Chapter 9
Marie
T he hiss of the steam wand barely registered as I wiped down the counter for the hundredth time. My hands moved on their own—milk frothing, espresso pulling, lids snapping into place—while my brain looped Dwight’s words like a broken record.
" I’m going to go through the changes in the contract, then, I’m going to kiss your pussy til you come your brains out. ”
I nearly dropped a cup when I thought about it again. He was so damn confident. I kept thinking about his lips on me, his tongue on me, his powerful hands coaxing me into a place of pleasure and decadence. My cheeks burned every time a customer got too close to the counter, like they could see right through me. Like they knew.
"Thanks, Marie! See you tomorrow!" The last customer waved on their way out.
"Yep, night!" My voice cracked, and I busied myself stacking cups, avoiding eye contact. The bell above the door jingled shut. Finally. Alone.
I bolted the door. My palms were clammy against the key, and my chest felt tight, but not in a bad way. More like standing at the top of a roller coaster before the drop. I leaned my forehead against the cool glass for a second, just breathing.
"Get it together," I muttered, swiping a hand under my apron and wiping it against my jeans. But getting it together wasn’t happening. Not with this buzz under my skin, this mix of nerves and excitement that made it hard to stand still.
I glanced around the café. Clean enough. Counters gleamed, chairs stacked, register locked. I didn’t need to stay another minute. I grabbed my bag, keys jangling in my grip, and headed for the back door. Each step felt lighter than the last—like I was running toward something I wasn’t sure I was ready for but couldn’t stop myself from wanting anyway.
***
I’d never been to this motel before, but the place looked bright and inviting enough. Dwight had given me his room number, and I headed to the elevator which would lead me there.
As I stepped into the mirrored box, my stomach flipped. Excitement or nerves—it was hard to tell anymore. Probably both. I looked at my reflection as the elevator moved up, and I reached up to adjust my blouse for the third time, smoothing the fabric over my chest. Too much cleavage? Not enough? God, why did I wear this?
"Get it together, Marie," I muttered under my breath, grabbing my purse and stepping out before I could chicken out.
When I reached his door—number eight—I froze. My hand hovered near the wood as I mentally replayed everything we’d talked about. Contracts. Rules. Trust. Kisses that had left me breathless. I swallowed hard, tugging at my skirt. Did I look okay? Would he think I looked ridiculous showing up like this?
"Stop stalling," I whispered to myself, then knocked softly before I could lose my nerve.
The door opened almost immediately, like he’d been standing on the other side waiting. Dwight filled the doorway—broad shoulders, steady green eyes locking onto mine. His gaze flicked down, taking me in, before snapping back up. I couldn’t breathe for a second. The way he looked at me . . . it wasn’t just attraction. It was something heavier, something that made my knees feel like jelly.
"Hey," I managed, my voice smaller than I wanted it to be.
"Hey," he said, his voice low and warm, but there was tension in it too. Like he was holding himself back.
"Can I come in?" I asked, though the answer was obvious. I needed to say something to break the charged silence.
"Of course." He stepped aside, his big hand brushing the edge of the doorframe. I slipped past him, catching the faint scent of soap and something earthy, maybe cedar. It fit him.
The room was small, clean but impersonal. A single lamp cast a soft, yellow glow over the table by the window. That’s where I saw it—the contract. Sheets of paper neatly stacked, his messy handwriting scrawled all over them. My stomach twisted again. This was real. This was really happening.
"Have a seat," Dwight said, his voice careful, measured. Almost too casual. He gestured toward the chair nearest the table. I hesitated, unsure whether to sit or keep standing while my nerves buzzed under my skin. But when I glanced up at him, he was already moving, tidying a few stray pages on the table like they weren’t already perfectly straight. His movements were quick, precise, like a soldier lining things up for inspection.
"Sorry about the mess," he muttered.
I let out a nervous laugh, trying to ease the knot in my chest. "Dwight, this place is spotless. Are you kidding me?"
