The Long Corruption Ch. 01 - The Deal

Author's Note:

The Long Corruption is a slow-burn erotic drama that follows the story of Jeanie Dalton, a sheltered farm girl whose life begins to change when a powerful man from her father's past returns to collect on old debts. What starts as a simple land deal evolves into something more layered, where power, obedience, and desire begin to reshape the people involved.

This is a long-form series centered around slow transformation, emotional manipulation, and the subtle erosion of innocence. If you're looking for instant gratification or quick hookups, this probably won't be your thing. But if you enjoy tension, evolving dynamics, taboo undercurrents, and characters who slowly lose, or find, themselves, you may find this worth the ride.

Trigger Warning:

This story includes themes of coercion, discipline, power imbalance, and non-violent domestic control. While everything remains consensual within the characters' world, some scenes may push boundaries or explore morally gray situations. The goal here is realism, mild discomfort, arousal, and slow psychological shifts, not cartoonish kink or one-dimensional dominance.

Early chapters focus on world-building, character development, and the groundwork for what's to come. Jeanie's journey is just beginning. The heat builds as the control deepens.

Thanks for reading--

More to come.

The phone chirped as Mr. Addams ended the call with a flick of his thumb.

"We're leaving in forty-five," he said flatly, never looking at her. "Put the Prescott files in my briefcase."

"Mmhmm," came the muffled reply.

"Make sure the calls are forwarded."

"Yes, sir."

"And confirm with the housekeeper that--"

"Yes, I've already--"

"Stop talking," he cut in, his voice had a hint of irritation. "Just nod or swallow. Either will do. You're against the clock, so hurry it up. You still have other things to do."

Mr. Addams looked down at Carmen as she stilled, then gave an obedient nod. She was on her knees under the desk. This was a routine they had established and her hands were currently resting lightly on his thighs, fingertips near the base of his cock. Her black blouse was unbuttoned halfway, and she had wrapped her lips around his cock once more with lipstick smudged into the crease of his tailored slacks near the open fly.

He shook his head, irritated by the small mess. The damage was done. Carmen's only option was to work harder to make him forget about the smear. She wanted him to be fully satisfied. As he returned to flipping through paperwork, she slid her hands inward, wrapping around him to help bring him to the orgasm he expected. Her lips sealed tighter, jaw relaxing, increasing her pace. One hand followed the motion of her mouth, her thumb pressing into the sensitive underside as she advanced and retreated. Her other hand moved lower, cradling his heavy balls through the slacks. He exhaled through his nose, a small sound of satisfaction.

"Forty-three minutes," he muttered, checking his watch without looking down. "You still have work to do before we go."

His tone remained flat, as always, but Carmen had learned to read his responses. She could feel him thickening in her mouth and knew exactly where to place her tongue, or where her fingers needed to rub for his specific pleasure. She could already feel him twitching in her mouth and hear his breath getting a little faster. The steady leak of precum coated her tongue with a familiar saltiness.

The desk made things difficult. If she angled him wrong, the desk bumped against the back of her head, but she maintained her rhythm without interruption. She simply increased the suction, and the flutter of her tongue, shifting her attention to his crown.

A desperate little whimper slipped from her throat as he bucked once, involuntarily. His breath caught in a grunt he barely suppressed, eyes squeezing shut for a moment. Leaning back, he gripped the arms of the chair as her tongue worked beneath the crown, teasing the ridge until she felt it. The warm, familiar release against the roof of her mouth where she'd angled him, then the rest as he emptied onto her tongue.

It wasn't his strongest orgasm, in fact, it was smaller than usual. She was glad nothing leaked, but she was still disappointed in her performance, knowing she hadn't done her best work. Without a word, he stood and then zipped his pants with efficient movements. She barely had time to wipe her mouth before he was already striding toward the door. Carmen began considering all of her own work she still needed to gather, knowing she had to be ready to continue her responsibilities as his assistant, a role she took seriously and worked hard to excel at, including these private moments.

"Do you plan to sit there all day?" he asked coldly. "I already told you I need those files before we leave."

Climbing out from under the desk, Carmen winced as her knees protested. That's getting more uncomfortable, she thought, brushing her palms against her knees as she stood. Before she could fully regain her balance, his voice called out again.

"And change your blouse, for fuck's sake. You've got something on it."

He rounded the corner and disappeared without waiting for a response.

"Shit." She looked down where a single wet spot marked the edge of her blouse, Either a trace of saliva or an errant drop of his cum. She'd thought she was careful, but it didn't matter. He'd already seen it.

Turning sharply, she exited the room and moved quickly to the closet in her own office down the hall, yanking the door open to find a clean blouse. As she changed, her mind returned to the mental list she'd started forming beneath the desk. Files. Forward the calls. Housekeeper. And now, wardrobe. The list went on.

Still so much to do and the clock was ticking.

Carmen reappeared 10 minutes later in a clean blouse, hair perfected and gloss reapplied. Mr. Addams sat watching one of the news channels, jacket on, and car keys in hand, while she started to address the items he mentioned and the dozen more he didn't, but that needed to be done before they left. Every time she walked through the room he was in, she saw him scanning his watch like it owed him time.

She didn't bother apologizing. He wouldn't acknowledge it anyway.

The drive out of the city was quiet at first. The low growl of the convertible's engine filled the space between them, punctuated only by the rhythmic click of the turn signal as James guided them onto the main highway.

They were heading to the country. Specifically, the house where his father had built, and he had grown up in. A sprawling, modest estate tucked between overgrown citrus orchards and a town that hadn't changed much since the he'd been born. James maintained it not out of sentiment but strategy. It gave him presence. History. A threadbare sense of rootedness he could leverage when dealing with people who still cared about things like bloodlines and land.

It was also where Mr. Dalton lived. Or rather, lingered.

James drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the road. "He called again last night," he said flatly. "Didn't ask this time. Just assumed I'd be bailing him out."

Carmen glanced over. "How much?"

"Enough that his tone was embarrassed," James said dryly. "So, more than last time, I'm sure."

He didn't bother to elaborate further. This wasn't the first time Mr. Dalton had dug himself into a financial hole, and it likely wouldn't be the last. Gambling, mostly. Sometimes it was cards, sometimes it was some scheme dressed up as investment opportunities or bad luck or the fault of someone else.

James didn't particularly like the man, but that wasn't the point. There was a history there. His father had believed in second chances, even third ones, and had extended them to Dalton like charity. James saw no point in rewriting that legacy unless it served a larger purpose.

There was also his land. Mr. Dalton's farm was no longer a working farm, but it sat in just the right spot to make it prime real estate for those that knew. Or at least it would be soon enough.

"You think he'll be at the house already?" Carmen asked.

James nodded. "He'll be there. Desperation always shows up early."

She smirked but didn't say anything more. James could be ruthless, but he wasn't careless. If Dalton was reaching out again, there was something to be gained. Be it leverage, favors, or perhaps simple control. Regardless of what it was, there was surely something in it for him.

James let his gaze drift to the side mirror, watching the city skyline shrink behind them.

"I'm not in the habit of saving drowning men," he said. "But I don't mind offering them a rope just long enough to hang themselves with if they're careless."

They left the highway just past the county line, the road narrowing into a two-lane that wound through sunbaked hills and long-standing groves. The citrus trees grew in orderly rows. They were well-kept but not pristine, and their fruit was fading with the season. A faded wooden sign simply read Los Olivos Road, its paint cracked but legible, the kind of marker you only noticed if you already knew where to look.

James hadn't slowed in years as he passed it. The iron gate at the base of the drive was already open when they arrived. James frowned slightly.

"He's here," he said.

The house came into view around the bend, three stories of faded white stucco, terracotta tile roofing chipped with age, and creeping ivy that no gardener had quite managed to tame. It looked grand and tired at the same time. A relic clinging to the illusion of relevance.

Carmen adjusted her sunglasses as James eased the car up the circular drive. Parked off to the side was an older Ford truck that hadn't seen a wash in months. Dalton's. One tire slightly underinflated and a rear bumper half-hanging from a rusted bolt.

Of course.

As the car came to a stop, James didn't move at first. He simply sat there, hand resting lightly on the gear shift, his expression unreadable.

"He needs you more than you need him," Carmen said softly, sensing the shift in his silence.

James gave a slight smile. It wasn't a warm smile either.

"He always has," he replied. "I don't need him at all. I just want what he's got. The only reason I tolerate him at all is because of a promise I made to my father."

He stepped out of the car, straightened his jacket, and walked toward the front door. Carmen gathered her bag and followed a few steps behind. Her heels were never a good idea on the light gravel, but you'd rarely find her in anything else.

James opened the door, stepping in and immediately scanning the room for Dalton.

Inside, the air was cool and dim. Curtains half-drawn, the smell of old wood and lemon polish still clinging to the place, just like his memories. The ticking of a grandfather clock in the next room was the only sound.

Footsteps. And then, from around the corner, came the man himself.

"Jimmy," Mr. Dalton said with forced warmth, spreading his arms wide like he'd just seen a long-lost son. His hair beginning to gray, his belly straining the buttons of a shirt that looked like it had once belonged to a thinner man. "You're a sight for sore eyes."

James didn't flinch at the nickname, having grown accustomed to him using it since childhood. He simply offered his hand.

"Mr. Dalton," he said. "May I presume you've gotten yourself into trouble. Again."

Dalton's smile wavered for a split second before he covered it with a chuckle. "Well, you know how it goes. Markets are unpredictable. Things turn faster than you can react." Even from where he stood, James could smell the faint odor of whiskey.

James glanced around the room. At the heavy chair that had once belonged to his father, the small rocks glass with only a couple of ice cubes remaining in it on the table, and at Dalton's scuffed boots leaving dust on his floors.

"Yes," he said. "Unpredictable things tend to happen when you gamble money you don't have. From the look of things outside, I'd guess you've also seemed to lose the money for the gardener you were so adamant could take care of the grounds as well."

Dalton laughed again, more nervously this time. "Come on, Jimmy. No need to be sharp. We'll talk it through. There's opportunity in all of this, I swear it."

James offered a smile. It was a well-practiced smile designed to give those that needed it a sense of calm, or show his deep interest in what they had to share, when the reality was he was frustrated.

"I'm sure there is," he said. "Let's hope you're still worth the investment."

Dalton opened his mouth again, likely to launch into some half-rehearsed pitch, but James raised a hand letting him know it was better to stay quiet.

"Why don't you head home for now?" James said, his voice light but unmistakably final. "I've only just arrived and haven't even had the chance to settle in."

Dalton blinked. "Oh... sure, of course. I just thought--well, I figured we'd sit down, go over things. It's not a small ask, I know that."

James placed a hand on Dalton's shoulder, firm but friendly. "And that's exactly why it deserves a clear head and the proper time. I'll come by later. We'll talk then."

The touch, though brief, made Dalton flinch slightly under its weight. Whether it was shame, deference, or just the growing realization that James wasn't his father--it didn't matter. The message had landed.

"Alright," Dalton said, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'll make sure Betty has coffee on. You still take it black?"

"I do," James replied, stepping back and slipping his hands into his pockets. "But tell her not to fuss. I won't stay long."

Dalton gave a small, respectful nod, then shuffled out the front door, the sound of his worn boots trailing across the hardwood. A few moments later, the groan of his truck's engine confirmed his departure.

Carmen had been standing slightly behind James for the exchange. She raised an eyebrow. "That was gentle... 'Jimmy.'"

James turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at her over his shoulder.

"He's one of the few left who still gets to call me that," he said. "But it's wearing thin. And nor are you one of them."

Carmen smirked but wisely let it drop. There was a line with James. It could be fluid, but it was always present. She knew he hated the nickname, but used it to lighten the mood when she knew she could get away with it. And there was no denying his irritation with Mr. Dalton.

He moved toward the study without another word. Carmen followed, watching as he set his keys on the corner of an antique side table and removed his jacket, shrugging it from his shoulders and giving it a sharp tug at the cuffs.

"Grab the Prescott files. I want to take a look over them before going to Bob's to discuss how much money he's asking for now."

A little while later, as the sun began to dip behind the orchard line, James pulled onto the long gravel driveway at the edge of Dalton's property, leading to the old farmhouse just visible beyond a cluster of eucalyptus trees and a crooked fence that hadn't seen paint in years.

He took in the property as he slowed going up the driveway. A few chickens milled near the porch, and an old swing creaked lazily in the warm breeze. The place hadn't changed in decades, except for the value that James saw in the land it sat on.

"Still think he's sitting on a goldmine?" Carmen asked from the passenger seat, not looking up from her phone.

"I wouldn't call it a goldmine," James said as he shut off the engine, "but if the Senate Bill passes like everyone expects, this land finally gets a second life. The real question is what it'll be worth and who's smart enough to profit from it. If he had any sense, he'd recognize what he's sitting on and stop bleeding money into garbage investments. All he has to do is wait. Just this once."

He stepped out, the door shutting and Carmen following behind, careful where she walked in her heels as they approached the front steps.

The screen door creaked open before they could knock. Betty stood there in an apron, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her smile was genuine, if tired.

"James," she said warmly. "It's good to see you again. You look just like your daddy standing there."

James gave a small, practiced smile. "So I've been told."

She leaned forward to give him a brief hug, which he tolerated, then stepped back to let them in. The house smelled like coffee and mildew, a familiar combination that hadn't changed since childhood visits.

"Bob's in the back, probably pretending to fix something," she said with a slight roll of her eyes. "Coffee's on the counter. Help yourselves."

"Thank you, Betty," James said, removing his sunglasses as he stepped into the living room. "I won't keep him long."

"Keep him as long as you like," she called over her shoulder as she disappeared into the kitchen. "Lord knows he needs someone to talk sense into him."

James exchanged a glance with Carmen, then made his way through the narrow hallway toward the back porch. As they exited through the rear hallway he could see the barn-style workshop ahead with its side door half-open and swaying in the breeze.

Then came the sound.

Smack.

A pause.

Smack.

Followed by a muffled whimper.

James stopped at the edge of the porch, his brow tightening. Carmen paused beside him, her expression caught between confusion and discomfort.

"Is that...?" she started.

Another smack. Then another.

Neither of them moved for a moment. James tilted his head slightly, listening. The sound was unmistakable now. It was the sound of someone be punished, quick and controlled, punctuated by sharp yelps and soft cries.

Then, came Dalton's raised voice.

"Get in your room! And I don't want to see your face again until supper's ready!"

A moment later, the workshop door banged open the rest of the way as Jeanie burst out. She was moving fast, barefoot, one arm clutching her pants as though holding them up, tears streaking her face as she ran toward the house without looking.

James didn't move.

Carmen did. She instinctively stepped aside, allowing the girl to pass. Jeanie rushed up the back steps, flung the screen door open, and disappeared into the house.

Then Dalton stepped out of the workshop, tugging his belt back through the last loop of his jeans, flustered and red-faced, before noticing James and Carmen. He froze where he stood.

James was still standing there. Hands in his pockets. Watching.

For a moment, nobody said anything.

Then Dalton cleared his throat and tried to muster a grin. "Hell, I didn't think you'd be here already."

James didn't smile. He simply said, "We were just admiring your parenting."

Dalton looked like he might try to laugh from discomfort, but wisely didn't.

Carmen stood just behind James now, arms folded, gaze flat and unreadable.

James took a slow step down from the porch. "Still feel like talking business, Bob? Or should we come back another time?"

Letting out a short breath, Dalton rubbed the back of his neck as he stepped fully into view. Realizing he was still holding the ends of his belt, he quickly fumbled to finish hooking it back into place.

"Look, I came straight home after leavin' your place," he started, his tone shifting toward defense. "Not even fifteen minutes ago, I went down to check the mailbox and found her at the end of the drive with this boy, Tommy, from a few farms down."

James raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"They were carryin' on like a pair of damn animals," Dalton muttered. "Hands all over her backside, not a care in the world. I about lost it. Dragged her straight to the workshop and lit her up."

Carmen shifted slightly behind James, crossing her arms tighter.

James remained perfectly still, his gaze steady on Dalton. "You spanked her because she was kissing someone?"

Dalton stiffened. "I disciplined her because she was actin' like a tramp, livin' under my roof. She knows better."

There was a long pause before James spoke again, with a cool voice. "If my math's right, based on when I remember you guys having her... she's not a child."

Dalton looked uncomfortable now, eyes darting toward the orchard line like maybe an answer might grow there.

"She's nineteen," he admitted. "But she's still livin' in my house. Still my responsibility."

James's jaw worked slightly, his expression unreadable. Then he glanced back toward the door Jeanie had disappeared through, the screen tightly shut behind her.

"Interesting," he said finally.

Dalton tried to pivot, gesturing vaguely toward the workshop. "Listen, I didn't bring you here for all this. I don't need to explain how I run my house and what my daughter can or can't do while she lives here. I got numbers," he said pointing toward the house. "Real ones this time. I swear it. If you'd just be willing to help me out with coverin' a few loses, I'm sure I'll be able to pay you back for everything in no time."

James raised a hand again, same motion as before. Simple. Final.

"Let's walk," he said. "Leave the paperwork for now."

