Chapter 6
Natasha
“I have plans tomorrow night,” I announce at dinner. I’m still jittery from the coffee, probably because I’m not used to having it.
Mr. Hoffman lifts a brow but doesn’t seem as surprised as I would have expected. “With Simone?”
She’s the only friend I ever mention, so it’s natural he would assume my plans are with her. Why am I so predictable? “Yes, Sir.” Ever since I learned about the subtle nuances of the word Sir, I’ve been intentionally using the word more frequently and putting a bit of emphasis on the S for good measure. I think he knows it because he flinches ever so slightly every time I use the word.
“Where are you two going?”
Shit. We didn’t come up with a specific plan. “I’m not sure yet. Maybe the movies.”
“How are you planning to get there?” He’s definitely speaking to me as if I’m twelve and he’s not one hundred percent on board with my plan.
“Simone has a car. She’ll pick me up.”
“Mmm.” He takes a bite and slowly chews it before swallowing. I think he does so to buy some time in order to decide what to say next. “You better check the movie times before you go, Little one. Some movies start kind of late.”
“We will.” I squirm a little, as usual. I’m finding there’s nothing I enjoy more than pushing him so that he’s forced to Daddy me.
“I’ll have Albert get you a handheld pepper spray for your purse.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“It’s going to be chilly. Be sure to dress warmly.”
“I will, Sir.”
He lifts his fork and points it at me. “No drinking alcohol.”
“Yes, Sir.” My ears are hot as he continues to stare at me.
“I’m serious, Natasha. Simone absolutely cannot be drinking if she’s driving, and you don’t have any experience with alcohol, so you don’t know how it will affect you. Statistically, girls are far more vulnerable when they’re under the influence of alcohol. They make poor choices and don’t pay close enough attention to their surroundings.”
“We won’t be drinking, Sir. I promise.” I’m a smart girl. I know he’s right. His presentation is, of course, outrageous, as usual, but I’ve never had alcohol, so I wouldn’t have the foggiest idea how it might affect me.
It’s not that I’m a prude. But I only turned twenty-one last year, and I certainly couldn’t have afforded alcohol before coming to live here. There’s no way I would use the allowance Mr. Hoffman gives me to buy drinks. I use it sparingly and responsibly.
Mr. Hoffman sets his silverware down and leans back in his chair. I can tell he’s not excited about my plans. I’m not surprised, but it is enlightening watching him inwardly freak out over my announcement. Even if I were twelve, it wouldn’t warrant this sort of overprotectiveness. He’s in deep Daddy mode, and he has no idea what to do to manage me. I’ve never gone out at night since I moved in. Watching him silently panic as he tries to look relaxed and calm is fascinating.
For the first time, I wonder where his intense fear about my safety comes from. Something must have happened in his past to make him so concerned about me leaving the house at night. He’s a controlling man all the time, but I suddenly know there’s a reason for it. It has nothing to do with me. Someone in his past got hurt.
Now I wonder if I’m completely misreading him. Maybe he’s not a Daddy at all. He’s just a nervous nellie. I don’t want to ask him about it right now.
“How was class today?”
His abrupt change of subject has me stiffening. I push my mashed potatoes around the plate, not meeting his gaze. “Good. How was work?” Maybe I can turn the conversation back to him so I don’t have to compound my lie. So far, this isn’t a lie. I did have class today, just not this afternoon.
Why do I feel like a horrible person? It was a tiny white lie. Not important. I was still in Albert’s car at four, as usual. All I did was use the time to talk to Simone instead of sitting in class.
There’s no reason why I couldn’t have just told him I was having coffee with Simone. I think I only did it because I wanted to walk on the wild side. Apparently, my wild side isn’t very wild if even the tiniest, unnecessary lie makes me feel this remorseful. I need to get out of here before he asks me something specific about class.