His lips twitched—almost a smile—but he didn’t look at me right away. Instead, he turned his attention back to the papers, stacking them again for no reason. “My drill sergeant would not have been happy with this place,” he said. “But thankfully, he’s not here right now.” That little tic of his, the need to be in control, made my heart squeeze. Beneath the confidence he wore so well, I caught the edges of something vulnerable. Maybe he was as nervous as I was.
I was so curious about the change from soldier to rockstar, but right now didn’t seem the right time to ask about it. The switch from super-disciplined to super-degenerate must have been crazy.
Eventually, he straightened and met my gaze, his hand resting on the back of the other chair. "You okay?" he asked, his tone softening just enough to make my throat tighten.
"Yeah," I said quickly, nodding. "I’m good."
"Good." He nodded once, then gestured toward the chair again, more firmly this time. "Sit, Little One. Let’s start."
I did as he asked, because of course I did.
Dwight slid the stack of papers in front of me, his movements steady but deliberate, like he was trying not to spook a skittish animal. His knuckles brushed the tabletop as he tapped the edge of the pile, straightening it one last time before sitting across from me.
"Alright," he said, his voice low and calm, but with that same thread of quiet authority that made my stomach flip. "I went through everything you sent me. I’ve got a few notes."
"Okay," I murmured, leaning forward. My fingers fidgeted with the edge of my sleeve, but I forced myself to meet his eyes. They were focused, serious, and something about the way he looked at me—like this mattered, like I mattered—made my breath catch.
He flipped open the first page, his handwriting sharp and precise in the margins. "Here," he started, tapping a note he'd scrawled next to one of the rules. "You mentioned punishments for missing check-ins. I think we should clarify what those look like beforehand. Keeps us both on the same page."
"Right," I said, nodding quickly. My gaze flicked down to where his finger rested on the paper, the heat rising in my cheeks. "That makes sense. What were you thinking."
“Spankings,” he said, without missing a beat. “Corner time for repeat offences.”
I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. “Okay. That sounds reasonable.”
"Good." He moved to the next point, pausing just long enough to glance up at me again. I felt like I might start trembling at any second. "I also added a note about aftercare. You didn’t mention it specifically, but I figure it's non-negotiable."
"Yeah," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. I swallowed hard, the knot in my chest loosening just a little. "Thank you. That’s . . . important to me." I hadn’t even considered aftercare, even though I’d read about it on a couple of forums while doing my research.
He nodded, his expression softening for a split second before the focus returned. "And here"—he pointed to another section—"confirming limits. I know you said we’d discuss them, but I wanted to make sure they were all written down too. Just so there’s no confusion later."
"Right," I said again, biting my lip as I leaned closer. There was something grounding about the way he explained it all, like he wasn’t just taking this seriously—he was taking me seriously.
"Anything you want to add or change?" he asked, setting the pen down beside the stack.
I shook my head. "No. I mean, not yet. This is . . . good. Really good."
"Alright then," he said, his lips twitching into the barest hint of a smile. "Let’s talk limits."
The air shifted between us, heavier somehow. I sat back, my hands curling into fists in my lap. Vulnerability wasn’t exactly my strong suit, but if Dwight could lay it all out like this, the least I could do was meet him halfway.
"Hard limits," I started, my voice wobbling just enough to make me cringe. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Um, anything involving blood. Or humiliation. I’m not into that."
"Got it," he said, his tone careful but firm. He picked up the pen and jotted a quick note in the margin. "Anything else?"
"Uh . . ." I hesitated, glancing away for a second. "No sharing. Like, with other people. Ever. I need to feel safe."
"Of course," he said immediately, and when I looked back at him, his expression had softened again. "That’s a given, Marie. It only works for me if we’re exclusive."
"Thanks," I mumbled, my face burning. I took a shaky breath and forced myself to keep going. "Soft limits . . . I guess anything too public? I don’t want to risk someone finding out. At least not until I’m ready."