Dalton hesitated, then nodded, nervously checking his belt one last time before following James down the steps and away from the house.

Carmen watched them go, then turned to the back door, where Jeanie had disappeared moments ago.

"Fucking hicks. I hate the goddamn country," she muttered as she prepared to head inside and make small talk with Betty while waiting for James to finish with Dalton. In her eyes, the dullard was nothing more than an anchor to a past James needed to let go of, along with the house he no longer cared for, yet kept dragging them out to the country.

Dalton trudged beside James down the narrow path that cut along the edge of the orchard. For a while, neither man spoke.

James didn't mind the silence. He knew Dalton and knew if he waited long enough, the man would start rambling and eventually hand him the rope. The only question was: what would James need it for today?

It was inevitable. Dalton would offer something, an excuse, a plea, a mistake. The only thing James had to decide was whether it was worth anything.

Finally, as if on cue, Dalton broke the silence.

"I know how it looked," he said, still keeping his eyes forward. "But you gotta understand, she ain't... right. Not like other girls her age. She don't think things through. Ain't got the sense God gave a mule."

James kept walking, hands tucked neatly into his pockets. "So you used a belt on her for that."

Dalton frowned, voice stiffening. "I disciplined her. It's different. It's the only thing that gets through. I've tried talkin'. I've tried rules. Hell, I've tried Betty talkin' to her. But she's too soft, and Jeanie don't listen. Not to any of us."

James said nothing.

"She's too innocent," Dalton went on. "Got no edge. Acts like she's livin' in some fairy tale. Then she goes and starts actin' out in public like that, gettin' handsy with some dirt-stained farm boy who probably can't spell his own name."

They reached the edge of a small clearing where a few rusted implements leaned against a sagging shed. James came to a stop and finally turned to face him.

"Ever consider she's that innocent because you shelter her too much?" James asked, the remark more of a throwaway than a challenge.

Dalton shook his head. "Nah. I protect her because she'll do anything anyone tells her. Always has."

"Bob," James said, using the name deliberately now. It was a name generally reserved to express his wanning patience. "Let me explain something to you, so there's no confusion."

Dalton looked up, uneasy but attentive.

"I don't care how you run your house. I don't care what your daughter does, or who she does it with. I'm not here because I want a lesson in parenting. I'm here because you've got debts you can't cover, and I'm still trying to figure out why that's my problem."

Dalton swallowed hard.

"You came to me because you thought my sense of obligation would outweigh my common sense. And maybe it will," James added, voice even. "But that depends entirely on how useful you are to me. Let's face it, I'm not my father, and I'm not exactly known for my charity... outside of you."

"I can be useful," Dalton said quickly. "I swear, I've got ideas. I just need a little help gettin' my head above water. Then I can start makin' something work. I'll sell if I have to. Long as the price is right," he said raising his arms towards the unattended orchard.

James stared at him for a long moment.

"You mean sell the farm?" he asked, glancing around. He hadn't expected Dalton to offer it up so easily. And for once, the man showed a flicker of practical sense. At least he was thinking about value.

"Yeah. My farm," Dalton said, a little louder now. "That's how sure I am of what I've got in the fire. Instead of borrowing the money, I'll sell you my land... if you'll just let me live on it. I'll even pay rent!"

James didn't flinch. "Do you even know what this land's worth, Bob? What would I want with a few dusty acres, with a nonworking farm on it, out in the middle of nowhere?"

Dalton shifted his weight, eyes dropping to the ground. His silence said more than any answer could.

"It's gotta be worth somethin' to ya," he finally offered. It had the tone of someone pleading more than trying to convince. "You know that your father always took kindly to me. Tried to help me out and teach me how to do better with my money. I swear, I've learned, I just need a little help is all."

James gave a faint smile.

"My father gave you more chances than most," he said, his tone measured. "You met him at just the right time at church. He believed you were the kind of man who just needed the right break, like he got."

He let that hang in the air.

"I don't share his optimism. Not after this long."

Dalton's face twitched, but he didn't interrupt.

"I'm not in the business of rescuing men who can't swim, Bob. But I respected my father, and he believed he saw something in you. So maybe I can help you. Maybe I buy the farm. But if I do, it won't be just for your sake. You're not using ninety percent of this land. The only way it makes sense is if I break it up. Sell off what you're wasting, try to recoup some of the cost."

James stepped forward, voice tightening slightly.

"Do you have any idea what that takes? The time, the paperwork, dealing with local governments for approvals, zoning, easements, finding someone willing to clear out the overgrowth and put actual work into land you've let rot?"

He gestured back toward the orchard, the house, the sagging structures behind them.

"This isn't just money, Bob. It's strain. On me. On Carmen, who'll be the one coordinating all of it, by the way. You're asking for more than a favor. You're asking me to carry your burden and let you stay put while I clean up your mess."

James stared at him for a long moment, letting the weight of his next words settle.

"If I did this for you, that would be it. No more loans. No more second chances. You don't call me next time you gamble away your dignity. Because the truth is, if I can't count on you to pay me rent, what am I really buying?"

Dalton's jaw tightened. "I get it, alright? I've screwed up plenty. But say what you will, I've never missed a mortgage payment. Not once. Even if I had to refinance it half to death, I made sure the damn thing got paid."

James gave a curt nod, unimpressed. "That just means you're good at buying time. Doesn't mean you've ever solved the problem."

Dalton opened his mouth like he wanted to fire back, but thought better of it.

James turned, beginning the walk back toward the house with Dalton in tow. After a few paces, he spoke again without looking over his shoulder.

"Lose the belt."

Dalton blinked. "What?"

"If you're going to punish Jeanie, and I know you will, lose the belt," he clarified.

Dalton frowned, incredulous. "Come on, James. The belt's the only thing that gets through to her," he protested.

"Use your hand instead," James offed, flatly.

"My hand? She's a bit old for that don't ya think?" he replied in surprise.

James stopped walking and turned just enough to meet Dalton's eyes.

"She's also a bit old to be getting belted like a child," he said coolly. "Especially where someone else might see the aftermath."

Dalton's brows pulled together. "She listens when it stings. Always has."

James took a step closer. "And what happens when it leaves a mark you can't explain? A welt on her back? A bruise on her thighs? You think that Thompson boy keeps his mouth shut if she shows him what you did? You think Betty doesn't talk to someone at church?"

Dalton's face twitched, and he glanced away.

"I'm not telling you how to discipline your daughter," James continued. "I'm telling you how to avoid problems that become my problems when you're living on land I own."

He let that sit in the silence between them, then added with finality: "Use your hand. Don't leave marks. If she cries, fine. But if she limps, we're done."

Dalton didn't answer right away. He just nodded once, stiffly.

James turned and resumed walking without another word.

The two men stepped onto the back porch and pushed through the screen door. Inside, the house had quieted. Carmen sat at the edge of the couch, legs crossed at the calves, a teacup in hand as she made polite conversation with Betty, who hovered nearby with a fresh pot of coffee and a tray of cookies no one had touched.

Across the room, Jeanie sat tentatively at the far end of the couch, as though favoring one side, shoulders hunched, eyes on her lap. Her face was clean but still pink, and her dark hair had been brushed behind her ears. The moment the screen door clattered shut behind Dalton, she glanced up with eyes wide, then bolted to her feet.

Without a word, she rushed past the coffee table, her socked feet barely making a sound on the hardwood. She disappeared down the hall and into her room, the door shutting firmly behind her.

James watched her go, before glancing to Dalton once more.

Then he offered Betty an impressively warm smile, considering the tone his voice had carried only moments before.

"I'm afraid we'll have to cut the visit short," he said, slipping his sunglasses from his jacket pocket. "Business calls."

"Oh," Betty said, flustered but smiling. "Well, of course. I understand completely."

"Thank you for the trouble of making coffee," James added, all charm now. "I'm sorry I didn't get the chance to enjoy it. You always make the best. Must be a skill learned living out here," he flattered.

Betty beamed, clearly pleased "It was no trouble at all."

James turned to Carmen, who was already setting her cup of tea down.

"Let's go," he said simply.

Carmen stood and smoothed her skirt. "Back to civilization," she muttered under her breath.

Dalton lingered behind them, still near the door, the earlier exchange weighing visibly on his face.

James didn't look back.

Steering the car down the long driveway, the tires crunched softly beneath them once more. The sound was a relief to Carmen, thankful to be out of that house.

James said nothing at first, eyes fixed on the road ahead. Carmen sat quietly, scrolling through her phone, waiting for the usual cue to head back home.

"You're not turning toward the freeway," she said, glancing up. She'd held out hope they were headed back to the city, but that hope was already fading as fast as it began.

"We're staying the night. And even if we weren't, we'd still need the Prescott files from the house," James replied.

She raised an eyebrow. "You'd rather sleep in that dusty old place than go home? I can have someone print up fresh files and on your desk at home, before we're even get there."

"I hate making the round trip in one day more than I hate staying the night."

Carmen sighed and tossed her phone into her bag. "Fair."

There was a pause, just long enough to settle into the hum of the road, before James spoke again.

"He offered the land."

Carmen turned her head toward him. "He what?"

James shook his head slightly, still watching the road. "Didn't even take prompting. Just blurted it out like it was the obvious solution. I figured I'd have to back him into a corner over the next few weeks. But he handed it to me."

She laughed under her breath. "He must really be drowning."

James's hand slipped off the wheel and onto her thigh, fingers splaying slowly across the bare skin just beneath her hem.

"He has no idea," he murmured. "No clue the state's pushing through the highway expansion. And if the latest version of the map holds, the offramp lands squarely on his house."

His hand slid higher, pushing her dress upward in deliberate, measured movements.

"I might only get fair market value when they invoke eminent domain on the house. But the rest, the parcels around it after I break it up? I'll own every inch of what people actually want."

Carmen's breath caught as his fingers pressed against the thin fabric between her legs.

"Gas stations," he said. "Franchise dining. Maybe a motel, if I can find some overly eager investor who believes this town's worth stopping in now that a freeway will be there to support it."

She let out a quiet sigh, hips shifting toward his touch.

James kept his eyes on the road. "And he thinks I'm doing him a favor."

His fingers moved with more intent now, with slow deliberate strokes, moving firmly over the smooth skin.

A soft moan slipped from her lips. "And what makes him think that?" she asked, trying to stay focused.

"Because I made sure he understood exactly how much of a burden helping him would be. All the work it would take just to make the land worth my time. And I told him this favor is big enough that once it's done, he doesn't get to ask for anything else. He's used up his credit."

"Of course you're hard," Carmen murmured, glancing over at the obvious strain beneath the light fabric of his slacks. "You're practically stealing the man's home and turning it into a shopping center."

"I'm repurposing it," James said coolly. "Wasted land is still wasted whether it's in his hands or someone else's. It's just me giving him the money for the land instead of the state," he finished, ignoring the fact that he was devaluing the land before he'd ever even made an offer.

He pressed deeper.

"Now," he said, his voice carrying a distinct edge of excitement, "why don't you be quiet and let me enjoy this drive."

His gaze stayed fixed on the road ahead. His right hand continued its subtle manipulation of her through the fabric of her panties. The faint, pleased line of his mouth told her he was in a good mood, a rare window when he was more giving. Grateful, Carmen took the hint it was time to stop talking.

His fingers, already working their precise friction, shifted. She felt the subtle drag of fabric, then a cool breath of air as he nudged her silk panties to the side. His touch, now directly against her, continued its rhythmic pressure. He wasn't a man who liked having to ask to be accommodated, and she was more than willing to welcome his skilled touch.

With quiet efficiency, Carmen slipped off her left heel, the soft leather sole catching silently on the floor mat. Her hand went to her purse, retrieving a small, embroidered linen handkerchief. She carefully folded it, then slipped it beneath her, protecting the expensive leather of the passenger seat from any potential dripping. Next, she drew her left knee up, tilting her pelvis and allowing her leg to splay away towards the center console. This subtle adjustment opened her thighs wider in the confined space, offering him even easier access.

Carmen stayed quiet, her breath shallow, barely audible over the hum of the car engine. Her eyes were fixed straight ahead on the passing asphalt, though her focus was entirely on the intense sensations building between her thighs. James hadn't said a word since telling her to be quiet, his attention split between the road and her. She wasn't going to test his mood by speaking again. This careful silence was part of their understanding.

His hand, a steady presence, continued its work. His thumb and forefinger moved with precise purpose, just enough to keep her strung tight, never quite letting her tip over into climax. Every time she thought he might let her finish, his touch eased off, subtly lessening the friction. Every time her hips shifted, an involuntary, desperate attempt to chase the building pressure, he stilled her with nothing but the subtle flex of his palm against her mound, or the barest tightening of his fingers inside her as they held still.

It wasn't about playful teasing. It was about control. Precise and measured, exactly like him.

She gripped the edge of the leather seat cushion, her knuckles white against the dark material. Her inner thighs trembled, a deep, persistent tremor that ran through her core. She focused on her breathing, exhaling slowly to keep her body from seizing up, fighting the sharp intake of breath she longed to release.

He must be really excited about this real estate deal, she thought. It was the only reason she was getting this kind of focused attention, this direct indulgence, without having to earn it through prolonged effort or negotiation. This wasn't affection. It was a precise release for him, a beneficial windfall that also offered her significant pleasure. And Carmen wasn't about to ruin it with a sound or a sudden movement.

By the time the car pulled into the drive and coasted to a stop near the front of the house, she was flushed, pulsing, and barely composed.

James turned off the ignition and opened his door without a glance in her direction.

"I expect you in the bedroom," he said casually as he stepped out.

The door shut behind him.

Carmen let out a slow, shaking breath and adjusted her dress, forcing her legs to move. She reached for her purse, still trying to collect herself as she saw the front door open and close.

She didn't waste any more time.

The moment she stepped through the door, Carmen made her way up the stairs with purpose. James hadn't waited for her to catch her breath in the car, and he wouldn't be waiting for her now. If she wasn't where she was supposed to be when he got there, she had no doubt that the little twit of a farm girl wouldn't be the only one who got punished today.

Inside the bedroom, she reached behind her, unzipped the dress, and shimmied it down her body with a practiced roll of her hips. The fabric clung for just a second at her curves before slipping past. No bra to remove, she hadn't bothered. The D-cup implants James had paid for sat high and perfect. Her nipples were already tight, part anticipation, part the lingering aftershock of his fingers teasing her on the ride back.

She stepped out of the YSL dress and set it on the chair, smoothing it carefully to avoid any wrinkles. Then she slid out of her panties and laid them neatly on top. Climbing onto the bed, she positioned herself in the center. Nude, back arched just slightly, one leg bent to open her hips. She made sure to assume an inviting pose for when James came into the bedroom.

Meanwhile, James sat at the desk in the study, the glow of his laptop screen lighting the sharp angle of his jaw as he typed.

Pull parcel maps for Dalton's acreage. Overlay DOT projections--Offramp 144 in particular. Prep draft options for commercial site planning on adjacent lots. Focus on traveler-focused businesses. Assume acquisition is moving forward. I'll confirm an estimate of the timeline within the week.

He read it once. Made a small correction. Then hit send.

He closed the laptop, stood, and made his way toward the bedroom, unbuttoning the top buttons of his shirt as he walked.

When he reached the doorway, James paused just long enough to take her in, exactly where she should be: waiting, bare, and ready. He stepped inside without speaking, leaving the door open without a second thought. It was his house, and privacy was something he observed only when business required it.

Carmen lay composed and still, her light brown hair, medium length and slightly tousled, falling softly around her shoulders as if she'd barely touched it after stripping down. Her figure was fit but unmistakably curvy, hips angled just right, breasts full and high, her nipples still drawn tight in anticipation.

James set his watch on the dresser with a soft click, the sound resonating in the quiet room. He undid his cuffs, the crisp fabric giving way, then let his shirt fall open, revealing a glimpse of taut muscle and pale skin as he moved toward her. His steps were purposeful.

His hand slid up her leg. Carmen felt the warm press of his palm against her inner thigh, the firm trail of his fingers as they ascended. It was a familiar, possessive gesture, a prelude to the immediate, demanding pleasure he sought. In the next moment, he was between her knees, kneeling, then lowering himself. His mouth covered her without warning. There was no slow build-up, no gentle teasing meant to draw out her anticipation. He didn't pause to gauge her response, or check if she was ready.

Instead, there was an immediate, overwhelming heat and pressure. His tongue moved with the same unwavering precision he used to dissect a complex deal, probing and circling, but here, it was infused with an almost brutal roughness. Carmen's mind, still slightly dazed from the car ride and the swift transition, conjured a vivid image: she imagined the sensation was just as rough on her now as it had been verbally on that dumb farmer, he'd guilted into giving up his land for cheap, a comparison that highlighted the raw, unyielding nature when he wanted something.

Carmen gasped, a sharp, involuntary sound that hitched in her throat as her back arched, pulling her body into a desperate curve against the mattress. This wasn't his usual, calculated pace, the slow, deliberate rhythm designed to keep her on a tantalizing string, drawing out her pleasure alongside his. There was no sense of him taking his time. He was using it, using her body, her responsiveness, as a direct outlet for his own immediate need. And as good as it felt, a profound, undeniable heat rising from deep within her, there was no mistaking the singular purpose. This wasn't for her pleasure, not primarily. It was for him. She was a tool in this moment, something convenient, functional, and undeniably necessary for his release.

