I lean over, until my mouth is an inch or so from his ear and whisper, "Fuck me, Daddy."

No.

I don't do that. I want to but I don't. Beyond the fact that any sort of sexual proposition is inappropriate in a dentist's office, there's the outrageously perverse implication of the particular words themselves. Above all, and playing havoc with my fantasy, is the ridiculousness of a forty-year old woman delivering that sort of line.

My gaze slides back to the magazine, but my mind meanders over his knees and wonders, idly, what kind of a spanking he'd deliver.

I glance at his hands, folded carefully in his lap. They're large and rather soft looking and I imagine they'd feel wonderful sliding over my ass, once he'd smacked it to a nice, glowing red. Long, well manicured fingers—just perfect for...

Stop it, stop it, stop it!

I clear my throat, turn the page of the magazine, and cross my legs in a completely unnecessary attempt to block him from reading my thoughts.

Because daddies know what bad little girls are thinking. Furthermore, they can tell instinctively when your panties are slightly moist and getting wetter. And, without even touching them, they are reliably aware that your nipples are turning into achingly hard little nubs beneath your bra.

Of course, what makes them so disapproving of that sort of thing is that knowing what a tremendously filthy little girl you are makes their cocks uncomfortably hard. If you squirm while sitting on their lap, or sigh in that very telling way, they can't help themselves.

And then, of course, it's the slippery slope, isn't it? They have no choice but to give you a good spanking.

Dragging me across his lap, he ceremoniously pulls up the hem of my skirt and wrenches down my panties. Surveying the territory only momentarily, he brings his big, flat palm down onto my right ass-cheek with a loud smack.

At first, it's almost impossible not to squeal. I bite my lip hard. But a few more deliciously stinging smacks and I forget all about squealing and moan instead. His right hand has a firm grip on the back of my neck as his left does the honours. Beneath me, my covered nipples press painfully into his thigh and I imagine how much more delicious it would be if I could feel the scratchy wool of his trousers against them. Just the thought of raking my sensitive nipples over the fabric brings me close to coming.

"Mr. Greaves. The dentist will see you now," chirps the receptionist.

For a moment, I'm in a panic. I wait to see if this man sitting next to me, the one I've mentally taken such liberties with, is Mr. Greaves. But he isn't.

Because that one last smack makes me clutch at his leg and whimper, "Daddy, please!"

"Please what, princess?"

"Please, it burns!"

His hand is soft, just as I knew it would be, and he caresses my reddened skin and slides the tips of his fingers between my cheeks and down, casually probing the wet mess that my cunt has become.

"But you seem to like it so much," he says, teasingly. And teasingly, he burrows his middle finger between the slick folds of my cunt, grazing my clit.

My body shudders in his lap and, being the filthy little slut I am, I ease my thighs apart encouragingly and mew sweetly. I do this because I know exactly what effect it will have. And predictably, in that way only fantasies can be, I feel the urgent bulge of his cock grow and nudge my torso.

"Oh, baby, why are you so wet?" he asks gruffly, a bit like a papa bear would ask who's been sleeping in his bed.

Unable to think of a good reply, I squirm a little in his lap, until I can unzip his trousers and wrestle his fully erect cock out of his clothing. When at a loss for words, a really filthy little girl needs to keep her mouth busy. Clutching his dick in my hand, I cover the head of it with my mouth and moan. This is by far the best response to a difficult question. Sucking greedily, I manage to get most of it into my mouth. I'm receiving a lot of encouragement to do this, too; his fingertip has begun to draw slow, lazy circles around my clit, and his thumb is pushing in to my wet, hot passage.

"That's it," he says, pumping his hips shallowly. "Suck it all in, baby."

"Excuse me," says the receptionist, who has snuck up while my mind was elsewhere and is now standing right in front of me, looking down. "Are you Miss Soames?"

It takes me a moment to mentally check my face for signs of drool. "Um...yes. That's me."

"Your appointment was for five?"

"Yup."

She has the decency to look embarrassed since it is now six-thirty. "We're running a little late as you can see. I'm afraid we're going to have to reschedule your appointment for tomorrow. Yours too, I'm afraid," she says, addressing the man sitting next to me.

