Chapter 79 Elliot
Elliot
Eight Months Later
It feels strange to be in here, sage-green and somber, faced off with Stuart’s big, imposing desk, butt cheeks not quivering in fear.
Very unusual. Feels pretty nice, actually, not that I don’t love the quivering and everything else that usually goes down in this room.
It’s just that today isn’t that kind of day.
Stuart is sitting in his leather swivel chair, and I’m standing across from him, watching as he combs through my bank statements.
He looks up at last and places his ruler and highlighter back in the stationary canister on the left of the desk without having drawn a single line on a page. His eyes are soft and dewy, looking at me with so much love and pride I don’t need him to say it to know it’s there. I feel it.
“Well, it’s official, Elliot. You are out of debt.”
I whoop and jump up, pumping both arms in the air. “Yessss!”
“I knew you could do it.” He smiles. “In fact, I was so sure you would that I got you a little something to mark the occasion.”
He comes over to my side and leans against the desk, holding a small box out to me. It’s dark-blue velvet with rounded edges and a gold maker’s mark embossed in the center. It looks so pretty that I almost don’t want to open it. I almost want to keep it like this. Perfect and unspoiled. Like me.
Kidding.
I’m spoiled as fuck, and of course, I want to open it.
I take it from Stuart and rip the box open as fast as possible.
“Oooh,” I say, heart starting to flutter. It’s a sterling silver star-shaped keyring. The same shape and style as the stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. My first and last names are inlaid in gold. “Thank you, Daddy. I love it.”
“Turn it over,” he smiles.
I do as he says, and my breath catches so hard my chest caves like I’ve been punched.
There, engraved on the back in deep block letters, are the three little words I never knew I needed to hear, see, or feel.
Three words I had never felt even once before I met Stuart.
Three words I come closer and closer to believing every single day we’re together.
The perfect amount
I clutch the keyring to my chest and throw myself at Stuart. He circles me with his arms, tilting his head to the side, making a space for me. A safe space. The safest, best space I’ve ever been in. I burrow into it and cling to him tightly.
“So,” he says when I’ve settled down, “what do you think you’re going to put on it?”
“My house keys. Definitely. Haven’t lost them once since I started living here.”
“Uh-huh, and what about this?” He kneads the back of my neck with one hand for a moment and then pulls away, opening his palm to show me a key.
Old but almost pristine. Black and silver.
A wreath and a shield. The Cadillac coat of arms is instantly recognizable, but it takes me a few beats, a big smile, and a nod from Stuart before I fully understand what’s happening.
“The Caddy?” I cry, voice lilting horrifically. “For me? No way!”
“Yes, way.” He smiles. “You’ve worked really hard, baby, and you’ve shown me how responsible you can be over the past few months. You deserve it, and I want you to have it.”
“I…uh…” It’s not often that I’m at a loss for words, but believe me, right now, I’m coming up empty. My heart is punching hard and feels full to overflowing.
“Now,” he says, suddenly all business, “bear in mind that being a vehicle owner comes with a lot of responsibilities. It’s not all fun and games.
There’s a lot of maintenance and know-how that goes into it.
But don’t you worry. I’ll teach you everything you need to know about owning a classic car.
I promise you that.” I get that delicious belly-churning, scared-happy feeling I always get when I know I’m in for a lesson.
“Let’s go to the garage and take her out for a spin. What do you say?”
“Yes, please, Daddy!”
As we head for the door, he turns to me, eyes darkening and starting to flame, and says, “Actually, why don’t you open Daddy’s special drawer, baby.”
I’m instantly heightened, senses firing as I pull the narrow drawer open, looking down at the all-too-familiar, ominous sight of Stuart’s implements of correction.
“Which one do you want, Daddy?” I ask with only a slight tremor in my voice.
“Razor strap.” He smiles.
“Uh.” Oh God. The razor strap has had me dancing a time or two.
That thick leather strap really tears a strip off when swung just right.
And Stuart always swings right. My ass cheeks prickle with heat as the memories come flooding back.
A sharp thwack. A deep burn. An unforgettable evening spent kneeling on the sofa, red and unhappy, the sorriest boy in the world, as Stuart taught me the difference between ornery and polite once and for all.