He's worked up, she thought, a dazed observation cutting through the intensity of the sensations. Really worked up. That level of raw, unrestrained urgency wasn't normal for him. James was always meticulously composed, even in their most intimate moments. This was different. He didn't seem to care how fast her body responded, or that she was already panting, desperate for air, one hand clutching the bedding in a white-knuckled grip, the other hovering just above his dark hair. Her fingers twitched, uncertain, like she didn't know whether she was allowed to touch him, to offer comfort or encouragement, or if any deviation from her stillness would break the spell. But he gave no indication. He just kept going. He didn't stop, didn't slow, didn't even look up from his concentrated efforts.

When he finally pulled back, the air in the room seemed to rush back in, filling the void his presence had created. His breath was steady, like he'd just finished a menial task, not like he'd been going down on her.

Standing, he reached for something to wipe his mouth. He didn't ask, didn't glance around, just grabbed the YSL dress from the nearby chair and ran the fabric across his lips and chin.

Carmen's stomach tensed. She watched him do it, jaw tight. The dress had cost more than some people's rent. But she didn't say a word. It was his money that bought it. It would be his money that had it cleaned or replaced.

He dropped it back on the chair like it was nothing, then started unbuttoning his shirt the rest of the way. Belt next. Then trousers. Folded over the back of the chair, just like she had before he discarded it like the rag he used it as. Nothing in his movements said rush, but the heat in his expression told her this wasn't over.

He climbed onto the bed without a word, positioning himself between her legs. With a smooth, practiced motion, he guided himself to her entrance, his gaze fixed on the point where their bodies met. There was no warning, no asking; simply the inevitable advance of his body.

He pushed inside her slowly at first, just the head, a deliberate pressure that stretched her. Carmen's breath hitched, her body already anticipating him. Then, with a single, deep thrust, he drove the rest of the way in, a powerful, complete invasion that left her gasping. She bit her lip hard, a physical effort to hold back the sound that threatened to slip out, from the sheer, overwhelming intensity of it. The sudden stretch, the heavy weight of him, the absolute fullness that filled her completely. It was so good, there was no denying the stark, exhilarating shock to her senses.

He didn't pause once he was inside. He didn't look up from where he was embedded within her, his concentration absolute. He just started moving with deep, steady strokes, each one claiming her fully. His breathing remained low and even, a continuous, controlled sound. It seemed as if he were working through something entirely internal, something that had nothing to do with her body or their shared act, and everything to do with the raw, potent energy burning through him. From him feeling a sense of taking back everything Dalton had leeched from him and his father over the years.

She clawed for something to hold onto, the rumpled sheet beneath her, the cool, polished wood of the headboard, anything solid, just to ground herself against the overwhelming wave of sensation building fast. And still, he didn't say a word, his focus absolute.

Carmen reached up, her fingers digging into his forearms. They were solid, corded with muscle, planted firmly on either side of her head. It wasn't a gesture of affection; it was pure survival. She needed the leverage, needed to brace herself just to hold steady against the rhythm he was driving into her. Each thrust felt heavier than the last, like he was trying to bury something deep inside her. A profound, almost primal act of possession.

His skin was warm under her digging fingers, the muscles of his forearms tight with a powerful control he wasn't bothering to use to temper his movements, only to maintain his driving force. This wasn't romantic in any sense of the word. It wasn't careful or tender. But god, it was rare. This raw, unfiltered intensity from James, a stark contrast to his usual precise, measured demeanor.

This kind of intensity... James didn't offer it often. When he took her, it was usually about reminding her where the power was, about his influence, his presence, his authority. Every movement was deliberate, every finish purposeful. But this? This was something else and she didn't dare ruin it by speaking.

Her breath caught again as he shifted, angling slightly deeper, his pace relentless. Her grip tightened on his forearms, her knuckles white. The bed creaked beneath them with each powerful thrust. Her inner thighs burned from holding position, the friction a constant ache. But she didn't care. If this was how he needed to get it out, she'd take it. Whatever was driving him now, rage, ambition, maybe even raw satisfaction from the deal that had landed in his lap, she was lucky enough to be the outlet.

The pressure was building fast, but it wasn't just the rhythmic friction of his body inside hers, it was him. The way his jaw clenched, the barely perceptible, guttural sounds slipping past his otherwise controlled breath, the sheer, undeniable force behind every thrust. It wasn't calculated anymore. It wasn't orchestrated. He was completely lost in the moment, utterly consumed.

He was in it.

And that did something to her. The realization, this rare crack in his controlled demeanor, this moment where even James wasn't in full control, pushed her over the edge. Her body tightened around him, an internal clenching that gripped him with unexpected force. The orgasm hit her, a sharp, hot jolt that emptied her lungs. A raw, choked cry tore from her throat, finally escaping, as her back arched hard against the bed. Her fingers dug deeper into his forearms, trying to anchor herself against the powerful wave.

That did it. The way she clenched around him with a sudden tightness, was too much for him to simply absorb. It was heat and pressure and something raw, a primal force that gripped him deeper than he anticipated. She wasn't just reacting to him; she was actively pulling it out of him, milking him with every involuntary spasm of her release, drawing his own climax closer with her desperate, uninhibited pleasure.

James swore under his breath. "Fuck," it was a low, guttural sound, as he pulled out fast. He shifted, climbing higher up her body until he hovered over her waist, his weight braced on his knees as he straddled her. One hand gripped her side, firm and possessive, holding her steady. Carmen's eyes, wide and fixed on him, watched as he stroked himself once, twice, then finished with a low, ragged grunt.

Even as the heat of his cum splashed across her breasts, a sudden warmth that spread rapidly, Carmen was still consumed by her own fading pleasure. More of it shot upward, tracing a hot path along her neck and splattering lightly on her chin. It was copious, a hot, thick liquid that began to trickle down from her chest, a warm rivulet finding the curve of her ribs. A few drops trailed lazily off her shoulder, cooling slightly as they met the air. In a desperate, futile attempt to prolong her own shuddering orgasm, Carmen pinched her thighs together, squeezing tightly even as his release coated her skin. Her hands came to her breasts, pressing them together in offering, while also pinching her own nipples.

She shuddered beneath him, dazed and trembling, still pulsing in the aftermath. The hot, sticky weight of his release settled on her skin, a tangible mark of his urgent need and the powerful moment they had just shared.

The kitchen smelled faintly of scorched coffee and wood polish, sunlight filtering through yellowed curtains that hadn't been changed in a decade. James sat straight-backed at the table, a crisp button-down rolled to the elbows, gold watch catching the light as he methodically arranged the paperwork in front of him.

Across from him, Dalton hunched in his chair. His shirt was wrinkled, the collar permanently softened from years of wear. He looked at the documents like they might bite.

The clear divide between the two men only reinforced Carmen's quiet disdain. James sat crisp and deliberate. Every movement was done with purpose. Dalton looked like the furniture. Aged, sagging, and more in the way than useful. She watched from her seat along the wall, silently judging the frayed seams at his elbow, the sweat-darkened rim of his cap left on the counter. It wasn't just poverty. It was surrender. The kind of smallness that settled in and made itself comfortable.

He looked as though he believed James owed him something.

"These are the terms," James said, tone even. "You and Betty get to stay in the house. Full use of the garden. These several acres here," he tapped the highlighted portion of the parcel map with a capped pen. "Everything outside of that is mine to do with as I please. If I want to parcel it off, sell it, lease it, develop it, doesn't matter. It's not your concern anymore. You get to live here. That's the part you should focus on."

Dalton's jaw worked, his teeth clenched on the inside of his cheek. "And the rent?"

James slid a second sheet across the table. The number was modest, but not insignificant. The rent itself didn't matter, not really. James's goal was much bigger than a monthly check from Dalton. The real value lay in what the land would bring when the highway came through. The rent was perfunctory, a formality to maintain the illusion that James was getting something now, while quietly securing everything that would matter later.

"That's monthly," James said. "Fixed for the first year. Adjusted annually based on regional markets. You're not paying to own it. You're paying to stay on land you no longer have to manage. I'll cover taxes, maintenance on outlying buildings, fencing, or what remains of it."

Dalton nodded slowly, eyes still on the paper. "And if I fall behind?"

James's face didn't change. "Then I'll do what any landlord does. But I imagine you won't." He paused, his eyes staring at Bob's. "You've never missed a mortgage payment, right, Bob? Or am I remembering that wrong?"

Dalton gave a dry chuckle. "Yeah. Right."

James leaned back, folding his hands. "I'm not your father, Bob. Or even my father. I'm not offering charity. This is dignity. A clean arrangement. You stay, you get the capital you're looking for, and you finally stop bleeding me out. Who else is going to buy a rundown farm around here?"

From her seat near the wall, Carmen didn't bother hiding her disinterest. She'd heard James use that tone before. Measured, and benevolent on the surface, while he slowly drove the blade deeper. Dalton never noticed. He was too busy clinging to the word dignity like it meant something to him.

She glanced at the man across the table, red in the face, collar limp, posture practically folded in on itself. The kind of man who thought patching a leaking pipe was fixing a house.

Pitiful, she thought. The fact that James even offered him a way to stay was more kindness than he deserved.

Dalton looked like he might object, but the words never formed. Instead, he gave a slow nod.

"Let me talk to Betty."

"You've got forty-eight hours," James said. "After that, the offer's off the table and so are the handouts. Frankly, with the amount of work I'm already doing to help you sell your own house, I ought to be deducting it from the purchase price."

They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator. Dalton reached for the paper again, as if staring at the terms would make the legal jargon make sense.

Light footsteps echoed from the hallway, soft against the worn floorboards. James didn't turn, but his eyes lifted toward the periphery of his vision.

Jeanie stepped into view, carrying a laundry basket against one hip. She hesitated a split second when she saw James, gave a small nod, and continued through the kitchen without a word. Barefoot, in loose jeans and an oversized t-shirt that hung past her hips. Nothing suggestive, just simple and modest. Worn more for coverage than anything else.

James didn't speak to her, but his eyes followed. Just a moment longer than he normally would have.

Carmen noticed. She gave the girl a quick once-over, wet hair pulled back, clothes shapeless, no makeup, and filed her opinion without hesitation: plain. Nothing but a soft, naive thing dressed like a farmhand's daughter, which is exactly what she was. There was no denying she had a pretty face, even without makeup. But pretty fades. Stupid sticks. And in Carmen's experience, girls like that didn't last long around men like James.

Dalton cleared his throat. "I'll let you know," he said.

James stood, already stacking the papers back into the folder. "Forty-eight hours, Bob." He left without another word.

Dalton stayed seated at the table, hands resting on the folder like it might float off if he let go. A moment later, Betty stepped into the kitchen. Her eyebrows were slightly furrowed as she glanced at her husband, then at the papers spread across the table.

"So?" she asked, hopeful. "Did he offer something fair?"

Dalton leaned back, a rare glimmer of satisfaction in his voice. "It's goin' through. Whole thing. We keep use of the house, a couple acres, and he's taking the rest. Rent's decent. Terms are clean."

Betty's brows lifted in surprise. "Well, that sounds better than I expected."

"It is," he said, nodding. "More than fair, honestly. I thought he'd lowball us, maybe tuck in some clause I'd regret, but no. Straight deal. Clean terms. And there's even enough left over to finally put something into that feed operation I've been planning."

He knew he was overselling it, but Betty didn't need the details. Half of it was still in his head anyway and she wouldn't follow most of it, not the way he saw it.

She stepped in closer, hands still clutched each other. Her voice softened. "You really think this'll turn things around?"

Dalton smiled. It was small, but real. "Yeah. I do."

She let out a breath, slow and steady. Then she smiled too. "Then I'm glad."

Dalton gave her a nod, the tension in his shoulders easing. Betty glanced down at the papers, then toward the hallway. "Jeanie came in earlier, soaked to the bone. No regard for James sittin' out here."

Dalton's expression shifted, jaw tightening again. "She shouldn't've come through like that while we were meeting." He gestured loosely toward the hall. "Drippin' wet, lookin' half-presentable--she knows better. This wasn't some social call. Man like James sits at our kitchen table, talkin' terms, and she strolls in like that on laundry day."

He exhaled sharply through his nose. "He's important. Deserves respect. She needs to carry herself better when business is bein' handled."

There was a pause, then his voice dropped. "I'll speak to her."

Betty didn't move at first. She just stood near the doorway, hands loosely clasped in front of her, eyes on him. "She didn't mean anything by it," she said softly. "Didn't even know he was still in the kitchen."

Dalton gave a short nod, though his jaw was still tight. "I know. But she needs to be more mindful. Can't be walking through like that when we've got company, especially a man like James. It's business."

He leaned back a little, still staring at the table. "She's nineteen now. Time she started acting like it. Doesn't look like a little girl anymore, and it's not right, her comin' through soaked to the skin. Might give the wrong person the wrong idea."

Betty offered a faint smile, more out of habit than conviction. "She just wasn't thinking," she murmured. "Still gets caught in her own head, same as always."

After a quiet moment, she added gently, "I'll remind her to be more careful. It's better coming from me."

Dalton didn't respond, but his shoulders eased just a touch.

"She's lucky," Betty said quietly. "He's a kind man. Didn't seem bothered."

There was another pause.

"But I'll speak to her, just the same."

She turned to leave, her voice soft as she disappeared down the hall. "Whatever you think is best, dear."

Dalton stayed seated long after Betty's footsteps faded. The house had gone quiet again, save for the faint ticking of the wall clock and the same low hum of the old fridge. His eyes rested on the papers in front of him, but he wasn't reading.

He was thinking about Jeanie.

Not the little girl who used to follow Betty around the kitchen, asking questions about pie crusts and egg yolks. Not even the awkward teenager who blushed when spoken to and never looked anyone in the eye for long. No, he was thinking about the young woman who'd walked through the kitchen earlier. Soaked to the bone, clothes clinging, either unaware or unconcerned that a man like James was still sitting at the table. That kind of carelessness wasn't just foolishness wasn't to be tolerated. She should've known better.

Dalton leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking beneath him. He'd always handled things the same way. The belt. Consistency is key in his mind. A man had to keep order, especially with his own daughter and under his roof.

But James had said something earlier, like it wasn't up for discussion.

"You want to discipline a grown woman under your roof, fine. But be smart. Use your hand. Don't leave marks."

Dalton hadn't responded then. Just kept walking. But the words stuck. Rolled around in his head ever since.

He didn't like the idea of changing course. But James wasn't a fool and maybe he had a point. Maybe it was time to try something different.

Jeanie wasn't a child anymore, not by age, not by the way she looked. She needed to be more aware of that. Needed to learn how to carry herself properly. She was a good girl, mostly. Quiet. Helpful. Never made a fuss. But she was still young. Still unformed. Still in need of shaping.

If she was going to keep living under his roof, under his care, then she needed to understand where the lines were, and what happened when she crossed them. Today had made that clear, with James having watched her cross the kitchen.

Dalton leaned forward, elbows braced against the table, his palms flattening against the worn wood. He hadn't used his hand in years. Not like that. But maybe this would make it stick.

The belt wasn't working. Hadn't been for a while. She kept making the same small mistakes, careless ones. Walking into a room without thinking. Speaking without measuring her tone. Acting like the world still bent around her just because no one had told her otherwise.

Maybe she needed something more direct. More personal. Something she'd remember.

He stood, the chair legs scraping softly across the floor, and made his way to the back door.

Jeanie was still by the clothesline, reaching up to hang a damp sheet. Her shirt clung in places, hair pulled back but still wet from the shower, the humidity not letting it dry.

"Jeanie."

She turned quickly, eyes alert. "Yes, sir?"

He gave a short nod. "Come with me."

She hesitated only a moment, then followed without a word.

He led her around the side of the house, toward the old barn-like shop, the same one James had seen her come out of months ago, cheeks flushed and eyes red, back when he first learned Dalton still believed in firm correction.

Dalton opened the door, stepped inside, and waited for her to follow. She did.

Once the door shut behind them, she stood quietly, hands in front of her, head slightly bowed.

"You know what this is about?"

She glanced up, then shook her head. "No, sir."

"Walkin' through the kitchen soaked like that, while James and I were talkin' terms. You didn't stop to think how that might come across?"

"I didn't know anyone was still in there," she said softly.

"That's just it." His voice was flat. "You didn't know. You didn't check. You're nineteen, Jeanie, you don't look like a child anymore. A girl walks through like that, it can give a man the wrong idea."

Dalton pulled the old chair forward and sat, the wood creaking beneath his weight. He looked at her a moment longer.

She stood still, just a few steps away, barefoot, skin still faintly glistening from the moisture between her shower and the humid air. Her damp hair was pulled back in a low twist, small dark strands clinging to the sides of her neck. The oversized t-shirt hugged lightly where the fabric hadn't fully dried, along her sides, across her chest. Her jeans, rolled at the ankle, were a little rumpled, clinging at the calves.

She didn't look like a little girl anymore. Not with that figure. Not with the way she filled out that shirt even through its baggy nature.