"Fair," he said, nodding as he wrote that down too. When he set the pen down again, his green eyes locked onto mine. "Your turn to ask me."
"Right," I said, straightening in my seat. My heart pounded against my ribs, but I pushed past it. "What about you? Hard limits?"
"Honesty," he said without hesitation. "That’s it, really. Anything else, I’ll consider."
"Okay," I said softly, chewing the inside of my cheek. Honesty. That seemed like a totally reasonable one.
"Soft limits," he continued, leaning forward slightly. The chair creaked under his weight, and the sound made me jump. "I’ll admit, I’m still figuring them out. I haven’t done . . . this"—he gestured vaguely between us—"in such a formal way before."
"That’s okay," I said quickly, relief flooding through me. "We can figure it out together."
"Good," he said, and this time his lips curved into a real, albeit small, smile. It was gone almost as fast as it appeared, but it left something warm in its wake. "Safe words. You’re comfortable with ‘yellow’ and ‘red’?"
"Yeah," I said, nodding. "They work."
"Then we stick with them," he said simply, picking up the pen one last time to underline something on the page. When he set it down, he folded his hands on the table and looked at me again, his gaze steady and unwavering. “Now, what about sexual preferences?”
My heart raced.
“Well, I definitely want to try some subby stuff. Nothing degrading or humiliating.”
“I figured as much. Little stuff? While we are being intimate with each other.”
“I think definitely spanking. I wouldn’t mind being tied up. And, uh, I think that I really like being, um, praised.”
“Do you now?”
“Mmhmm. Letting me know I’m doing a good job.”
“That sounds fun to me.”
“And sometimes, if I get bratty, then you could be stern with me.”
“This sounds perfect. What about specific acts.”
“I uh,” I paused for a minute. “I really like sucking cock. Like really like it.”
“That’s convenient.” His eyes were dark with lust.
“And I, um, like the idea of belonging to you. Of you doing whatever you want to me.”
“Have you ever done free use stuff?”
“What’s that?”
I asked, my face heating up even more. I'd heard the term before, but I wasn't exactly sure what it meant.
Dwight gave me a small smile, his eyes sparkling with amusement and a hint of pride. "It's when someone is in a relationship, but they let their partner use them however they please, whenever they please. No strings attached, no expectations. Just pure physical gratification."
The idea was both exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. I bit my lip, considering it for a moment before nodding. "Okay," I said softly, feeling braver than I thought I would be. "I trust you."
His smile widened, and he leaned forward to whisper into my ear, making my skin tingle where his breath touched me. "That's all I need to know."
"What about you?” I asked. “What do you like?”
He paused for a moment, his eyes locked on mine, and I could see the hesitation in his expression. It lasted only a heartbeat before he shook his head and met my gaze again. "I like being in control," he said softly, his voice deep and resonant. "I want to make sure you're safe and taken care of while I explore your body and mind."
His words sent shivers down my spine, and I couldn't help but imagining him guiding me through our encounters with gentle yet firm authority. His lips curled up into a smile as if he could read my thoughts, and I knew that we were truly in sync with each other's desires.
“I want to find out what makes you moan, what makes you scream. I want to discover every inch of you and make it sing with pleasure."
“Well . . .” I said, my voice shaky, “That sounds . . . nice.”
"Good," he said, his voice low and even. But there was something in his eyes now—a spark, a certainty—that made my pulse race. "Then let’s move forward. Marie," Dwight said, his voice softer now, but edged with something firmer underneath. "Let’s go through some rules."
I swallowed hard, my pulse thudding in my ears. I nodded, gripping the edge of the table like it might anchor me. “Okay.”
He leaned back, but his presence felt bigger somehow, like he’d taken up all the oxygen in the room. His green eyes locked on mine, steady and unyielding. “I already mentioned daily check-ins. Honesty. No holding back.” His tone dropped lower, almost a growl. “Do you think you can do that for me?”
Heat crept up my neck. My mouth went dry. “Y-yeah,” I stammered, cheeks burning red.