I blink once or twice to organize my thoughts. “W-what do you need it for?”
“Well, there’s a lot to learn about taking care of an older car.
It’s a big responsibility. I know you’re going to do your best to be a good boy, but I will be quite strict because when it comes to heavy machinery, mistakes have serious consequences.
You and I both know how you do your best learning, don’t we?
So let’s take the strap out to the garage with us.
You can hang it on the hook behind the door so it’s on hand should I need it. ”
My belly flip-flops with fear and hunger and craving. My dick swells profusely, dripping from the mere thought of being bared and bent over the hood of the sexy car my Daddy just gave me.
Talk about a gift that keeps giving.
“Thank you, Daddy,” I whisper.
It’s Saturday, and I’m feeling fine. And by fine, I mean fine.
I’m super happy with my outfit today. Watermelon-pink shorts and a bright turquoise tank, how could I not be?
The shorts are new, and I can’t wait to see what Stuart thinks of them.
Sadie trots beside me, her mood buoyed by mine as I skip down the stairs two at a time and head to the garage, where Stuart is waiting for me.
The garage is bright. A halogen bulb flickers above us, bouncing off electric blue and making it glitter.
The smell of old cars, sawdust, and Stuart infuses the space.
There’s a work bench to one side and every tool Home Depot has ever stocked displayed on the back wall.
Every one of them has their own place, something I didn’t fully understand a few weeks ago but now do.
As always, the razor strap hangs on the hook on the door.
A permanent threat. A promise of pain with lashings of pleasure.
“Hi,” I chirp, watching in satisfaction as Stuart turns to me. His eyes stretch a little wider than usual as he takes me in. I sway my hips from side to side and trace a finger along my bottom lip, blinking innocently at him. “D-do you think my shorts are too slutty, Daddy?”
“Hmm,” he murmurs, “come here so I can get a proper look.”
I sidle over to him, giggling when he grabs my hips and spins me around roughly.
He worries the hem of the shorts and dips a finger under the skimpy fabric that only just covers my ass.
He slides his hand under my briefs, and I sigh the second I feel the heat of his skin on mine.
He considers me for a while, rubbing me this way and that, parting my cheeks and then dusting each one off with a big, circular motion that gets my blood pumping hard.
“You know what, baby,” he says as if the matter is not only serious but one he’s given a great deal of thought, “I don’t think they’re slutty enough.
” He takes the waistband firmly in both hands and rolls it up once, digging fabric into the crack of my ass and making me feel interfered with in the very best way.
“I only hope you’re not wearing those undies with the T. rexes blowing each other on them.”
“Oh no, Daddy,” I say categorically. “I’m definitely not wearing those.
” It’s true. There are no T. rexes blowing each other to be seen on this boy today.
I learned my lesson about that underwear, believe me.
My briefs today are adorned with the cutest little hedgehogs.
Spikey prickles and adorable little faces.
I mean, yes, technically, they are fingering each other up the ass, but that’s not what Stuart asked, and I don’t think there’s any pressing need to disclose that information.
He raises a suspicious brow. “Is that the truth, baby?”
“Um, yes, Daddy.” I gulp and nod. T. rexes are a totally different species than hedgehogs, so I’m pretty sure I can get off on a technicality.
“‘Cause you know I won’t hesitate to teach you where the saying ‘liar, liar, pants on fire’ comes from, don’t you?”
I bite my lip and nod again.
“Good. Then why don’t you put your overalls on so we can get started. We’re going to be changing the oil today.”
“But, Daddy, I don’t look nearly as cute in my overalls,” I grumble.
“Put them on, little boy.” His voice carries a clear warning. “If you get any oil on your new clothes, I’m going to put you over my knee and spend a long while seeing if I can turn your bottom the exact same shade of pink as those slutty shorts.”
I giggle, wander to the cabinet, and start riffling through it to find the overalls. As I do it, “Push” by Matchbox 20 starts playing.
That’s what happens when you share your life with a man in his forties. Your playlists become decidedly eclectic. I don’t think there’s any way around it.
“You know what I’ve always wondered, Daddy,” I say sweetly. “How did people dance to this olden-day music?”
“Olden-day music?” He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, fighting a smile. “Boy, you are about to receive an education.”