And that was the problem.

"Come here," he said, patting his thigh.

Jeanie's eyes flicked up, then quickly down again. Her heart skipped. The tone was firm and familiar, and carried the same authority it always had, but something about it felt different this time. She took a slow step forward.

She hadn't seen the belt. Hadn't heard the sound of it sliding from the loops like usual. There was always that sound. Her hands tightened in front of her. Maybe he was going to lecture her first. Or maybe the belt was behind the chair, waiting. She didn't ask. She never asked.

Dalton watched the way she moved in small, careful steps, like she was trying to make herself smaller. That same timid posture she'd had since she was a younger. Still obedient. Still quiet. Yet, the stark reality of what had changed arrested his attention. The simple shirt she wore, once comfortably loose, now clung to her chest with an almost startling intimacy he'd never felt before, outlining the undeniable rise and fall of her breasts. The material stretched, pulling taut across a more developed form, revealing the subtle undulations of a womanly figure that had blossomed beneath the unassuming fabric.

She stopped just in front of him, hands folded, shoulders tight. Her eyes lifted for a moment, hesitant, confused, then dropped again when he didn't say anything more.

"Belt doesn't seem to be gettin' through anymore," he said, voice even. "So we're tryin' something different."

Jeanie blinked, her lips parting slightly. She hadn't been spanked like that in years, not since she was much younger, before the belt became the norm. Back then, it felt closer. More humiliating. This felt like going backward. And somehow worse.

Her eyes dropped to his lap, then darted away. Her chest tightened, but she didn't protest. She never did. Dalton leaned back slightly, settling in as he waited. She stepped forward again and began to lean over, preparing to brace one hand on the floor to steady herself.

"Jeanie."

She froze. His voice wasn't raised, but it had that edge she knew to be corrective, final. He nodded toward her waist.

"You know better. A spanking don't do any good through denim."

Her breath caught. For a moment, she stayed still, then slowly straightened. "Yes, sir."

Dalton's gaze intensified, locking onto her every subtle movement as her fingers, slender and trembling just a fraction, found the small, metal button of her jeans.

Her fingers fumbled, a slight tremor she couldn't quite disguise, as they brushed against the button

She could feel his eyes on her, a burning intensity that made the hair on her arms prickle. This moment, this precise stripping away, always knotted her stomach with a sick anxiety. She kept her gaze glued to a fixed point on the floor, a desperate attempt to ignore the feel of his attention.

After watching her thumb the button through the hole, followed by the zipper, Dalton saw the subtle clench of her jaw. The way her shoulders tensed, even as the denim began its slow, surrender. A hushed rustle filled the sudden silence, and she flinched internally as the fabric glided over her hips, a cool caress against her skin. It snagged, briefly and exquisitely, at her thighs, and a wave of heat rushed across her face bringing a blush, completely unrelated to the room's temperature. Then, with a soft exhalation of cloth, it pooled around her ankles, leaving her vulnerable to the depths of his unwavering stare.

Her underwear was a plain, pale blue cotton. It was modest like everything she wore. She prepared to settle her weight across his lap, palms on his thigh to brace herself as she lowered, ready to reach towards the floor to support herself, her breathing shallow.

Then she heard him again.

"No, ma'am."

Dalton's hand pressed lightly against her back, stopping her descent. "Don't think you're keepin' those on just 'cause I'm not usin' the strap. That ain't how this goes."

She froze again, a sharp, disorienting jolt tightening in her chest. Being bare for a correction was her normal state, always bare, but this? This was an entirely uncharted territory. An unsettling intimacy she hadn't prepared for. No workbench, no sterile distance, no bracing for the predictable impact of leather. Her imagination seized, already recoiling from the scandalous realization she was about to be draped across his lap, her bare skin meeting the rough weave of his trousers, a shocking, unbidden closeness. And then, the true tremor of hesitation: the knowledge that it would be his bare hand, a correction utterly unlike any she had known.

She swallowed. "Yes, sir."

Her fingers moved to the waistband, and she slipped them down with minimal hesitation. Delaying her punishment only made it more severe. The cotton slid past her hips and thighs, settling at her ankles, tangled with the denim still pooled at her feet.

Her breath caught, an almost imperceptible hitch as she processed the gravity of the next step. His lap. The words echoed in her mind, marking this as an entirely new threshold. The weight of that realization settled on her, slowing her every intention. Slowly, she began to move forward, her clothes around her ankles, a clumsy impediment, tugging with each small shift of weight as she began to lower herself across his lap once more. Her palms now pressed to the floor, a desperate anchor, as her cheek turned toward the boards. As she leaned in, her shirt bunched up along her waist, high enough that the rough weave of his pants pressed directly against her bare skin. It felt like an abrasive shock across her abdomen, one of the seams biting slightly into her hip as she finally succumbed and settled.

Dalton placed a steady hand at the small of her back. She didn't flinch. She was used to the waiting part, the stillness. But never like this, never with the stark, physical reality of her body pressing into his, anticipating the touch of his bare hand.

Her shirt had ridden up higher than he'd expected, a quiet unveiling of more of her back. The soft line of her waist narrowed, a forbidden invitation, before flaring into full, bare hips. He'd seen her like this before, more than once. She was always bare when corrected. Always obedient. But across his lap like this, it registered differently, a shift from a familiar form to something newly, powerfully intimate. She wasn't a girl anymore.

She'd undeniably filled out, and now, in this position, he could feel it. See it. A warmth bloomed under his palm, a silent acknowledgment of her womanly curves. Then his eyes snagged, arrested by something else entirely. Right there, where her thighs eased into the curve of her ample backside, he saw the dark, soft line of her pubic hair. It was natural, not too sparse, just thick enough to obscure, but not fully hide, the womanhood within.

Of course, he knew it was there. He'd caught glimpses during previous corrections, but never quite like this: so undeniably close, presented with such vulnerable clarity. She wasn't one of those loose girls who shaved themselves bare, he'd never approve of such a thing, and as long as she was being disciplined, he'd always know. But he'd never been this acutely aware of it before. This close, or from this intimate angle, with her stretched out across his lap, open, still, trusting. A confusing mix of his firm discipline and a forbidden appreciation stirred within him, a pull he knew he shouldn't be feeling.

He cleared his throat, low in his chest, and adjusted his hand on her back. This wasn't about that. It was about teaching her something. A lesson. One she wouldn't forget.

He let the silence stretch, drawing out the moment for several long seconds, just enough time for her mind to begin racing, for the quiet anticipation to build into a knot in her stomach. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he raised his hand.

The first swat landed flat and loud across the very center of one of her cheeks, a sudden, startling impact that sent a sharp jolt through her. Her body instinctively lunged forward a little, but her hands, pressed firmly against the floorboards, caught her before she could fully lose balance.

Jeanie's breath hitched, a tiny, ragged gasp escaping her lips. It hurt, yes, but not with the familiar, slicing pain of the belt. This was different: a broader, deeper ache that radiated across her skin with a dull throb instead of cutting sharply through it. She didn't know what she'd expected from his bare hand, it'd been to long since she'd felt it to remember, but it certainly wasn't this unsettling, pervasive sting.

She remained silent, save a tiny whimper she chocked down. No words escaped her. All she could do was brace herself, every muscle tensing in preparation for the next impact.

The second strike came a mere second later, a rhythmic smack, followed by another, each one steady and firm. The sting settled in fast, a familiar fire, and with it came a radiating warmth that spread quickly across her behind and deep into the backs of her thighs. She could already feel her skin flushing beneath his hand, turning a mottled, angry pink, before turning red, with each repeated blow.

Dalton noticed the subtle give of her flesh with each strike, a soft, responsive cushioning that seemed to bounce back almost immediately. Every blow left a faint, blossoming red outline on her skin, and he could feel the heat steadily building with each repetition. She wasn't crying, not a single tear, but her breathing had unmistakably changed. It was shorter now, coming in unsteady gasps that hinted at the effort it took to hold still.

He shifted his free hand on the small of her back, a firm, reassuring pressure meant to keep her from squirming. That's when something else hit him, a faint scent, almost imperceptible beneath the familiar smells of soap and sweat. It was something warmer, subtly sweet, a hint of something primal. He didn't dwell on it, just registered it as a fleeting impression. Her skin felt heated beneath his palm; her entire body taut with tension. He chalked it up to anticipation of the next spank and didn't question it further, his focus unwavering on the task at hand.

Another swat landed, this one with a little more force. She let out a sharp expulsion of breath, a sound that was nearly a gasp but cut off before it could fully form. Her face burned, a flush of heat mirroring the intense sting now radiating across her bottom.

Jeanie didn't understand what was happening. The pain was real, yes, but something else, something slower and unwelcome, had begun to bloom beneath it. A peculiar weight settled low in her abdomen, and a tense constriction wound up in her chest. A deep, unsettling warmth seemed to seep into her limbs, entirely unrelated to the sharp sting of the punishment. Without thinking, her thighs pressed together, a subconscious attempt to contain the escalating sensations.

Another swat landed, a crisp, resounding slap that made her body jerk with the impact. Then another followed a breath later, a solid thud against her skin. Each strike left a distinct imprint, the sting intensifying and radiating outward.

She knew she was supposed to be focusing on the lesson, on the reason she was here. But her thoughts had scattered, drowned out by the sheer, overwhelming tide of sensation. Her skin tingled, alive in a way she'd never experienced. Each blow brought a fresh wave of heat that spread like wildfire, but it wasn't just pain anymore exactly.

She bit her lip, the small pain a desperate effort to ground herself. Her body was reacting in ways she didn't understand, responding to the relentless impacts with a strange, unfamiliar energy, and the sheer confusion only made it worse.

Dalton brought his hand down again and watched her flinch, not just from the contact, but from anticipation. The skin beneath his palm was warm now, blotched red in uneven patterns across both cheeks. A few more and it would deepen.

She hadn't protested once, but her breathing told him what he needed to know. It was shallow, hitched, strained. She wasn't tuning it out this time.

Good, he thought. Maybe now it's sinking in. Too many times she'd nodded, apologized, promised to do better, and then ended up back in the same place. But this... this had her full attention. She'd remember this, the feeling of it, the lesson embedded in each sting.

He landed another firm swat, and he felt her entire body clench in response. She was quiet, she always was, but he recognized the signs. The subtle tremor in her frame, the way her breath hitched. She was feeling it, truly feeling the impact. And maybe, just maybe, she was even starting to think what she had done in the first place.

Across his lap, Jeanie fought to stay utterly still, her hands pressing harder into the unforgiving floorboards. Her legs twitched once, an involuntary spasm, her thighs drawing together again in a desperate, futile attempt to contain the escalating sensations. The sting from the blows had blurred into something hotter now, a deep warmth that felt layered and pulsed across her bottom. But it was the confusing flutter low in her stomach that disturbed her most. A relentless tension that only seemed to coil tighter with each passing moment, refusing to subside.

Her breaths came too fast, too shallow, catching in her throat. She felt profoundly exposed, and not just because she was bare. It was something deeper, a raw vulnerability that went beyond the physical act. Something more intimate. And worse, something she couldn't quite name, a strange sense that perhaps, beneath the pain, it wasn't entirely unwelcome.

Jeanie bit down on her lip, hard, the pain a desperate attempt to regain control, to drown out the confusion. Anger flared within her, directed squarely at herself.

Another swat landed, firmer than the last. She gasped, and this time the sound slipped out, too soft to be called a cry, but real all the same. A whispered testament to the overwhelming surge of feeling.

Dalton paused, his hand resting against the mounting heat of her skin, feeling the faint tremble that now ran through her body. Her breathing had turned ragged, a frantic counterpoint to the quiet room. He gave a firm nod to himself. She'd remember this. Finally.

But then his gaze sharpened, catching something in her posture that gave him pause. The gasp had been small, yes, but sharp, and a different sound than the others. Her breathing had been unsteady before, but now it was verging on panicked. When he looked down, truly looked, he saw her knuckles had gone stark white where her hands pressed desperately into the floorboards. Her whole body was trembling, a deeper, more violent tremor than he'd felt just seconds ago.

He hesitated, the unspoken question hanging in the air. He'd been measured. Careful. He knew the precise amount of force he'd used, every controlled strike. But something in her stillness now felt different. Off. A cold knot formed in his gut. Maybe he'd pushed too far.

She wasn't crying, but she was close, her body a hair's breadth from breaking. Her legs were rigid, locked tight against the floor. The small of her back rose and fell in quick, shallow bursts beneath his hand, a frantic rhythm. The tension in her body no longer felt like submission. It felt like something knotted and frayed, pulled to its absolute limit.

Had he misjudged it?

He let out a slow breath through his nose and sat back slightly, the movement easing some of the pressure on her. "Alright," he said quietly, his voice a low rumble. "That's enough." His palm lingered for just a moment longer, the heat of her skin branding his, before finally lifting away.

Jeanie didn't move. She couldn't. Her muscles, strung taut from the punishment, refused to obey. The relief should have washed over her first, a cool balm after the storm, but it didn't. Instead, all she felt was a pervasive, burning heat behind her eyes. Hot tears being held back, in her chest, a tight, aching knot, and deeper still, where she didn't want to acknowledge it, a shamefully unfamiliar warmth that pulsed through her. Her thoughts blurred, swimming in a disorienting mix of shame and utter confusion. She didn't know what had just happened inside her, only that she wanted to crawl out of her own skin, to escape the bewildering sensations that lingered.

She kept her face desperately turned away, looking towards the floorboards. She was terrified that if he saw her expression, he'd know. Know that something wasn't right with her. Know that she wasn't right.

Dalton's hand hovered for a second longer, a lingering warmth above her back, before finally withdrawing completely, leaving her feeling utterly, disturbingly alone with the aftermath.

"You can fix yourself up," he said, quieter now.

Jeanie slowly pushed herself upright, her weight shifting carefully off his lap. She took a small, uncertain step to the side, but didn't immediately reach for the tangled heap of her clothes around her ankles.

She simply stood there, hands at her sides, head bowed, as if waiting for her scattered thoughts to catch up with her body. The heat still radiated across her bottom, a deep, persistent warmth that was more than just soreness now.

Dalton watched her for a moment in silent study. She looked off-balance, more than just chastised. She seemed unsteady, almost fragile. He let out a quiet exhale. It had been years since he'd used his bare hand. Maybe it had, indeed, been too much.

Without a conscious thought, he leaned forward, his arm extending toward the floor. "C'mere," he murmured, his voice softer this time, a low invitation.

She didn't stop him. A subtle stillness held her, a silent acknowledgment of his gesture.

He leaned further, his fingers brushing against the fabric pooled around her feet. The panties, a pale blue cotton, were still tangled in the denim, soft and delicate. He separated them gently, his touch light, then hooked his fingers beneath the waistband. With deliberate care, he guided them upward, working the soft material past her ankles, then over the smooth curve of her calves.

As the cotton rose along her thighs, his eyes followed instinctively, drawn by the movement. That's when he saw it. There was a single, glistening drop, perfectly clear, tracing a slow, trailing path down the inside of her left thigh, a silent testament to the raw aftermath. He didn't react, didn't pause his movement, but he saw it.

And his mind, stubborn and unyielding, simply refused to acknowledge what it meant.

He said nothing, keeping his movements steady, raising the pale blue panties the rest of the way. He eased the soft fabric over the curve of her bottom. She tensed slightly as they passed over the most tender skin, and he adjusted his grip, more pressure on the waistband, gentler elsewhere, a deliberate touch. Once they were in place, he adjusted the band carefully across her lower back, then slid his fingers along the leg holes, first the left, then the right, ensuring everything was flat, proper, covered.

He shifted, about to reach for the denim, but before he could, she stepped forward just enough to pull away from his touch. Bending at the waist, she retrieved the jeans herself, her face still carefully turned away from him.

"Thank you, sir," she said, quiet but clear, the words a low murmur in the quiet room.

Dalton sat upright again, his hands resting on his thighs. He gave a small nod, but didn't speak. Jeanie pulled her jeans up with careful hands, wincing faintly as the waistband brushed over the heat still lingering on her skin. She buttoned them quickly, not bothering to tuck in her shirt. It hung loose, twisted from where it had ridden up, but she made no effort to fix it.

She turned toward the door. Her footsteps were light and unhurried on the wood, and she didn't look back.

Dalton didn't move. He just watched the door swing shut behind her, the quiet latch clicking into place. The shop felt still. Too still. He ran a hand over his face and let out a slow breath through his nose. His palm was warm. He could still feel the residual sting from where it struck her repeatedly, and that bothered him more than he wanted to admit.

It wasn't supposed to be like that. This was meant to be clear: action and consequence, a misstep and a correction. Nothing personal. Nothing complicated.

But now, sitting in the silence, he glanced down at his hand again and wondered if the belt had been better after all. It was cleaner, created distance, left no room for confusion. She hadn't fought him, hadn't even flinched, but the look on her face as she left hadn't been the look of someone who'd simply been corrected. It had been something else.

And that unsettled him.