Get your lecherous gaze off my Daddy, you bitch!

"I can't come tomorrow," I reply.

This is actually a lie. I could come tomorrow, but I don't want to have to get up and leave in the middle of my fantasy. I glance over at my neighbour.

Who is holding my head, pushing it gently down onto his throbbing, and leaking cock.

"Oh, yes, baby. Good girl. Suck it for Daddy."

He exhales in noisy resignation. "Well, what times do you have available? I can't make it in the morning."

I'm pretty sure you could, if I teased you enough.

"We've got a slot open at three-thirty," the receptionist says helpfully, ignoring my reply completely.

You competitive little cow. Your slot's probably open 24/7 but I bet you can't suck cock worth a damn.

"I suppose that will have to do."

The woman turns her bureaucratic, beady little eyes back to me. "And what about you? How about Wednesday—say, eleven?"

"I guess so. Wednesday." I close the magazine, grab my purse, and stand up.

When I get to the door of the office, he's holding it open for me. "I hate dentists," he confides. "I was all ready to submit to his torture, and then... Well." He sighs and shrugs his shoulders. They're wonderfully broad.

I was all ready to submit to your torture, but they cancelled the appointment.

We walk to the elevator together and I press the call button. "I hate them too. I have to sit there waiting and pretend I'm some place else, just to keep my mind off it."

"Oh?" He smiles and chuckles. "Where do you go?"

"I..." I hesitate. Part of me really wants to tell him where I go, and part of me knows he'll freak right out. Still, I'm probably never going to see this man again. Does it really matter? I take a breath. "Do you really want to know?"

He smiles again. "Yes, actually. I really do. Of course, if it's personal, you don't have to tell me."

I giggle inanely. "Oh, it's personal alright."

You have no idea how personal. Your fingers were getting very personal indeed.

He shrugs again and nods his head. "Fair enough."

The elevator arrives empty and we enter it. He hits the lobby button.

But still, that filthy little girl part of me wants to tell him, wants him to know. I want to see the look on his face when I say the words. "No... I'll tell you. But I need to whisper it."

A broad grin spreads across his face and his eyebrows rise. "There's no one here but you and me."

"Yeah, but still. I have to whisper it. Okay?"

"Okay," he says with good humour, and stoops a little so I can reach his ear.

I lean over, quickly pouring the whole of the fantasy I've just had into his ear. I watch his face as I whisper, expecting a look of shock and utter revulsion, expecting him to draw back, as if stung by some awful, poisonous insect. But he doesn't. Even as I finish telling him, and step back, he remains stooped. His eyes close and the smile that was previously on his face changes to something else—something completely unreadable.

The elevator chimes and the doors slide open. I rush out, leaving him behind, frightened to find out what the expression means.

*               *               *

'Love is Blue,' played on a tinny, electronic keyboard.

They have awful muzack on in the waiting room. Some insane office planner probably thought it would be soothing, but it isn't. I sip my cup of Starbucks, and page through a truly gripping magazine story on the over-prescription of anti-depressants to seniors.

"Mrs. Wheatley. The dentist will see you now," calls the receptionist.

It's just gone eleven and they're already running late again. I recross my legs and keep on reading. The article is actually rather interesting. Apparently half the senior citizens in homes are on some sort of happy drug.

I'm doing my very best to keep my mind off the sound of the dentist's drill which has a nasty way of piercing through walls. My mind drifts away down the institutionally green corridors of an old age home. Cackles and hoots of drug-induced euphoria are emanating from every door I pass.

Now Martha, put your clothes back on or we'll have to give you a whacking with the slipper. Oh, no. Not the slipper! George, stop that. You leave Martha's breasts alone!

Orderly, Orderly! Look at meeee!

No, Ethel. Please! We don't do that sort of thing to hair brush handles, do we now.

I look up as, out of the corner of my eye, a dark shape takes the seat next to me. My heart stops beating for a frighteningly long moment. It's him. I give him a pleasant 'hey-there-what-a-coincidence' smile and begin quiet, mental cardiac resuscitation.

He smiles back and turns his head, looking straight ahead at the receptionist's counter. I do the same. As if waiting for a dentist to probe your pain centres isn't bad enough, sitting next to the man I so recently spilled my perverted guts to is excruciating.