“I’m kind of tired. I think I’ll head up to bed,” I declare. When I force myself to meet his gaze so I don’t look guilty, I find him smiling at me in the strangest way. I shiver. Somehow, I’m certain he knows I’m lying. He’s not calling me out on it for some reason, but he knows.
Am I that transparent? I push my chair back and rise.
“Do you have all your homework done?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Okay. Good night, Little one.” He doesn’t move to stand, which is unlike him. He usually walks me up to my room or, at least, leaves the dining room with me if he’s returning to his office.
“Good night, Sir.” I flee the room as if a fireball is chasing me. I don’t breathe well until I’m in my own room with the door shut. Even then, I pace for a few minutes, running my fingers through my hair.
I’m a terrible liar. I can’t stand the stress. I’ll never do it again. I’m not sure I’ll live through it this time.
I quickly change into my nightgown, brush my teeth, and crawl under the covers. It’s only eight o’clock. There’s no way I’ll be able to sleep yet, but I don’t intend to. I send a text to Simone.
Can you talk?
My phone rings a few seconds later, and I answer it quickly. “Hey.” I sound breathy.
“Hey, you. How’d it go when you got home?”
I groan and keep my voice low. I’m so paranoid that I’m afraid he might be listening at the door. “I’m definitely not cut out for lying. I thought Mr. Hoffman was going to start asking me pointed questions about class. Somehow, I’m certain he knows we didn’t have class. I must have looked guilty.”
“Yikes. If he were your Daddy, he would spank your ass hard.”
“Thank goodness he’s not. Half the time I look at him, I think I’m making this entire thing up. Maybe the reason he’s overprotective is that something happened to someone he loved in the past. Maybe he’s not a Daddy at all.”
“Natasha, trust me, the man is a Daddy. I’m certain of it.”
“Oh, by the way, when I told him you and I were going out tomorrow night, he asked me questions about it. I told him we’re going to the movies.”
“That works. I’ll look and see what’s playing.”
“Then he lectured me about not drinking and driving, dressing warmly, and carrying pepper spray.”
“Not Daddy material at all,” she jokes, laughing.
I slide deeper under the covers and groan softly. “I’m not sure how much longer I can take this. It’s like he’s waiting for me to be the one to say something.”
“It seems that way. I’ll text you in the morning and we can pick out a movie and a time.”
“Better pick a movie that starts before six. Mr. Controlling will start pacing if I’m not home by nine.”
“Not Daddy material at all,” she repeats as she ends the call.
I drop the phone onto the bed and stare at the ceiling. It feels like the world is squeezing in on me. So many things have happened in only a month.
I was homeless, living in my car, eating poorly, and barely scraping by. Now I’m living in this mansion and wanting for nothing because three people treat me like royalty.
There’s just one catch. I’m twelve . I seem to have lost ten years of my life when I moved in. Even Edith and Albert treat me like I’m twelve. It’s not as weird for them because they’re older, but Mr. Hoffman?
I run through the weirdest parts of my existence. How is it that I call my benefactor Mr. Hoffman instead of his first name? Never once has he corrected me and asked me to call him Jameson. Nor does he correct me when I call him sir . And he certainly doesn’t when I call him Sir .
Facts: The man is a Dominant. That much I know is true. He belongs to a BDSM club called Surrender. I’d love to be a fly on the wall in there someday, but I’m not brave enough to actually go there. I’m pretty confident Mr. Hoffman hasn’t gone there—or anywhere else—in the month I’ve been here.
Granted, it’s possible he goes out after I go to bed. I ponder that for a minute. I bet Surrender doesn’t even open until after my bedtime.
I drop that line of thought. It doesn’t really matter. Except it kind of does because the thought of Mr. Hoffman going to a club and perhaps having sex with women makes me feel slightly ill.
I have no right to be concerned with who he might be sleeping with. My relationship with him is boarder/benefactor. He doesn’t see me as an adult. Right?