She was dressed appropriately, all things considered, but that didn't mean she liked it. A fitted white blouse, light enough for the heat but still pressed. Khaki pants, structured and cropped just above the ankle. Designer, of course. Everything was. Even the boots were leather, soft and spotless when she left the house. Now dust clung to the toes, and the backs were already scuffed from the walk. She hated this place, but she didn't complain. Or at least not out loud.

James walked twenty feet ahead, sharp in a white shirt as well, sleeves rolled just so. Clipboard in one hand, a faint crease between his brows, he let Dalton drone on about well rights and boundary lines without interruption. Carmen trailed behind. Not so far that she couldn't hear, but far enough to be left alone.

She'd worked under men like Dalton before. Talkers. She could spot one in the first five minutes. And she'd watched James dismantle them just as quickly. He didn't interrupt, didn't argue. He simply let them keep talking until they realized, too late, that they weren't leading the conversation anymore. He'd always had that effect even before his father passed.

Back then, she'd just started as his assistant when he came to work in the office. She was taking calls, managing schedules, fielding glances from executives who couldn't quite grasp why someone that pretty always seemed one step ahead of them. She remembered the first time he invited her out, in a casual, non-flirtatious kind of way. The second time had been clearer. By the third, she knew exactly where it was heading. She hadn't been sure about him at first, or about what it would mean. James never made promises. But he never made her guess either.

The earrings came after. The travel. The corner office. And, eventually, the freedom to stop caring what anyone whispered behind her back.

Carmen adjusted her sunglasses and stepped into the narrow sliver of shade cast by a tired-looking tree, arms loosely crossed. James was still speaking to Dalton, gesturing toward a break in the tree line, letting Dalton believe the idea might've been his. That was James's way. Control didn't shift to him with force. It just slipped toward him, quietly, like gravity.

She tilted her head slightly as he bent over the map. His voice was low, but she didn't need to hear the words. She knew the speech by now. She didn't love being dragged out here but she never got tired of watching him work.

They walked back up the long gravel drive, the house coming into view one cracked tire rut at a time. Dalton talked the whole way, going on about easements and neighborly disputes, barely noticing the heat.

Carmen noticed.

The sun had turned harsh, baking everything it touched. Sweat gathered beneath her blouse, and the backs of her knees stuck uncomfortably inside her khakis. She didn't say a word, but every step reminded her how much she hated being here.

James walked ahead of her, as usual, clipboard still tucked under one arm, nodding occasionally as Dalton rambled. He looked unbothered. Always did.

As they reached the bend before the house, a clatter rang out from the far side. The sound of metal latches hitting. Carmen glanced over just in time to see Jeanie crossing the side yard with a tin of feed under one arm, heading for the chicken coop.

She was moving with the steps of someone that'd done this walk a thousand times before. Head down, trying not to be seen. Her dress was light and loose, hair pulled back, nothing unusual at first glance. Still, Carmen caught the moment James noticed her. He didn't stop walking. Didn't say anything. But his head turned to follow her for a second longer than needed before returning to the path ahead.

Carmen kept moving, but her mood was souring fast. The sweat, the dust, the cling of clothes that weren't meant for this kind of heat, and it was all wearing thin. She wiped the back of her neck with the edge of her palm and glanced at James again, still walking ahead, cool as ever.

What the hell could he possibly see in a farm girl so immature her father still had to take a belt to her?

Jeanie was quiet, sure. But so were most doormats. There was nothing polished about her. Nothing intentional, just a plain, soft thing with her eyes always down and her hair always pulled back like a child. She probably didn't even own mascara.

Carmen squinted into the sun and shifted her sunglasses higher on her nose. It wasn't jealousy, at least not the kind she'd ever admit to. It was confusion. Frustration. It came from watching a man like James take even half a second longer than necessary to notice someone who, by all accounts, should've been invisible.

Whatever it was, she didn't like it. And the heat wasn't helping.

Jeanie scattered the last of the feed into the pan, moving quickly. The chickens clucked around her feet, but she barely registered them. She still had the water to check, and she didn't want to be in the way when they came back.

She heard footsteps on the gravel and glanced up. They were close now, Mr. Addams, her father, and the woman. Carmen.

Jeanie dropped her eyes and wiped her hands on the sides of her thighs, heart picking up. She turned slightly, not enough to look like she was staring, but enough to see them as they reached the porch.

James had the same calm about him as always. She could never read him. He was too much for her to understand. And Carmen was... striking. Tall, put together, her white blouse still crisp like she hadn't been sweating at all.

Jeanie shifted her weight, trying not to fidget. She didn't want them to see her. But she still watched, just a little longer. She bent to set the tin down by the fence, brushing her palms off on her thighs. The sweat was making her dress cling again, and she tugged at the fabric absently as she stood.

Carmen stepped up onto the porch beside James, sunglasses in place, her posture untouched by the heat. Even her hair looked perfect. Jeanie didn't know women like that. Didn't even understand how someone could move like that in the sun without sweating through their clothes.

She looked like she belonged in a magazine. Jeanie felt as though she looked like she belonged in the dirt.

Her thoughts hovered somewhere between embarrassment and curiosity as she turned back to the coop. She bent again to check the latch.

James stepped onto the porch behind Dalton, eyes still on the notes clipped to his board. He'd already seen what he needed to see. Jeanie had been by the coop, moving quick but deliberate as she tried to disappear into the work.

He didn't miss much.

A breeze picked up from the south, sudden and dry. It cut across the yard, lifting dust and the hem of Jeanie's dress along with it in one motion. Just a second, maybe less, but enough. The fabric flipped high at the back, catching the light and revealing a flash of skin just below the curve of her butt before it dropped back into place.

She reached for it, smoothing it down instinctively. She didn't look up, or know he was watching. But Carmen did.

She caught the flick of his eyes before he turned away. There was a kind of pause that was barely noticeable unless you knew him. And she knew him better than most.

She followed his line of sight just in time to see Jeanie smoothing her dress down, the breeze already gone. A second too late to stop the view it had offered. The girl probably didn't even realize.

Carmen adjusted her sunglasses, the plastic frame warm against the bridge of her nose. She said nothing, but her jaw tightened as she watched Jeanie walk back toward the coop like nothing had happened.

Was that what this was now? A little stumble at the hem and James suddenly couldn't help but look?

She wanted to believe it was nothing. That he hadn't even noticed. But she'd seen the flick in his eyes. The subtle turn of his head. James didn't stare. He didn't gawk, but he observed and Carmen knew the difference.

She turned her attention back to the door, one step behind him, her lips pressed together.

Dalton pulled the screen door open with a creak and disappeared inside, still talking, his voice trailing off into the kitchen.

James didn't follow right away. He stayed on the porch, scanning the line of fencing along the edge of the property. Carmen stepped in beside him, her heels tapping once against the boards before she came to a stop.

"You saw the eastern boundary?" she asked, keeping her voice low.

James nodded, eyes still ahead. "It's worse than I expected. Post line's crooked and at least twenty feet short of where the easement map says it should be."

Carmen didn't look surprised. She reached into her satchel and pulled out a folded copy of the boundary map, handing it to him. "I marked the discrepancy. County assessor's notes confirm it."

He took the paper and gave it a glance, but his focus had already started to drift. The movement of his hand slowed, eyes drifting across the page without really reading.

It had been months ago when he and Carmen had come out back to stretch their legs when they heard it: the unmistakable sound of a belt striking flesh. What followed had been harder to forget. Jeanie running past them, red-faced, clutching her pants, eyes wet and focused on nothing but escape. Then Dalton had stepped out of the shed, still threading his belt through the loops, looking more irritated than ashamed.

James remembered the way Dalton had tried to play it off, muttering something about a boy from down the road and how a good whipping was the only thing that got through to her. He hadn't asked for James's opinion, but James had given it anyway.

Now, standing on the other porch, with the same dust hanging in the air, the memory clung to him heavier than it had at the time.

"Odds on she's still getting whipped," he said, almost to himself.

Beside him, Carmen didn't answer at first. She was quiet for a moment, sunglasses still in place, gaze fixed on the distance. "She's obedient," she said eventually.

"She's nineteen," he replied, voice flat.

"She lives in his house. That's how he sees it."

James didn't respond. He folded the map, tucking it back under the clipboard, then let his eyes drift once more toward the side yard where the chicken coop sat. Jeanie wasn't there anymore. But he still pictured her.

The screen door creaked open again, and Dalton stepped back onto the porch, wiping his hands on the front of his jeans like he'd just finished something. "If y'all are headed out, I'll walk you to the car," he said, already moving past them without waiting for confirmation.

James gave a slight nod and followed. Carmen adjusted her bag on her shoulder and fell in behind them, silent.

The walk to the car was short, but Dalton never stopped talking. It was mostly about fencing costs and feed prices, the usual half-sell, half-complaint. James let him go on, offering nothing in return.

Then, without warning, he cut in.

"You stop using the belt on her?"

Dalton paused mid-sentence, blinking. His hand scratched absently at the back of his neck.

"She's twenty," he said. "What do you think?"

A moment passed, then quieter, almost like he didn't want to say it.

"Mostly."

James's tone didn't change. "It should be always. All it takes is her showing someone the welts and suddenly you've got a much bigger problem on your hands."

Dalton's mouth pulled tight. "Don't feel right, using my hand. Not on her. It's too... close. I was raised on the belt. That's how I learned."

James turned slightly, his eyes steady now. "And you're not a child. Neither is she."

Dalton looked down, jaw flexing.

"You want to discipline her?" James continued, voice quieter but colder now. "Fine. But I won't have you dragging trouble back to me because you don't know when to pull back."

He opened the driver's side door, but didn't get in.

"Use your hand. No marks, no questions."

Dalton gave a small nod, slow and reluctant.

James didn't wait for anything more. He slid into the car without looking back.

Turning the car around, the tires crunched over the packed gravel as they headed down the long drive. The house grew smaller in the mirror, but neither of them looked back.

Carmen adjusted her sunglasses, then glanced sideways, voice smooth.

"She's had a birthday, hasn't she?" she said lightly. "Your soft-spoken little milkmaid."

Her tone made it sound like an insult. It was.

"She still walks like she's scared of her own shadow. Or maybe she just likes pretending she doesn't know men are watching."

James kept his eyes on the road. "She's not mine," he said, voice even. "I've barely said ten words to her."

Carmen gave a soft hm, one corner of her mouth curling. "That's usually all it takes. Quiet girls fall hardest for men who don't pay them any mind." She shifted in her seat, letting the sunlight catch the gold of her bracelet. "One look, and suddenly they're writing your name in the margins of their Bibles."

James didn't respond, but his grip on the wheel tightened by a fraction.

Carmen didn't say anything else. She turned back toward the window, jaw tightening just slightly, one manicured finger absently tracing the edge of her purse. He wasn't going to respond, she could see that, and she should've known better. James had a way of making silence feel final. Pushing him, even gently, only worked when he allowed it, and poking at whatever quiet interest he may or may not have had in a girl like Jeanie was a step too far.

She straightened in her seat and adjusted her blouse, her voice cooler, lighter when she spoke again. "We'll need to follow up with the county office. That southern boundary line's going to give us more work than we thought. Might be worth looping in someone from engineering."

James gave a slight nod, eyes fixed on the road ahead. He didn't bother to look at Carmen. She'd done what she always did and pressed too far, then retreated into professionalism before he had to call it what it was.

But the question lingered. Not Carmen's, exactly. His own. Jeanie...

She'd always been around, in the background of these visits, barely speaking. Just a girl in the periphery, half-shielded by her mother's apron strings or the barn door. He remembered her younger, carrying pie out to the men on the porch like it was the most serious thing in the world. Head down, words mumbled, eyes never quite lifting off the floor. And now she was twenty. At least, Dalton had said as much. Last time he'd checked, she was still nineteen.

James adjusted his grip on the wheel, eyes narrowing slightly at the road. She was twenty now, no longer a teen, and still being spanked like a child. And that, he wasn't sure what to make of.

Dalton's comment echoed back to him, that clumsy half-confession: "Don't feel right, using my hand." It had sounded almost ashamed, like the contact made it too personal. James couldn't decide what unsettled him more, that Dalton still believed it was his place to physically discipline her at all, or that he'd suddenly grown cautious about touching her.

There was little conversation on the drive back, and what little there was stayed focused on the land fencing discrepancies, easement lines, what it would take to partition the acreage cleanly. Carmen made a note about following up with the county; James mentioned looping in a surveyor. Nothing personal, just the work.

But when they pulled into the drive and stepped inside, the business ended.

They moved through the house without much sound, the quiet scuff of Carmen's boots against the floor the only trace of their arrival. James set the clipboard down in the entryway and began unfastening his cuffs as he walked upstairs. She followed, silent but watching.

He always did that, loosened his cuffs when his focus shifted. In the office, it meant business: time to roll up his sleeves and make decisions no one else wanted to. But here, in the house, it meant something else entirely. The day was done. He wasn't working anymore, and he expected the same from her.

She waited near the bed while he crossed the room, pushing his sleeves to the forearms, posture more relaxed than she usually saw him after visiting the Dalton farm. She said nothing. He already knew what had been on her mind from the car ride.

When he stepped close, there was just a hand reaching for the buttons of her blouse, back to the focus he had in the car. He didn't rush, or speak. Carmen didn't help him. She never did when he initiated undressing her.

As the fabric slipped from her shoulders, his fingers brushed lightly over her hip. He kissed her once, near the collarbone. His fingers skimmed the edge of her bra, then traced lightly over the curve of her hip. He leaned in and kissed the base of her collarbone again. He liked the feel of her skin there. Always had.

"She's not a concern," he murmured, the words so low they barely carried the short distance between them. "Quiet little thing. Doesn't even look me in the eye." His tone was dismissive, just enough to echo Carmen's own phrasing, just enough to maintain the balance he held with her. But that was the problem. If she wasn't a concern, why bring her up again?

Carmen said nothing, but the thought settled in her mind. James didn't speak idly. He didn't revisit what hadn't crossed his mind. And when something caught his attention, something new, something that glinted just enough under the right light, he had a way of reaching for it, often without realizing he'd done so.

She wasn't worried about love. James didn't operate that way. But Carmen had carved out a place beside him and held onto it carefully. Her worth wasn't measured in affection, it was in access, trust, proximity. Being useful to him.

The moment someone else started to shift that balance, even a quiet, dirt-covered farm girl who didn't speak unless spoken to, didn't go unnoticed. Carmen felt it and she would do whatever it took to keep from being replaced.

Carmen didn't speak. She stepped back a pace, as if considering something, then reached for the button of her khakis. Her fingers worked slowly, with the same deliberate care she used when dressing for him. She eased the zipper down and slid the pants over her hips, pushing them past her thighs and letting them fall around her boots with a soft rustle.

She didn't step out of them right away. Instead, she turned slightly toward the dresser, giving him an intentional view as she bent forward to unlace each boot. From where he sat, the curve of her backside was framed perfectly in her underwear. They were high-cut, and dark, nothing elaborate, but stretched tight enough to leave little to the imagination. The fabric hugged her just enough to draw his eye, and he let it linger, watching the flex of her thighs as she shifted her weight.

When both boots were off, she nudged the pants aside with her foot, before straightening. She hadn't looked at him through any of it.

At the dresser, she took a folded towel from the stack and carried it to the bed. She laid it down at the edge, smoothing it with one hand, then moved to the nightstand. As she bent to retrieve the small bottle, her back arched slightly and her legs shifted just far enough apart to change the line of tension in the fabric stretched across her hips.

The panties pulled tight across her mound, outlining the soft cleft beneath, the shape of her body pressing faintly against the delicate material. The movement was overt and just enough to hint at what lay beneath. Just enough to showcase what she knew he was looking at.

She lingered in that position a moment longer than necessary before straightening, bottle in hand, and turning toward him.

Stepping between his knees, she reached for his belt. The metal buckle clinked sharply as she drew it open. She popped the button, lowered the zipper, and tugged his slacks down. They dropped with a soft collapse around his ankles, the loose belt giving one last clatter against the floor. His boxers followed with a single pull, and she freed him with practiced ease, his cock rising, half-hard and thick, and already responding.

Without a word, she opened the bottle and poured a small amount of the oil into her palm. She rubbed her hands together slowly, warming it, letting the slick coat her fingers in quiet preparation. Then she wrapped her hand around him, firm, smooth grip, and began to stroke. There was no teasing, she simply moved exactly the way he liked.

She kept her focus on the task, letting her strokes grow longer. The warmth of the oil mixed with the steady pull of her hand, drawing him to full hardness in a matter of seconds. Her other hand rolling his sack around in her palm, fingertips manipulating him just enough to provide a light pressure.

He watched, appreciating her skilled fingers after years of practice on him.

Once she felt him throb against her palm, clearly wanting more she leaned in and pressed a slow kiss to the center of his abdomen. Then another, just above the line where his boxers had rested moments earlier. Her breath lingered on his skin. She paused there, lips parted, letting the anticipation stretch just long enough before pulling back.

Her hands left him only long enough to guide his body back. She gave him a nudge. It was a small push, but reflected her intentions and he leaned back until he sat fully against the mattress, shoulders relaxed, legs slightly spread. She climbed into his lap in one smooth motion, knees bracketing his waist, the soft slide of her skin against his as she settled over him.