“You sure?” His brow lifted slightly, a challenge written all over his face.
"Yes." My voice came out steadier this time, but I couldn’t stop fidgeting, my fingers twisting the hem of my sweater in my lap.
"Good girl," he said, and just like that, my stomach flipped. He leaned forward again, his voice quieter now, pulling me closer like a magnet. "This isn’t halfway, Marie. If we’re doing this, we’re all in. You understand?"
"Yeah," I whispered, barely able to meet his gaze. The weight of those words settled deep in my chest, heavy but not unwelcome.
"Good," he repeated, sitting up straight, exuding calm control. "Second," he continued, unfazed. "No more than two sweet snacks a day. Third: No cussing at Daddy. Fourth: Always communicate with Daddy, no matter what. Fifth: Clean up after yourself—" He paused, his lips twitching, "and keep your toys clean."
"Toys?" I asked, my voice cracking slightly.
"Your toys," he clarified, his tone even, though his lips curved into something teasing. My heart raced faster.
"Got it," I managed, though my mind was already spinning trying to process everything.
"Say it back," he ordered gently, folding his arms across his broad chest. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes held me captive.
"Um—" I stumbled, scrambling to recall the list. "Sleep naked, two sweets, no cussing, communicate, clean... stuff."
"Close enough," he said, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in approval. "You’ll get better at remembering."
"Gee, thanks," I muttered, rolling my eyes, but the flush in my cheeks betrayed how much his attention affected me.
"Watch the attitude, young lady," he warned, voice dipping into something darker, and I snapped my mouth shut, biting back the grin threatening to break free. My whole body felt like it was buzzing, alive with his energy, his control.
"Now," he said, standing up slowly, his height towering over me as he gestured toward the bed. "How about a practical demonstration?"
"Wh—" I blinked, my head jerking up to meet his gaze. My throat worked around words that wouldn’t come.
"Stand up, Marie," he said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. That half-smile was back, playful but commanding. "Over here."
I set the contract aside carefully, though my hands were shaking. My chair scraped loudly against the floor as I stood, knees wobbling like they forgot how to work. My heart pounded so hard I thought he might hear it.
"That’s my girl," he murmured when I finally moved, taking hesitant steps toward him. His approval made my stomach flutter, even as every nerve in my body screamed that I was walking into uncharted territory.
"Clothes off," he said, simple as a weather report. His voice didn’t waver, didn’t rush. He just stood there, waiting, like he had all night. Like he expected me to obey without question.
"All of them?" I squeaked, though I already knew the answer.
"All of them," he confirmed, his eyes never leaving mine. His gaze wasn’t impatient or demanding; it was steady, grounding. Still, the weight of it made my skin prickle, heat rising in waves under his silent command.
"Okay," I breathed, reaching for the hem of my sweater. My fingers trembled as I pulled it up and over my head, dropping it onto the chair behind me. My tank top followed, then my jeans, each piece feeling heavier than it had any right to be.
"Slower," he said, his voice like a low hum, vibrating through me. I froze mid-motion, my hands hovering near my waistband. "Take your time. I want to see you."
His words shouldn’t have made my legs weak, but they did.
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my panties, the last barrier between his eyes and all of me. My chest felt tight, like I couldn’t quite catch a full breath. The air in the motel room had weight—thick with his gaze, thick with everything unsaid. Slowly, I slid them down over my hips, letting them fall to the floor.
"Good," he said, low and steady. His voice curled around me like a blanket, pulling me in. I fought the urge to cover myself, to fold inward, but his eyes—they didn’t flicker, didn’t roam. They held me there, rooted, as if he could see more than just skin.
"Come here," he murmured, holding out a hand. It wasn’t a command this time. It was softer but no less powerful. I stepped forward, my bare feet silent on the worn carpet. When I was close enough, he reached for me, his hands settling on my waist, warm and firm. He pulled me in until my body met his, every point of contact sending little sparks up my spine.
"How do you feel?" he asked, his voice quieter now, careful. His palm splayed against my lower back, grounding me, holding me steady.