But sometimes, he stares at me so intently that I can practically feel him removing my clothes with his eyes. Some nights, we sit in the library before or after dinner. I love those nights because there’s nothing better than searching his collection until I find something that doesn’t look too old to touch. I’m far too nervous to open one of the volumes that appears to be a hundred years old.
I like to curl up in the corner of the loveseat and pretend to read. It’s impossible to actually read when he’s in the room because I can feel his gaze on me. There are times when he doesn’t look away for an hour. He just stares at me until my heart is racing and I’m raw and exposed.
Later, I always doubt myself. I must be making it all up. Why would he find me the least bit interesting? I’m half his age, I have no life experience, and I’m poorer than dirt. There must be women lined up, hoping to go out with him. Sophisticated women with sexy dresses that cost more than my tuition, high heels that would cause me to trip, and hundreds of dollars’ worth of makeup.
Maybe he doesn’t like that kind of woman. And maybe I’m delusional.
I know I’m getting closer and closer to confronting him and that’s stressing me out. I’m not looking forward to it, but I’m going to force things to come to a head soon. Probably tomorrow if I don’t chicken out.
I can’t continue to live in limbo like this. If it ends up that I’m totally wrong, I’ll be mortified and probably need to move out, but what if I’m right? That possibility means opening a door I’m not familiar with. I don’t know what’s on the other side. I can’t visualize what it would mean, let alone what it would look like. I’ve tried, and every time I confront him in my head, I can’t picture his response.
I climb out of bed, pad over to the bathroom, and use the toilet. I barely know the woman staring at me in the mirror. She’s living a new life, nearly constantly submitting to a man who hasn’t verbally asked her to do so. She’s wearing a tiny, see-through nightie cut like something a toddler would wear but at the same time sexy and alluring. I have to assume Mr. Hoffman picked it for me.
I shuffle over to my closet and finger through all my clothes, seeing them through new eyes. I’ve always assumed the personal shopper who took my measurements made these selections. Now, I’m inclined to agree with Simone. Mr. Hoffman chose everything in my wardrobe.
How does that make me feel? Little and…aroused. I touch the material of a dress I haven’t worn yet. It’s so pretty. Too pretty for a regular dinner in the dining room, though I’m not sure what I’m saving it for. It’s a very pale pink with tiny pink roses and green stems all over it.
I’ve learned the style is called baby doll. I’ve seen lots of girls my age wearing them, but somehow, I think I would look very young in it. I’ve only tried it on once. The sleeves are more of a ruffle. The front goes over my chest and is a flat panel that sits right above my breasts. From there, it flares out and hangs loosely around me, landing only a few inches below my butt cheeks.
Yes, girls my age wear these, but so do three-year-olds. Girls my age combine them with sexy four-inch heels, jewelry, makeup, and fancy hairdos. I don’t own those types of accessories. If I were to wear this dress, I would have to combine it with flat silver sandals. I don’t even have pierced ears, nor do I own any jewelry to adorn them.
I continue to stare at the dress before I finally take it off the hanger and walk over to the bathroom. I suddenly want to try it on. After pulling my nightie over my head to set it on the vanity, I push the dress down my body. The only thing I’m wearing under it is my panties. They’re plain pink. The personal shopper provided me with several packs of them. Nothing fancy. Just pastel cotton panties. My face flushes at the thought that Mr. Hoffman chose them.
There’s no way I could wear a regular bra with this dress. It would show. The ruffled straps holding the dress up are thin and too far apart. When I close the door so I can see myself in the full-length mirror on the back, I swallow hard.
I look four. I gather my loose hair into two sections and hold them up as if they were pigtails. The dress rises, showing my panties. Needing the full experience, I open the drawer of my vanity, find two hairbands, and put my hair up into high pigtails.
When I release my hair, the delicate material brushes against my nipples, making my breath hitch. My panties are soaked. They always are. Not surprising, really. I twirl around, causing the hem to flare out.
I look so very Little in the mirror. The pigtails make it worse. My bare feet don’t help. Plus, my breasts are small. If they were large, they would push the front of the dress out, but they’re small enough that I look kind of flat-chested in this dress.