Her panties were still on, but barely. The heat between her legs was already evident in the way the fabric was damp and clinging to her. She let her slick hands rest against his shoulders for balance, grinding once against him, a slow, suggestive, dragging that moved her mound along the length of his shaft. He was caught between her thighs, pressed against the soaked cotton, and her movements made the tension between them unbearable.

Then she shifted her weight back and reached down, pushing the panties to the side with two fingers. One hand wrapped around him again, guiding him into place. She held steady as she slowly sank down, taking him inch by inch until he was buried inside her, the stretch of it making her inhale sharply against his neck. Her hands gripped his shoulders harder as she adjusted, rocked, and let herself settle into the fullness of him.

She stayed like that for a moment, unmoving, letting her body pulse around him, letting him savor the tight, wet, control of the Kegel muscles, before she began to move. Just the slow, grinding rhythm of someone who knew exactly how to hold his attention after years of learning how to draw it out with him.

She pressed her forehead to his for a moment, catching her breath, then started to move. Her hips shifted in a small, grinding circle, keeping him deep, stirring him inside her. She rocked again, the motion tight and controlled, dragging her slick heat around him, testing what angles made him twitch tonight, what pressure made him grunt.

Each movement was deliberate. She wasn't bouncing or riding with speed, she was grinding, rotating, keeping him buried and making him feel every inch. Her thighs tightened around him, keeping herself balanced, hands steady on his shoulders as she worked her hips in slow circles, coaxing more from him without giving in to anything fast or frantic.

His hands slid up from her legs, fingers trailing over the soft curve of her waist, then higher. He cupped her breasts, thumbs brushing over her nipples, and she let out a soft breath, not stopping. Her hands held to his shoulders, the only anchor as she kept circling her hips, keeping him exactly where she wanted him.

She leaned in again, close to his ear, her breath warm against his skin. Still grinding, slow and tight. Then quietly, almost like it slipped out, she said, "I can feel everything." Her voice was calm, breathy, honest. "How's that feel for you?" she asked him.

Before he could answer, she shifted, lifted just enough to start moving in a different rhythm. Less of a grind now and more of a slow, deliberate stroke. She began to rise and sink, each motion smooth and unhurried, her body gliding along his with growing need.

His hands tightened around her breasts, fingers digging in a little more with each drop of her hips. He groaned softly, and she didn't stop. Her pace slowly built as she started to lose herself in the moment. As distant as things could be with him during sex, there was no denying how good his cock felt. He was longer than most and his girth stretched her just the right amount. Just enough that she often needed those first few moments to allow her to adjust to his size. When he let her take the time, that is.

His hands tightened around her breasts, fingers pressing firmer now, thumbs brushing over her nipples with careful pressure. He watched her, eyes drawn to the slow motion of her body moving against his. The heat, the closeness, the steady grind. And it stirred something in him. He let the moment stretch, but he wanted more. She did feel good, even if he didn't answer her question. He let her keep the pace a moment longer, then shifted.

His hands slid down from her chest to her hips. He took hold of her there, guiding her into a slower drop, making her feel every inch as she sank onto him again.

"Don't rush," he said quietly, his voice even. "Take your time on the way down. Then lift off me, all the way. I want to feel that."

She adjusted, responding without a word. Her body rose until he almost slipped free, then she sank again, slower now, tighter. His grip firmed around her hips holding the pace where he wanted it.

"That's it," he murmured. "Do it again."

She moved the way he asked, and he watched her closely. Watched the way her lips parted, the small sound that slipped from her mouth, the way her thighs tensed against his. His control wasn't harsh or hurried, but it was there now, clear in the way he timed her motions, clear in how much he was paying attention to everything she did.

"Good," he said, and his fingers flexed, ready to take more if she gave it. "Again."

She followed his lead for another stroke, then shifted slightly on the next. Her hips tilted forward as she lowered herself, changing the angle. It was enough to drag him along a new path inside her. His cock pressed along the underside of her entrance now, and he felt the added pressure along the underside of his cock with the way she moved slower through the tightest part of her descent.

She rose again, adjusted, then did it once more. The angle made her exhale, as the motion brushed over something deeper. Her hands braced harder against his shoulders, her eyes flicking shut for a second as the friction hit her just right. His cock thick was rubbing against the soft ridge of her g-spot, dragging across it each time she lifted and sank again.

He felt it too. The difference in how she clenched, or the way she held him longer at the bottom. His fingers curled tighter around her hips as he held her there, letting her find the angle she liked. Letting her use him.

"You like that angle?" he asked, his voice quiet, steady against her ear.

She didn't speak, but the way her breath caught and her fingers tightened around his shoulders was answer enough. Her hips moved again, slow and sure, dragging him along the same path. He pressed deeper, stroking across everything that made her pulse around him.

He let his hands slide up her sides, settling just beneath her ribs. "That's it," he said, watching her closely. "Right there... stay with it."

Her rhythm stayed locked in. He watched her closely for the way her jaw tensed, the way she seemed to stay just inside her own head even as her body moved with instinct. He thought back to earlier, the flash of uncertainty in her voice when she asked about the girl. The hesitation in her eyes. She hadn't said much, but he'd heard the concern. Felt it.

Maybe this was her way of reclaiming something. Of proving something to either him, or herself.

So he didn't stop her. Didn't push or take control. Not yet. She needed this, to feel wanted. To feel a moment of security. If she could take what she needed from him right now, he'd let her. And when she was ready, when her body finally gave in, he'd take what he wanted.

She kept the angle, her movements steady, hips rolling and lifting in slow, deliberate motions. Each descent pulled a moan from her. The pressure was right. Every stroke dragged along where she needed it, and still, he didn't take over.

He continued to watch her, hands steady at her sides, letting her stay in control.

She hadn't expected that. Not after what she said earlier, asking about the girl, letting that doubt show. It had embarrassed her more than she wanted to admit. But now, here, with his hands on her and nothing in his voice but calm, she felt something settle. He was giving her time to find her footing again.

His grip shifted, just a little. She was close, and he could feel it. Her legs were trembling, her breath uneven. She tried to keep her rhythm, to prolonger her orgasm, but it she was losing.

"You're there," he said quietly. "Don't fight it."

She pushed down again, her fingers tightening on his shoulders. Her body clenched around him, the pace faltering as she gasped against his neck. And he moved with her. His hands slid to her hips, guiding her now. Slower, deeper. He kept her close while her pleasure washed through her. He still didn't rush, just held her in place, but he did begin to take over, sure now that she was ready.

Her body pulsed around him, breath catching in uneven bursts as the last waves of her climax rippled through her. She clung to him, trying to breathe through the aftershocks, still straddling him when his hands shifted.

There was no pause, no warning. He held her in place and moved with her still wrapped around him, rising just enough to give him leverage, then turning sharply. Her back hit the mattress with a thud softened only by the sheets, her legs falling open as he stayed buried inside her the entire time. She let out a startled sound from the jolt and sudden loss of control.

Before she could catch her breath, he drove into her again with deep hard thrusts. Everything gentle was gone. The moment she'd taken for herself was over.

His hands caught her wrists and pinned them above her head, holding her steady while he moved in more measured, but forceful thrusts without giving her space to retreat. She stared up at him, eyes wide, and mouth parted. The earlier tension and insecurity she'd tried to hide all came rushing back.

And he didn't let it go unaddressed. He didn't speak, but she could feel it. In the way he moved, in the way he held her down. He wasn't being kind anymore. He was letting her know exactly how much she'd shown her hand earlier. And she accepted it. The relief came fast, yet unexpected. Being taken again, this way, by him, felt right. In some way she felt like it was a reminder that he'd never let her forget her place in his world.

He stayed over her, still inside, driving into her with a steady force that made her body shift beneath him, hips rocking back with each thrust, shoulders pushing into the mattress. Her breasts moved with every impact, soft and flushed, her nipples brushing against his chest as her back arched slightly to meet him. She bit her bottom lip, hard, trying to stay quiet, but a whimper slipped out, broken and high.

He noticed everything. The way her thighs tightened against his sides, the way her fingers twitched as he continued to pin her wrists. Her eyes tried to stay on his, but they flickered, overwhelmed and unfocused.

She was still reeling. Still caught between the orgasm she hadn't fully come down from and the new pace he was setting. She was wet, warm, gripping him like she didn't want him to stop, even as her body struggled to keep up.

He adjusted his angle, shifted slightly, and felt her twitch under him as he hit just the right spot. She gasped, her lip slipping free or her teeth, a soft curse escaping before she could catch it.

He liked the little signs she couldn't hide. The way she tried to keep herself composed even when her body betrayed her. He wasn't thinking about earlier anymore. He was too focused on the feel of her, the way she clenched every time he bottomed out, the heat between them building again, fast.

She was close. He could feel it in the way her legs tightened, how she pushed up to meet him now without thinking. And he wasn't going to stop until she gave in completely.

She tried to hold on, tried to keep herself composed under the weight of him, under the pace he refused to let up. Her hands were still pinned, her wrists tight in his grasp, but her focus was slipping. Every thrust sent her deeper into the feeling of him inside her, the friction was relentless and the pressure growing too fast to manage.

Her breath was becoming increasingly ragged with every movement. She bit her lip again, harder this time, trying to quiet the sounds building in her throat. Her legs pressed around him, her body twitching beneath his, hips arching to meet him even as she fought not to cum. She didn't want to give in again. At least not this soon, not when he was watching her this closely after having just orgasmed. But her body didn't care.

It hit her hard as her muscles clenched, back arching off the bed, her mouth falling open in a gasp she couldn't swallow. Her thighs shook around him, the orgasm tearing through her before she could brace for it, or pretend to have control over her body anymore.

That was when he let go as well.

He pulled out in one sudden motion, a fist tightening around the base of his cock as he stroked once, twice, then came in thick, hot pulses across her abdomen and pelvis. The first spurt caught just above her navel, the rest landing lower, streaking across skin still flushed from the effort of her breathing.

Her chest rose and fell in sharp bursts, and just beneath her ribs, the way the flat plane of her abdomen dipped slightly, the faint outline of muscle shifting under the surface as she moved in tight, sporadic movements rippling under soft skin. His cum clung to her, catching the light as it mixed with the wetness already smeared between her thighs. It ran slowly downward, slipping over the mound he'd been buried in moments ago, trailing through the juices that coated her folds before dribbling into the cleft of her ass. He watched it settle there, thick, and felt the rush of all of it, all over again.

He stayed over her, breathing hard, his hand still around himself as the last of it spilled out under his slowing strokes. It took him a moment before he let go, before his eyes finally met hers.

He never said why he almost never finished inside her, but she'd noticed. Those moments only happened when he wasn't thinking. When he lost himself completely it seemed.

And tonight, he hadn't.

James had parked off the main drive and walked the fence line first. The new section stretched clean across the west boundary, straight posts, fresh wire, just like the contractor had promised. Still, he took his time, checked the corners, noted where the ground dipped. A soft sag in the middle suggested someone had leaned against it already, maybe more than once. It wasn't enough to complain about, but enough to log.

He adjusted his cuff, brushed the dust from his slacks, and made his way toward the house. The sun was high now, the porch boards worn and soft underfoot. He was quietly relieved by the thought that the place would be torn down soon. The idea of restoring it for them to stay, wasn't just impractical, but frankly, it was unacceptable. He wanted to spend as little money as he had to for the sake of keeping it habitable for Bob.

As he stepped onto the first stair, he heard it. A sharp crack from inside. The sound of flesh meeting flesh, clean and purposeful. Then another. Then another. The sounds were spaced evenly, each one followed by a soft, strained yelp. It was clearly the sound of a young woman.

He climbed the rest of the steps without hesitation and knocked. The door opened a moment later. Betty stood in the frame, her cheeks flushed, a wisp of hair stuck to her temple. But her smile came without delay, in her polite and practiced way.

"Well, Mr. Addams. I didn't know you were stopping by."

"I just came to let you know the last of the paperwork's been filed," he said, as he stepped up to the door. "It's all finalized, just waiting on it to record with the assessor's office. Once that happens, you'll receive the funds at the same time and it's officially done."

Betty stepped aside quickly. "Come in, come in. So it's really happening then."

James nodded once as he stepped inside. "Just about. Should all be finished any day."

The inside of the house felt dim and still, though the sound hadn't stopped. As James stepped over the threshold, he heard it again, another smack, distant but distinct. A few seconds passed. Then another. Then another.

"I'll make a cup," Betty offered, heading straight for the kitchen without pause.

"I wouldn't dare say no," James replied, his tone smooth. "You always manage to get it right." He didn't particularly want coffee, especially not on a day this hot, but politeness had its uses.

She reached for the instant coffee without looking at him, spooning granules into mismatched mugs. Behind her, from the hallway, another strike echoed from down the hall. The sound was unmistakable. James's ear followed the sound even as he moved to the table and took his seat.

"Dalton's been out back most of the morning," Betty said, her voice too casual. "Started on that lean-to again, though I told him it wasn't worth saving."

Another crack cut through the air, sharper this time. Then a pause, followed by what sounded like a restrained sob that was quickly smothered.

James accepted the cup she placed in front of him. It was bitter and cheap, just like last time. He didn't wince.

Betty sat across from him, speaking lightly about the chickens, the neighbors, a stray hound someone had picked up off the road. Her words kept flowing uninterrupted, as another smack rang out, then another. James gave no sign he heard anything. But there was no denying it. She kept talking.

Her blouse shifted with each breath, the fabric pulling just slightly across her chest. The top few buttons were undone. It seemed for practicality than anything, likely from working in the heat, but the opening gave him a clearer view than intended. She was still slim, kept that way by constant movement around the farm, but her bust didn't match the rest of her. It was full, weighty, the kind of softness that drew the eye. As she turned to reach for her own cup, she'd left on the counter next to the small table. Another sharp smack echoed clearly from down the hall.

She flinched. It was subtle and hardly more than a twitch, but he caught it. Her spine straightened, her breath drew in tighter. She kept speaking as if nothing had happened. That was when he really looked at her.

The sound of the spanking hadn't stopped. The timing, the loudness, the stifled reactions, they all pointed to something that felt like more than just simple discipline to James. It had been going for quite some time since he'd entered the house. And here was Betty, trying to ignore it with small talk and practiced smiles, yet her body gave things away regardless.

The heat, the shirt, the flush in her cheeks, the sound of skin being struck just out of sight, it all layered in his mind. He felt the first trace of his slacks feeling a touch tighter. And with that came the thought of the girl.

He didn't move, or react, but now he was listening with more intent. And watching Betty more closely.

Down the hall, the spanking stopped.

A silence followed thick with an unspoken tension. Then a floorboard creaked. Followed by a light sniff. James took another sip of the coffee.

Dalton appeared a second later, wiping his hands on a rag he typically had in his back pocket. His hair was damp with sweat and his shirt clinging slightly at the collar. His smile came two seconds too late, and a little too wide, like he was caught off guard and trying to recover from something. Betty didn't seem to notice, but James did as usual. And for just a moment, he wondered if the flush in Dalton's face wasn't from the heat.

"James. Hell, I didn't realize you were coming by today."

"Just stopping by to let you know the paperwork's moving through," James said evenly. "Once it records, that'll be the end of it."

Dalton chuckled, the sound a little forced, and gave a short nod as he eased into the chair across from James. "Well, sounds like it's all movin' along then. Big change, I guess."

He scratched the back of his neck. After a few seconds of silence under James's gaze he added, "Jeanie's been forgettin' the gate again. Nearly lost two hens the other day. Had to give her a talkin' to this morning."

James didn't respond, just watched. No one had asked anything which meant Dalton wasn't explaining, he was justifying. And maybe, James thought, it had nothing to do with hens at all.

Betty, who'd made herself busy at the sink, glanced toward the hallway. Her expression didn't change, but her voice softened. "I'll go check on Jeanie."

She left quietly, the hallway swallowing her footsteps.

Dalton kept talking as he went on about the heat, about how supply prices had gone up again, about a neighbor's rusted-out tractor. James listened, nodded in the right places, but said little. His attention was divided now, half on Dalton, half on the muffled conversation beyond the kitchen.

A few minutes passed of Dalton's endless chatter. Then Betty returned.

She didn't speak, didn't join the conversation. She came into the room just far enough for James to see her face, tight and pale, with eyes a little glassy, and then she busied herself near the counter without a word. Her movements were tenser now, and there was an air about her that James had not seen about her before that he could remember. She didn't look at Dalton and Dalton didn't look at her.

Dalton cleared his throat, his smile tightening as he leaned back in his chair. "So... no Carmen today? She's usually right there with you."

James didn't look up immediately. He finished his assessment of Betty, then replied without much inflection, "She's not fond of the heat, and I didn't see the point in dragging her out here just to stand around."

Dalton gave a short laugh. "Right. She always did seem more comfortable in air conditioning."

James didn't respond. His gaze drifted toward the hallway, where everything now seemed noticeably quieter. Dalton shifted in his seat again, looking for something to fill the space, but no new conversation came.

Betty remained at the sink, her back turned, busying herself with the same dish for the second time.