Well it's done. I can't take it back now. And, anyway, what the hell is he doing here today? His appointment was for yesterday afternoon. No, I'm not going to get all worked up about it. Well, I probably could, if he'd let me sit in his lap.

"I thought your appointment was for yesterday. Did they bump you again?" I ask, still looking straight ahead.

"Nope."

"Follow-up work?"

"No."

"Oh. Okay," I say warily.

"Actually, I was hoping to see you." His voice is casual.

"Really?" I do my best to keep my voice casual, too. But it's not working. "And why's that?"

He clears his throat. I can tell that he's uncomfortable and he's still not looking at me. "We had an interesting conversation last time we met."

As much as I try not to, I blush bright red. "Oh, really?" The question comes out sounding like a bad actor trying to sound innocent.

"Really." He leans back a little in his chair, crossing his arms over his suit jacket. "I'd like to continue the discussion, if you're willing."

"Miss Soames? The dentist will see you now."

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Um... I have to go," I stutter, reaching blindly for the purse at my feet. "I'm sorry..."

"Don't worry. I'll wait," he says, reading my mind.

*               *               *

"Doesn't it bother you?"

"What?"

"That I'm a middle-aged woman. Doesn't that spoil the fantasy somewhat?" I ask, feeling rather stupid now, standing on the irredeemably beige carpet of an irredeemably beige hotel room.

"No." His back is towards me as shrugs off his jacket and lays it neatly over the ubiquitous hotel room armchair. "Does it bother you that I'm not your father?"

I laugh; I can't help it. "I've never had a single ounce of attraction for my father in my life. This is... well... I don't really know what it is."

He turns to look at me. "You weren't ever abused or anything, were you?"

"No. Absolutely not. Never."

He looks relieved. "Good. That part was bothering me a little."

I wander over to the bed and sit on the edge of it. "And you? Have you ever had an overwhelming desire to mess around with your daughter?"

"Actually, I don't have any children. But I understand what you're asking." He sits down on the bed beside me at a discrete distance. "Look, I don't even like young women. I mean adult young women. They're just too... Well, I guess you don't need imagination when you're young, do you?"

I look at him, slightly uncomfortable. "So...what's the deal then?"

He gives me that shrug, the one that makes his big shoulders roll. "I could ask you the same thing. Are you sure you want to psychoanalyze this? Or..." He reaches out a hand and covers mine, grasping it, pulling it towards him. "Would you rather just come here and sit on my lap."

Grinning a little, I move over, tentatively settling myself on his legs, caught between a sense of utter absurdity and the electric feeling of overwhelming arousal. His arm slips around my waist.

"Mmm. That feels good." Removing his glasses, he holds me tight as he leans over, putting them on the bedside table.

Just the sensation of being held and moved is arousing. Suddenly, a strange giddiness sweeps over me. "Yes. Yes it does." I wrap an arm around his neck, and tug his tie loose.

He looks at me, and for the first time, I notice that his eyes are big and warm and brown. Somewhere in there is a sliver of sternness that sends a delightful shiver up my spine. Warmer still is the hand he puts on my knee, sliding it upwards, beneath my skirt. I squirm, I can't help it, and before he even reaches my crotch, I can feel his cock, stiffening, pushing into my hip.

"What colour panties?" he asks, running his fingertips under the leg elastic of them, burrowing.

"White."

"Lovely. Just right for the occasion." His fingers dip between the folds of my pussy, already soaking. It's been soaking since I left the dentist's office. "My, my. What a slutty little girl you are. You're all sticky."

My hand, which has been lying uselessly in my lap, worms it's way between my hip and his cock, cupping it. My thighs open. As he slides a long finger into me, I moan and begin to unzip him.

"Do you like it? Do you like Daddy's cock, baby girl?" His fingers drill me, stroking into me, his thumb on my clit.

"Yes. I do," I whimper, fumbling into his shorts and curling my hand around the shaft, stroking it. "God, I do."

"Say it, baby girl," he growls. The hand at my waist drifts down, sliding over and squeezing my ass firmly. "Say it."

I press my lips against his ear and whisper. "Fuck me, Daddy."