"Like . . ." My throat bobbed as I swallowed hard. "Like I’m going to pass out or run away." I tried to laugh, but it came out shaky. "But also like I don’t want to be anywhere else."
"That’s honest," he said, brushing a thumb over my hip. "That’s perfect. And nervous is okay. Are you scared?"
"Not . . . not scared." I hesitated, then looked up at him. "I trust you."
"Good girl," he said, and something about the way those words landed made my whole body buzz. My lips parted, and before I knew it, the word escaped me—small, tentative, testing.
"Daddy." It felt so natural.
His grip tightened just slightly, like the word had hit him harder than he let on. His green eyes darkened, but there was no rush, no demand, just that same quiet strength radiating from him. "If it feels too much—" His hand moved to tilt my chin up, so I couldn’t look anywhere but at him. "Yellow or red, remember?"
"Yellow or red," I repeated, barely above a whisper. My heart thudded against my ribs, and he must’ve felt it because he smiled—just a little, just enough.
"Good girl," he said again, softer this time, almost reverent.
And then he kissed me.
It wasn’t like before, not desperate or fast. This kiss was slow, deliberate. His lips were warm, firm against mine, guiding me but never forcing. One hand stayed on my chin, anchoring me, while the other slipped up my back, fingers tracing along my spine.
My knees wobbled, and I leaned into him, letting myself get lost in the heat of it. Every nerve in my body lit up, tingling, alive. His lips moved to the corner of my mouth, then my jaw, pressing soft, lingering kisses that made my head tip back without thinking.
"God," I breathed, the word slipping out unbidden as his mouth hovered just below my ear. A soft moan followed, and I didn’t even recognize it as mine until I felt his smile against my skin.
"Still good?" he asked, his voice rougher now, edged with something deeper.
"Yes," I managed, though my breath was unsteady. Too unsteady. “Better than good. That was everything.” He pulled back just enough to look at me, scanning my face like he was checking for cracks.
"Tell me what you’re feeling," he said. His tone was gentle, but there was an edge of steel underneath it—a reminder that he expected an answer.
"Safe," I said, surprising myself. "And . . . excited."
"Good," he said, his thumb brushing over my cheek.
His thumb kept brushing my cheekbone like he was memorizing the shape of it. "One more thing before we go further," he said, the gravel in his voice making my stomach flip. "Let’s test the safewords. Proper protocol."
I blinked up at him. "Right now?"
"Right now." His fingers drifted down to my ribs, hovering. "What color are you?"
"Green," I said automatically.
"Good." His hands darted suddenly, fingertips skimming my sides in a merciless tickle attack. I squealed, jerking away, but he pinned me gently against the edge of the motel dresser. "And now?"
"Dwight—!"
"Color, little one."
"Yellow, yellow!" I gasped between giggles, squirming.
He stopped instantly, hands shifting to cradle my waist instead. "Perfect." There was pride in his voice, but his eyes stayed serious. "How did that feel? Saying it?"
"Kinda silly." I pressed my lips together, then admitted, "But good. Like . . . I know you’ll listen."
He nodded once. "Always." His palm slid up to cup the back of my neck. "Let’s do it again."
We ran through it twice more—his hands wandering deliberately from playful to dangerously close to too much , my laughter dissolving into shaky yellows that he honored without hesitation. By the third round, my skin felt electric, over-sensitive, every brush of his knuckles against my collarbone sending sparks down to my toes.
"Enough?" he asked, watching my chest rise and fall.
"No." I swallowed. "More."
That earned me a flash of a smile—genuine, unguarded—before he scooped me up like I weighed nothing. “I’ve got something else for you,” he growled, before flinging me down. The mattress hit my back, springs creaking softly. He stood at the foot of the bed, gaze dragging over me like he was unwrapping something fragile.
"You’re shaking," he observed.
"Not from fear."
"I know." He knelt slowly, knees bracketing mine. His palms slid up my thighs, making me tremble. He looked at me like I was the most important thing on the planet. "Tell me why."