Jeanie stepped into the kitchen without a sound, sleeves pulled past her hands, chin tucked slightly as though bracing herself. Her eyes didn't lift. She moved with quiet purpose to her mother's side, picking up a dishtowel and folding it with slow, practiced care.

It was the first time James had seen her clearly since that first visit. The last had brought a more unexpected view of her, but from a distance. The girl he barely registered previously had changed. Though perhaps she hadn't changed at all, it was just his awareness of her. He was simply paying closer attention now.

She was slim, her build soft in places, and the way she carried herself was timid, but consistent with what he knew of her. No matter the punishment, she could be typically been seen minutes later. Back to doing her chores, or whatever was expected of her. It intrigued James as he took her in.

Her waist tapered above prominent hips, and though her blouse hung loose, he could still make out the rise of her chest with each breath. Her breasts were modest but noticeable, likely a C, fuller than he might have assumed under the baggy clothes, though not as much as her mother's. Her posture was straighter than he'd expected from someone that was always trying to disappear into the background when he was around. Like she'd taught herself to hold it all together in spite of what may be happening.

Her skin carried a warm undertone, flushed slightly, either from the lingering heat of the weather, or the effort of keeping busy. Her hair was thick and dark, parted with little care, a few strands clinging here or there, while fly-aways stuck out in other places.

James didn't speak. He didn't stare. But his eyes monitored each subtle detail. How she stood, how she held the towel, how her fingers worked steadily while her shoulders stayed tense.

Dalton, sensing the tension, stood with an awkward energy. "Well, you let us know when to expect that paperwork."

James set the cup on the table. "You'll hear from me."

He stepped toward the door. As he passed Jeanie, she shifted slightly, making room without comment. Her hands stilled for half a second, the towel clutched between them, before returning to the task.

He didn't address her, but he took her in while he was closer. How quiet she was, how little room she seemed to believe she was allowed. Then he stepped outside. The screen door clicked shut behind him.

The screen door clicked shut behind James, and the house fell into a dense silence. The kind that settles after company, when the performance ends.

Betty stood at the counter, her hands resting flat on either side of the sink. Jeanie remained beside her, finishing drying the dishes her mother had just washed.

Dalton cleared his throat and turned toward the back hall, but was stopped by the sound of Betty's voice. She didn't look at him when she spoke. Her voice was low and even, but the words that came were sharp.

"Did you lay hands on her?"

Dalton turned slightly. "What?"

She lifted her chin, steeling herself to confront Bob. Something she never did. "Jeanie. Did you put your bare hands on her skin?"

Dalton's jaw tightened. "Betty--"

"I went to check on her," she continued, still facing the window. "She was sitting on the edge of the bed, crying like I don't usually see her. She looked ashamed, not like she'd just had the belt. I asked if she was alright. She said she was fine. Said you'd just spanked her again."

Dalton shifted his weight. "I already told James. She left the gate open again. It ain't new."

Betty finally turned. "I asked her if she meant you used the belt."

She waited.

Dalton didn't speak.

"She shook her head," Betty said. Her voice didn't rise, but the edge in it grew even more tense. There was a quiver in her voice. "Said you've been making her drop her skivvies, down to her bare bottom, before you made her lie over your lap."

He looked away, scratching the back of his neck like the words itched him.

"She's been taking a belt to her bare bottom since how long ago!" he tried to argue back.

"The belt, Bob! She's been taking the belt for years, but not your hand. Jesus, she's twenty," she said, not shouting, not crying. Just stating it. "You put your hands on her bare backside."

"She acts younger than her age some days," he snapped. "Maybe if she acted grown, she wouldn't get treated like a child."

"She isn't a child."

"She lives in this house, eats our food, doesn't do half of what's asked unless she's reminded twice--"

"That doesn't give you the right," Betty cut in. "The belt's one thing. We were raised on it, and Lord knows you've always believed in it. But your hands--"

He opened his mouth, but she didn't let him speak.

"I don't want you touching her like that again, Bob. Not bare. Not with your hands. I don't care if you think it's acceptable. It's not. Not anymore."

Dalton's brow furrowed. "I didn't--"

"No. I don't care what you didn't mean to do, or what you didn't think about. You still did it."

She didn't say anything else. Just looked at him, her shoulders squared in a way that didn't invite argument.

Dalton was still, one hand flexing and curling at his side, the other rubbing at the crease of his jaw. Whatever he was about to say, he bit his tongue. The house was quiet again. Betty turned back toward the sink. Jeanie hadn't moved and Dalton didn't answer.

Jeanie stood just a few feet away, still holding the towel, her fingers pressed into the fabric, listening to every word. She hadn't expected her mother to say anything. She never had in the past. She'd always defended daddy in the past and that if she knew what was good for her, she'd just listen to her father. But there it was, low and sharp, leaving it clear where she stood on him spanking her. And it made something twist in her chest.

When her mother asked about the belt, she'd nodded, because that had been the truth before. It used to happen in the shop, standing bent over his workbench, her underwear down, her hands braced against the scarred wood while he corrected her with the belt. It was impersonal then. Distant. Something she could compartmentalize.

But not lately.

Now it always happened in her room, while he sat on the edge of her bed and pulled her across his lap. His hand instead of leather. Her body draped over his thighs, held in place by his arm, her face flushed against her sheets, her skin bared and hot under his palm. There was no distance in it anymore. Just warmth, pressure, and the feeling of being seen like that. So close, so exposed, so quiet.

And the worst part was how it made her feel afterward. Unsettled. Confused in ways she didn't know how to admit, even to herself. That's how he made it sound. Like correction. Like a lesson. But there were moments, brief ones, when she'd felt something she couldn't quite place. Her stomach would clench, and her cheeks would burn, and afterward, when he'd leave and she'd be alone, it would sit in her like a secret she didn't understand.

Now, hearing her mother call it what it was, unacceptable, made that knot twist even tighter. She didn't feel safer. She didn't even feel vindicated. She just felt exposed as she stood listening to them. Her eyes stayed down, but she kept her place at Betty's side. Not speaking. Not leaving. Just listening in surprise.

The porch boards creaked beneath James's shoes as he shifted in the old wooden chair, arms folded loosely across his chest. The air was humid and still, thick with the smell of dust and cut grass. In the distance, thunder rolled, in the distance. He'd knocked. Twice. No answer.

Betty's car was gone. The blinds were drawn. And Dalton, who had insisted on this meeting in person, was nowhere to be found. James leaned back, the chair giving a soft groan beneath him. He hated waiting, especially since he'd already signed the final paperwork. The deal was done. The land was his now, whether Dalton was ready to accept it or not.

His gaze drifted across the yard to the edge of the garden. A sagging shed blocked part of the view, but a gap in the grass-lined path opened just enough to catch movement as someone emerged from around the side of the house. Jeanie.

She carried a pair of shears in one hand, a shallow tin pail in the other. Loose cotton shorts and a faded T-shirt clung to her in places, damp with sweat or from brushing up against the morning dew. Her hair, darker now with the humidity, was tied back in a rough braid. Nothing about her looked prepared for company. But everything about her suggested routine. She hadn't seen him.

James sat quietly.

She knelt near the squash rows, her back to him, one knee pressed into the dirt. Her movements were methodical. Trim, check, shift, repeat. As she leaned forward, her shirt lifted slightly above her waistband, revealing the small of her back. Her legs shifted under her, and they were thick and lean. Even from this distance, the tone of her calves and the subtle strength of her thighs were easy to make out. Her skin was warm in color, like faint bronze beneath soft fabric, and there was a kind of simplicity to the way she moved. She was barefoot, her toes pressing into the soil with the kind of ease that came from years spent working it.

It shouldn't have drawn his attention, but it did. It wasn't provocative, in his estimation she probably wouldn't know how, even if she wanted.

She bent forward again, and he watched the movement of her hips as she adjusted her weight. The fabric of her shorts shifted against her, being drawn taut against her skin, showing just enough to make him wonder what was underneath all that modesty. What she might feel like. He didn't mean to think it, but the thought came all the same. The shape of her, the way she carried herself, the quiet focus. It made him more curious than he expected to be.

Dalton's voice echoed in his mind. That casual mention of discipline. The remark about her needing reminders. At the time, it had sounded like a father struggling with a daughter's stubbornness. But now, sitting here, James saw something different. Her bare skin under a raised hem. Her body over Dalton's lap instead of bent over his lap. Dalton's hand where the belt used to be.

James shifted, jaw set and his hands tightening slightly on the arms of the chair. It wasn't what he'd come for. He didn't want to think about her, but he didn't stop, either. She kept working, unaware of him. And he watched with a growing awareness of her body, of her presence, of how little she seemed to know what she stirred in the men around her.

The wind picked up slightly, carrying the sharp smell of coming rain. A storm was nearby. Jeanie reached into the foliage, pulling back a thick leaf to reveal a crooked cucumber. She clipped it and dropped it into the pail without looking up. The loose fabric of her shirt shifted against her back as she moved, and her shorts rode higher on her thighs when she adjusted her weight.

James watched her straighten to stretch her arms, her back arching slightly as she rotated one shoulder. The motion drew the shirt across her chest, enough to show the line of her bra through the thin cotton. Her full breasts shifted with her breathing, pressed and hidden beneath the modest fabric. She didn't seem to notice. There was no performance in her motions, no self-consciousness. She was simply doing her chores.

That made it harder to ignore for James. He was used to people performing when he was around, putting on a show of what they thought he wanted.

A low roll of thunder carried over the fields. James tapped his finger once against the armrest of the chair. The smell was thicker now, and the first raindrop landed on the porch railing beside him. Then another. Then many.

Out in the garden, Jeanie flinched as the downpour began in earnest. She straightened, glanced at the sky, and moved quickly collecting what she could. She plucked the last few vegetables with haste, then, the pail bumping against her leg as she turned and jogged toward the house.

Her head was down, one hand raised to shield her eyes from the rain as it pelted her face. She took the footpath without looking up, focused only on getting to cover before she was completely soaked.

She didn't see James until her foot hit the first step. She stopped short.

Water trickled down her neck, her shoulders rising slightly with the sharp intake of breath she tried to mask. Her hand dropped from her brow. The pail hung loosely at her side. She was too close to pretend she hadn't seen him now.

"Mr. Addams," she said, voice quiet but not unsure.

He looked at her, giving only a slight nod. "Jeanie."

She shifted her weight subtly, the porch rail at her side. There was a new flush in her cheeks, and it wasn't from exertion or heat. Not this time.

He didn't comment on it. Just watched her in the moment.

James gestured faintly with his fingers. "You're getting soaked."

He watched her for a second longer, then asked, "Everything all right in the garden?"

"Yes, sir. I didn't know you were here."

"I gathered."

She nodded and climbed the remaining steps, moving past him without meeting his gaze. Her clothes clung to her now, soaked through from the dash across the yard. The cotton of her shirt, once loose, molded softly to the rise of her breasts, outlined her back and shoulders. Her shorts clung to her hips and thighs, water darkening the fabric and tracing faint lines down her legs as drops trickled down them. The scent of wet grass and turned soil followed her in a fresh and earthy scent.

She crossed behind his chair and set the pail down near the edge of the porch. Then, without waiting or offering more, she knelt beside it and began to sort squash, green beans, a few cucumbers. Simple things, but each handled with care. Her fingers moved with quiet focus, sorting by touch more than sight. She didn't speak again as James observed her.

The way her shirt clung to the dip of her spine. The defined taper of her waist beneath wet material. Her stomach was flat and toned in a way that suggested work more than anything. Her legs, speckled with dirt and bits of grass, flexed subtly as she shifted forward, maintaining her balance and never fully relaxing.

"How old are you now?" he asked.

Her hands stilled for a moment. "Twenty."

He gave a small nod, gaze dipping once more to where the fabric of her shirt stretched faintly across her chest as she leaned forward. Her breasts rose and fell with each breath, bringing his attention to note their size once more. They were pressed beneath soaked cotton that left little of their shape to guesswork. Still, even with her body exposed in ways she hadn't intended, her posture remained modest, yet guarded. Even now, she didn't fully relax around him.

"I didn't see you when I came out," she added, glancing toward the side of the yard. "Didn't want to leave things half-finished. My dad'll be cross if I don't get it done, or I track mud inside."

"He's not here."

"No, sir. He said he was going into town, but..." She trailed off, fingers tightening slightly on the pail's handle.

"You always work the garden alone?"

She nodded.

James didn't respond. His gaze stayed on her for a second longer, observing the thin line of her shoulders, and the way she carried herself like she was trying to make herself as small as possible.

"I'll just go get changed," she said after a moment, stepping toward the door.

He stood there quietly watching her go inside.

Her shirt clung to her back now, soaked through, outlining the soft taper of her waist. But it was her hips that drew his attention. They were fuller than her mother's, round and firm beneath the thin soaked shorts. The fabric gripped the curves of her ass, molded by the rain, each step drawing a subtle shift that seemed natural and all the more revealing because of it. She didn't walk like she was intending to draw his attention or even realize the way her hips naturally rolled as she walked, but James saw it.

The contrast struck him. Betty's figure carried weight differently. Jeanie's breasts may not have matched her mother's, but from the waist down, there was no comparison. The shape, the fullness, it was more than simple youth. It was the work she did around the house bringing fullness to the muscles, along with how her body carried her weight.

The door shut quietly behind her, and James remained still as the rain began to beat steadily across the roof overhead. He'd seen more in her than he meant to. Thought more about her than he should have. But he didn't chase the thoughts away either.

Giving her a moment, James followed her inside to have a seat in the living room, away from the weather.

The rain had softened to a steady drizzle by the time James heard Dalton's truck approaching. It pulled up alongside the house with its usual cough and clatter, tires kicking up wet gravel before coming to a stop. A door slammed. Then came the shuffle of boots against the porch steps.

James remained seated. He didn't turn toward the door until it opened.

"Hell of a storm," Dalton said as he stepped inside, brushing water from his shoulders. He was damp, but the edges of his shirt clung at the collar. He seemed winded, like he'd been rushing. "Didn't expect it to roll in so quick. Got caught halfway back from town."

James glanced at him, then returned his gaze to the yard. "You asked me to be here an hour ago."

Dalton gave a short chuckle, trying for lightness. "Yeah, sorry about that. Had to stop by the co-op. They shorted me on feed again, and by the time I sorted that, the clouds were already turning."

James didn't comment. His silence pressed a little, like a weight a wight Dalton felt but was trying to ignore.

Dalton moved further into the living room and eased himself into the same chair he always claimed, sighing like he needed the moment to catch up to himself. "You see Jeanie? She's been at the garden all morning. Girl's got a stubborn streak when it comes to finishing what she starts."

James kept his tone even. "She was out there."

Dalton nodded, missing the tension beneath the words. "She likes the quiet, I think. Keeps her centered, you know?"

James didn't answer.

Dalton leaned forward, elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands together. "Things've been tight again. Feed prices keep climbing, and the truck's due for new tires. It's just a rough patch. My money's tied up in an investment I'm sure will pay off soon. But right now, it's left me short."

"There's not my problem," James said flatly.

Dalton paused, mouth half-open, then closed it again. He nodded slowly, swallowing whatever follow-up he'd been about to offer.

James let the silence stretch, then asked, "She always out there by herself?"

Dalton looked at him, eyebrows lifting a little. "Most days, yeah. Girl's a creature of habit." He shifted in his chair. "Ain't many around here worth her time. Most the boys her age just want a fast truck and a cold beer."

James didn't respond to the crass comment.

Dalton gave a slow nod to himself, reading the opening. Maybe this was it, the way to soften James up. Not with numbers. Not with promises. But something simpler. Personal.

"You know," he said, voice easy, "a girl like that shouldn't be left to the farm boys. Maybe you take her out sometime. Show her something different. Something better."

James didn't move. "Not my role."

Dalton held his smile for another second, then let it fade. "Right. Sure. Just a thought."

He shifted in his seat, adjusting his boots as if the conversation hadn't happened.

Dalton leaned back, lacing his fingers across his stomach, trying to figure out what to say in light of they way his request for money was shut down. The room was quiet again, save for the dull tick of the kitchen clock and the faint patter of rain tapering off against the tin awning. James glanced past the window where it was mostly just mist now clinging to the fields.

"Betty's been saying Jeanie oughta get out more," Dalton said casually. "See more than the church and the co-op. A drive into town, maybe supper somewhere nice. Something with linen napkins."

James gave the smallest tilt of his head, a gesture that could've meant anything. He was still looking outside.

Dalton scratched his chin. "She's not like Betty, you know. Not as talkative. But she notices things. Pays attention. More than she lets on."

James finally looked at him again. "And does that concern you?"

Dalton let out a short laugh, unsure if it was a joke. "Nah. Just saying she ain't a fool. Might be sheltered, but she's sharp. And sweet. Never talks back, never complains. Girl's been raised right."

The silence returned, more weighted now. James let it stretch again, just long enough to make Dalton mildly uncomfortable.

Then James stood, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. "I'll be back next week," he said irritated Dalton called him out to ask for money once more.

Dalton rose as well, slower. "Sure. You let me know if you change your mind."

James was already moving toward the door.