I’m trembling and panting as I continue to ponder the implications of this dress and how it makes me feel. Unable to stop myself, I lift my hands to my breasts and stroke my thumbs over my nipples. They pebble instantly, making me moan. I stare at myself while I paste an innocent, coy expression on my face, bite my bottom lip, and turn my toes inward. I look and feel so very Little, and it’s turning me on more than ever. I’ve felt arousal a hundred times since I moved in with Mr. Hoffman, but not like this.
I don’t dare reach between my legs. I’ve never done so. Considering the noise I made when I stroked my nipples, I’d probably scream if I touched my clit.
Until I moved into this mansion, I never had the time or the energy to explore my sexuality. I certainly didn’t have an opportunity when I was growing up. I never once had a room to myself. After I got to college, I started working long hours and studying in between. All I ever felt was exhaustion. Masturbation was the furthest thing from my mind.
Honestly, I hadn’t felt arousal until the day I entered this house. And I’ve been too afraid I might get caught to explore since being here. So, I’ve kept my fingers away from my pussy.
The urge is strong right now, though. The strongest it’s ever been. What would it hurt? Simone jokes about masturbating as though it’s something she and everyone else does often.
I’m twenty-two years old, and I don’t know my own body. I’ve never had an orgasm, let alone had sex. Should I touch myself? I want to. My heart is racing. My fingers are shaking. My lip hurts from biting it so hard.
I gasp and release my swollen lip. I’m so overheated my face is bright red. I have to stop this before I start moaning and someone comes in to check on me. It’s unlikely anyone could hear me, but what if they did?
When I think I might self-combust, I quickly remove the dress, put it back on the hanger, and hang it back in my closet. I’m not sure I like how it made me feel. So very Little and titillated at the same time. My face is burning.
A knock on my bedroom door makes me nearly jump out of my skin. I’m standing next to the closet in nothing but my panties. Shit . I turn and run for the bathroom, grab my nightie, and pull it over my head.
“Natasha?” Mr. Hoffman’s voice is spun gold, sexy and seductive. Does he know?
I run back across the room and open the door without thinking. I’m panting as though I ran a mile to get to this door.
Mr. Hoffman’s eyes are wide, and his mouth opens for a moment before he closes it, swallows, and meets my gaze. “Are you okay, Little one?”
“Yes, Sir.” I sound as winded as I feel. Surely, he can’t know what I’ve been thinking or doing.
His jaw is tight, and then he licks his lips. Lips I’ve dreamed of having on mine for a month.
I don’t dare move an inch. My brain isn’t firing on all cylinders. I might say or do something stupid.
“I was worried about you when you left for bed early. Now it’s getting late, and I saw your light was on. Are you sure you’re feeling well?”
I nod. “Yes, Sir. I was just about to turn the light off and get into bed.”
“Good.” He gives a quick nod. “Get some sleep. It’s after ten.” He points at his watch, reminding me of my bedtime. Technically, he said I could read until eleven, but he always insinuates I should be in bed by ten. As far as he knows, I was in bed until a minute ago when he knocked on the door.
“Yes, Sir.”
He stares at me longer than necessary while my ears ring loudly in my head, and then he nods and turns toward his own room.
I close the door with a soft snick and lean against it, panting heavily once more. When I finally make my way to the bathroom, I look in the mirror and gasp. My eyes bug out of my head. Besides the fact that my cheeks are crimson, my hair is still in pigtails.
I slap my forehead and then glance down my body. Double shit. This nightie is see-through. There’s no way Mr. Hoffman didn’t just get a long look at my swollen breasts and hard nipples.
Mortified, I turn off the lights and climb into bed. I pull the covers up to my neck and lie there, trembling for a long time. Eventually, I tell myself I’ve done nothing wrong. If Mr. Hoffman doesn’t like what he witnessed, it’s his own fault for coming to my room at this hour of the night.