while firm, not as hard. But its stiffness and his persistence are all that is necessary to breach my body’s inadequate resistance as he enters, his cock head spreading me, stretching me wider and wider.
“Ooooohhhh…” I say. “I can’t. It hurts.”
“You can. And you will. Let me show you.”
He reaches between my legs, pinching my clit, and the sensation sends a jolt of sexual current through my body, causing an instantaneous orgasm. Just as it begins, he slides his cock in further, making the taboo access to this untouched region of my body an intense experience that will forever be married in my mind as pleasurable.
I begin to move, following the fingers he shoves into my pussy, pushing back on his cock as I do.
“That’s my girl,” he croons as he begins to move, holding my hips now, moving me back and forth on his cock. My pussy is clenching, and later he will come inside me, in the shower. But for now, he is building to his own orgasm as he prepares to spill himself into an unchristened well.
“You make me so happy,” he says, and I smile into the bedclothes, reveling in my power as well as his. He’s in me fully now, groaning as his cock, sheathed in the tightness of my ass, begins to pump. I feel the warmth of his cum, the sensation here so odd. He touches my clit again, and we come together, our first mutual orgasm as man and wife.