The rasp of his calluses against bare skin pulled a whimper loose. "Because you’re . . . taking your time."
"Damn right I am." His thumbs dug into the crease where my legs met my hips. "Never had something this precious on my bed before."
Heat flooded my face. My hips lifted involuntarily.
"Ah-ah." He pressed me down. "There’s no rushing Daddy."
The title slipped between us like a key turning. His pupils blew wider, black swallowing green. For a heartbeat, his hands stilled—a tremor running through him that I felt in my bones.
"Dwight?"
His exhale shuddered. "Last chance to—"
I grabbed his face, cutting him off. "Don’t you dare fucking stop."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Language, little girl. Maybe I should do something that’ll keep you quiet."
His eyes were dark promises, and I knew I wouldn't be able to resist him. But something in me was desperate for this—for the command, the control, the surrender. The tension between us crackled like electricity.
"Do it," I whispered, my voice barely above a whisper. "Shut me up."
He leaned down, his eyes never leaving mine. His breath was warm on my skin, sending shivers dancing down my spine. The tip of his tongue flicked out, teasing me with just the barest touch against my lips. A silent promise of what was to come.
"Say it again," he growled, his voice low and gritty. "Tell me you want me to take control."
I licked my dry lips, savoring the taste of him lingering there. "I want you to dominate me," I breathed desperate and needy.
The triumph in his eyes was undeniable as he claimed my pussy with a possessive kiss. His tongue plunged deep, tasting me, marking me as his. The power dynamic shifted, and I knew that I had made the right decision. This was what I needed, what I craved. To be taken by him completely, in every sense of the word.
The first lick punched a noise out of me I didn’t recognize. High, desperate. His grip tightened, holding me open as he laved slow stripes through the ache.
His tongue curled, finding a rhythm that had my back arching off the sheets. One hand slid under my ass, tilting me harder against his mouth. The other clamped over my hipbone, pinning me in place when I tried to grind up for more friction.
"Please—"
The word dissolved into a gasp as he sucked lightly, then harder. Lights burst behind my eyelids. My fists twisted in the cheap motel comforter, fabric ripping somewhere near my shoulder.
His mouth was a hot, wet inferno. Every touch, every flick of his tongue sent me spiraling closer to the edge. My body was on fire, my skin tingling with sensation. I couldn't control the moans that spilled from my lips, or the way my hips bucked uncontrollably against him.
"Please, Daddy," I begged, my voice breaking with need. "I can't take it anymore."
His grip on me tightened, his fingers digging into my skin in a way that was both painful and delicious. He tilted my hips even further, his tongue delving deeper inside me.
My back arched off the bed as he found that spot deep inside that made stars explode behind my eyelids. The pressure and pleasure building and building until I couldn't hold back any longer.
"Fuck!"
"That's it, little girl," he growled against me. "Let go for Daddy."
And just like that, I shattered into a million pieces. Pleasure coursed through every inch of my body as I rode out the waves of ecstasy he had brought me to.
He didn't stop though. His mouth never left me as he drew out every last drop of pleasure from me until I was limp and boneless beneath him.
Finally, he pulled away with a satisfied smirk on his face. "Good girl," he praised as he climbed up the bed towards me.
"Look at me."
My eyes flew open. He’d pulled back just enough to watch me unravel. Sweat dampened his hairline, sticking dark strands to his forehead. The sight of him—mouth glistening, jaw set with concentration—wrecked me worse than anything physical.
"Beautiful," he muttered, raw-voiced. "Fucking perfect."
I reached for him blindly. He caught my hand, interlacing our fingers as he stretched out beside me.
"Still with me?"
All I could manage was a nod.
His laugh rumbled against my temple. "Good girl."
“I cussed,” I breathed, barely there any more.
“Just this one time,” he said with a grin, “I’ll allow it.”
Then he handed me a pen. “Ready to sign, Baby Girl?”
I was ready.