James stepped out onto the porch, the door clicking shut behind him. The air was clean in that sharp way it could only be after rain, earthy and cool, clinging to the wood rails and the gravel underfoot. He paused a moment, eyes sweeping across the soaked fields. Jeanie was nowhere in sight now. Just the rows she'd tended and the tools leaning against the fence, forgotten for now.

He didn't linger. By the time he eased behind the wheel of his SUV, the skies had begun to lighten. He tapped the ignition, the engine humming to life, and pulled onto the narrow road that led back toward the house. The drive wasn't far, but the quiet stretch of road gave him time to think.

Dalton's pitch of his daughter played itself back in his mind. Not the request for money, nothing about deals. Just Jeanie. The suggestion had been clumsy, maybe even desperate, but not uncalculated for Dalton. James could recognize the intentions of it.

By the time he pulled up the gravel drive, the clouds had started to break. He stepped inside the house, shook the damp from his coat, and closed the door behind him.

Then he took out his phone.

Carmen answered on the second ring, her voice smooth and expectant. "Back already?"

"Just got in," James said, crossing the room toward the bar. He poured himself a splash of single malt whiskey and rolled the glass in his palm. "Dalton wants more money. Claimed it's feed and tires this time. Same performance as usual."

"And?"

"I said no." He sipped. "Then he offered something else."

There was a pause. "What kind of something else?"

He let the line hang a second too long for her before answering. "His daughter."

Carmen exhaled. The pause before he answered told her he knew she would be irritated. "That's a new low even for him."

James didn't disagree.

She continued before he could respond. "And what? You're calling because you're actually considering it?"

Setting the glass down he replied, "He framed it as showing her the world outside the farm. A dinner. A drive. Some façade of courtship."

"And you didn't shut it down?"

"I didn't say yes."

"That's not what I asked."

"I'm not out with her, Carmen," he said, voice calm. "I'm at my house. She's at hers."

There was a pause, long enough to hear the faint rustle of fabric on her end.

"I should've gone with you," she said finally, quieter now. A hint of regret in her voice. "Maybe if I had, he wouldn't have tried something like that. Or maybe you wouldn't be standing there wondering if it's such a terrible idea."

"I'm not considering it," James said, turning from the window. "You know that."

Now it was Carmen's turn to not answer right away. When she did, her voice had that composed quality she used when she didn't quite believe him. "Mm."

"'Mm'?" he repeated, dryly.

"You're the one who brought it up," she said, in a matter-of-fact way. "You don't usually share things unless you're working something out in your head."

James moved back toward the drink he'd abandoned, lifting it but not taking a sip quite yet. It was as though his hands just didn't know what to do with themselves for once. "I brought it up because it was unexpected. Crude, even for him."

"And yet you didn't end the conversation," she said gently. "You must've let it sit as a possibility, and let him deduce it wasn't a hard no."

"I didn't entertain it."

"Doesn't sound like you dismissed it."

That landed between them with more implications than either expected. He didn't argue the point.

Carmen softened her tone. "She's young, James, and not just in years. She doesn't have context for someone like you. And I don't think you know what it would mean to her if you so much as opened that door."

He glanced toward the stairs, toward the stillness of the house. "I'm not opening anything."

"I'm glad to hear it," she said. Then, quieter, "Because if you start to, even unintentionally, she's going to follow your lead. And you don't take on strays, remember? You're more likely to collect them."

James gave a faint smirk, but it didn't reach his voice. "You're comparing her to a rescue mut vs a prized purebred."

"No," she said. "I'm comparing her to me. Once."

That stilled him.

Outside, the mist had lifted. The gravel drive sat pale and exposed beneath the first stretch of sun as he looked out a window.

"I'll be home by Friday."

"I know," Carmen said. "Just... don't pretend like you're not tempted. Not with me."

He ended the call and left the phone beside the now empty glass.

Upstairs, the rooms were still and waiting.

He didn't go up right away as he originally intended to do a little work. Instead, he stood there, one hand resting on the edge of the windowsill, eyes drifting toward the grounds again. The light had shifted and it was brighter now, the storm wrung out of the sky. But the silence in the house felt more apparent than before, like Carmen had taken something with her when the call ended and left nothing in its place.

Jeanie was the only thing going through his thoughts now.

Her name lodged in his mind like a splinter. He hadn't said it once during the call, but it sat there now, sharper than anything either of them had spoken aloud.

She was young. And quiet. He didn't believe she was shy, just unused to being allowed to exist beyond a servant around the house. Chore after chore consuming her time. There'd been something in the way she looked at him, and he stood there deliberating what it was. It wasn't flirtation, nor fear... something uncertain. Not stupid, but as though she didn't know what to make of him. Like no one had exposed her to people beyond farm life.

Would she follow?

Carmen's voice echoed in his head--if you start to, even unintentionally, she's going to follow your lead.

James didn't deal in innocence. It wasn't part of his life, his world. It had no real use for him. Yet with her, it stuck. The wet hair clinging to her neck, the dirt on her knees, her soft-spoken worry about her father being upset. She hadn't even known she was being watched in the garden. That was the part that kept returning. The innocence that she seemed to have.

He'd known women who tried to look pure and sweet. Jeanie didn't have to try. She was and it came through.

Was she a stray? Or just untethered?

Untethered seemed more likely. Someone still untouched by the world, with no real identity. What would she be like if she was out from under her father's thumb? Was she easily influenced, or would she remain concerned of what her father would think of everything she did?

James stood motionless for a moment longer, the thought turning over again and again. Untethered. That felt closer to the truth. Not broken. Not ruined. Just... waiting for direction.

He pulled his phone from his jacket and scrolled to Dalton's number and gave it a tap. It barely rang once.

"James?" Dalton answered, trying not to sound too eager.

"I'll take her out," James said. "Tonight."

A beat of silence. Then, steadier than expected, Dalton replied, "Alright. She doesn't get out much, so she might be a little shy at first. But she'll come around."

James said nothing.

Dalton continued, filling the silence. "She's a good girl. Just hasn't had much reason to dress up or hold a conversation with anyone who's not family or from church. But she listens. Learns fast."

Learns fast.

James caught the phrase, meant to reassure, no doubt, but it lingered in his mind. There were implications in it about her pliability. Adaptability. The kind of trait a man like Dalton prized because it made someone easier to make himself feel superior. Easier to impress.

It said more about Dalton than it did about her.

But it sparked something in James too. Curiosity of who she could become. Just how much of her had been shaped by routine, obedience, or silence, and how much could be reshaped under different hands. Under his.

James glanced toward the stairs. "Six o'clock."

"Understood," Dalton said. "She'll be ready."

James ended the call without another word and placed the phone back in his pocket.

He turned and headed upstairs toward the closet where he kept minimal clothes for the trips out to the country. A few shirts hung evenly spaced, jackets pressed and untouched since his last trip. He selected a button-down, charcoal gray, and a clean pair of slacks. No tie. No jacket. For him, this was casual dress.

Back downstairs, he checked the time. Still early, he sat for a moment in the chair near the front window, the one that gave him a view of the gravel drive while he contemplated his few interactions with Jeanie.

His mind wandered to the moment she'd step out that door. Whether she'd hesitate. Whether she'd know how to carry herself. Whether she'd look relieved or unsure to find him waiting. What would she talk about? Would she wait to be spoken to? He could work with her, either way.

By six sharp, he turned up the Daltons' drive. For a moment, the only sound was the soft creak of wood as he mounted the steps, the storm and the wind having long passed. Then the door opened.

Betty stood there, wiping her hands on a dish towel, smiling in way that felt as though she'd been preparing all afternoon.

"Evenin', James," she said kindly. "She's just about ready. Come on in."

He stepped inside, noting the smell of something faintly floral, soap, or maybe perfume. It made him think of the something someone used when they didn't own much else. A stark contrast to what he'd been accustomed to in the city.

Dalton wasn't in the room.

James nodded once, hands in his pockets. "No rush."

Betty started down the hall and raised her voice gently. "Jeanie, honey, he's here."

There was a sound of movement, followed by light footsteps and then the brush of fabric. A pause.

Then she appeared. She was dressed simply, nothing flashy, as would be expected, all things considered, but it did seem as though there was care and effort in her look. She wore a modest dress that didn't try to hide or exaggerate anything, but fit nicely. Her medium brown hair was down and straight, parted neatly, falling just past her shoulders with a slight inward curve at the ends. A touch of lip color gave her a hint of something more adult than her typical look, though it couldn't quite erase the youth in her eyes.

She stood in the hall for a breath, her eyes meeting his, as though she were unsure if she should come forward.

James gave her a small nod. "Good evening."

"Evening," she said softly, smoothing the side of her dress.

Behind her, Betty gave her a gentle nudge. "Go on now."

Jeanie moved toward him, hesitating just a fraction before reaching for the door. James opened it first.

She blinked once at the gesture, then murmured, "Thank you," almost too quietly to catch.

He stepped aside to let her pass, then followed, the screen door clicking shut behind them.

From the kitchen window, Dalton watched them walk out together. He hadn't meant to linger, but when Betty called Jeanie down, he found himself standing by the sink, wiping a clean glass that didn't need it, just to keep himself busy. Now, with the sunlight casting longer shadows across the gravel, he saw his daughter step carefully down the steps, James just behind her, always composed, always in control.

Jeanie paused at the bottom, unsure for a second whether to walk ahead or wait. Dalton recognized the hesitation. She'd never had a reason to be anywhere at night with someone like him, a man whose shoes probably cost more than what her father made in a week. But she looked composed. Nervous, sure, but not pulling away.

James didn't offer his arm. Just walked beside her. That seemed right for her.

Dalton set the glass down and rubbed the back of his neck. This wasn't just a favor, not to him. It was a possibility of a future. James wasn't sentimental and never had been, but he was a man who knew value. And maybe he'd see it in her. Maybe not today. But if he saw the potential, perhaps that could be enough.

Jeanie reached the passenger side and glanced back, like she wasn't sure she should open the door herself. James stepped in and did it for her. She gave a small nod, climbed in, and smoothed her dress beneath her as she sat.

Dalton exhaled as they pulled away without fanfare, unlike he'd expect from any of the farmhands around here.

Betty stepped in beside him, folding the dish towel over a drawer handle. "Think she'll be alright?"

Dalton didn't answer at first. He just watched the taillights disappear down the road. Then, without looking at her, he said, "He'll have her home tonight."

Betty looked at him. "That's not what I asked."

He reached for the glass again to put it away. "She'll be alright," he finally answered.

They drove in silence most of the way into town. The roads were familiar flat, open stretches broken by the occasional turn. Jeanie sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, her back straight, eyes forward.

"Do you go to the diner on Main often?" James asked, keeping his tone even.

She looked over quickly, then back at the windshield. "Sometimes," she said with a meek smile. It was the only place to go eat in the area. "After church."

"They still serve the same five things."

Her faint smile quickly returned. "I remember the pie being good."

James nodded. "That's about all that's particularly good."

He parked in front of the diner a few minutes later. It was quiet this time of evening on a weekday, a few vehicles scattered out front, lights humming behind the windows. He got out, walked around, and opened her door before she could reach for the handle.

She looked up at him, nodded once in thanks, and stepped out.

Inside, the place was almost empty. A waitress behind the counter gave James a familiar nod. "Sit wherever."

He led Jeanie to a booth near the wall and slid into his seat. She settled across from him, smoothing her dress and placing her hands gently on the table.

He picked up the menu but didn't open it. "Know what you want?"

She gave a quick nod. "Grilled cheese and tomato soup."

"Classic."

"They always get it right," she said, eyes still on the tabletop.

James nodded again and set his menu down. "Sometimes that's enough."

The waitress came over and took their order without fuss. Jeanie asked for sweet tea with her soup and sandwhich; James ordered coffee and the daily special.

When they were alone again, he watched her quietly. She wasn't fidgeting, but there was a tension in the way she held herself, like she wasn't sure what this was supposed to be. Like she was still waiting for instructions.

He didn't offer any. Instead, he asked, "When's the last time you got out of the house without a list of things to do?"

Jeanie blinked, then gave a quiet laugh under her breath. "I'm not sure I ever have."

James nodded slightly, as if that confirmed something he'd already assumed.

"Good a place as any to start," he said.

Jeanie didn't say anything right away, but she gave a small nod, like she wasn't sure what his comment meant.

The waitress returned with their drinks and dropped them off without much ceremony. Jeanie thanked her quietly and reached for her tea, holding it with both hands like it gave her something to do.

James let the quiet settle again, perfectly comfortable with it. He could feel her still trying to figure out the evening. How casual to be. How formal. What this was.

He stirred his coffee once, then asked, "You always this quiet?"

She looked up, a little startled by the quesiton. "I talk when there's something worth saying."

He lifted an eyebrow slightly, not mocking. "That your own rule, or one your father taught you?"

Jeanie hesitated. "Both, maybe. He always said not everything needed my opinion."

James gave a slight nod, with an unreadable expression. "Sounds like him."

She glanced out the window for a moment, then back. "He told me to be polite, not to overthink anything. Just... enjoy the evening."

"And are you?"

"I'm trying."

That earned a small flicker of something from James, approval maybe, or at least acknowledgment. "You're doing fine."

The food came a few minutes later, warm and simple as you'd expect from a small town diner. Jeanie murmured another thank you as the plate was set in front of her and immediately reached for her spoon, dipping into the soup like it was a relief to have something to focus on.

James watched her eat, observed the neatness of it, the way she didn't slouch, didn't speak with her mouth full, didn't assume anything. It was as though she'd simply been taught to behave and she took it seriously. It made sense considering Dalton's proclivity towards "correction."

"Tell me something about you, your father wouldn't," he said, cutting into his meal.

She looked up, wary at first, then thoughtful. "I like sketching," she said after a moment. "Mostly flowers. Sometimes faces. I don't show them to anyone."

"Why not?"

"They're not very good."

"That's not a reason."

She looked at him for a moment longer than before. "No one's ever asked to see."

James didn't respond right away. He took another sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim.

Then, finally, "Maybe they didn't know."

Jeanie lowered her gaze again, but there was a faint flush in her cheeks that hadn't been there before. He didn't press her further.

James took another sip of his coffee, then set the cup down and watched her quietly for a moment more.

"Your father told me something once," he said. "Said he caught you kissing a boy out by the mailbox."

Jeanie's fingers paused on the edge of her glass. She didn't lift her eyes. "That was a while ago."

"How old were you?"

"Nineteen."

"He made it sound like a scandal."

She shook her head, slow and small. "It wasn't. He was just a boy from church. We didn't really know each other. He was being nice, I guess."

James waited, letting her find her words.

"One day he walked me back to the house after a service, mom and dad didn't go that day. Daddy was busy with something. And when we got near the mailbox, he leaned in and kissed me. Real quick. Just once."

"And your father saw?"

She gave the faintest nod. "He was on the porch. I didn't see him until I heard the screen door open." Her voice went quieter. "The boy ran. I think he knew better."

James didn't speak. After a few seconds she kept going, as if it helped just to say it out loud.

"Daddy didn't say anything right then. Just told me to go to the shed and wait." She paused, picking lightly at the edge of her napkin. "He took the belt to me. Said I ought to remember what kind of girl I was raised to be."

She didn't look up.

"That was the same afternoon I saw you," she added softly, her voice trailing off. "You were coming out of the back of the house. With that pretty lady you were always with."

James didn't move, but something in him drew tighter. "You came running out of the shed."

"I didn't know anyone was there. I just wanted to get away. I didn't want to cry in front of him." She blinked, her tone apologetic even in memory. "I didn't mean to interrupt anything."

"You didn't."

She nodded faintly, smiling, and still not quite believing it. The smile didn't hold either.

"And why do you think the boy was just being nice?" James asked.

"I don't know," she said softly. "He was nice. I think he just talked to me like... like I was regular. Not just someone who helped set tables or does chores."

There was a pause. James let it sit, then asked, "And what did you want?"

Jeanie hesitated. "I don't know. I think I just liked the idea of someone thinking I was worth talking to. It didn't last long enough to be more than that."

"You regret it?"

She shook her head slowly. "No. But I think maybe I was more surprised than anything. That someone would want to kiss me."

James didn't respond right away. He watched her carefully, she was still as she spoke, her voice seemed cautious, but she wasn't ashamed. She just came across as unsure whether any of this was the wrong thing to admit, particularly to him.

"Your father made it sound like you were the problem."

Jeanie's eyes flicked up to him, then down again. "Maybe I was. I didn't mean to be. I just didn't think anyone saw me like that."

James studied her a moment longer.

"You're not invisible now," he said.

Jeanie glanced up again, looking at him questioningly.

They finished the rest of the meal in relative quiet. Jeanie ate slowly but cleared her plate. James didn't press her with more questions, but he watched catching every glance, every careful motion of her hand, every instinct that pointed back to restraint.

When the check came, he paid without a word. She offered a soft thank you as they stepped back out into the night.

It was fully dark now. The diner's neon sign hummed behind them, casting red along the sidewalk and over the hood of the SUV. The rest of town was quiet, with just a few cars passing now and then, and most shops already dark.

James opened the passenger door again. This time, she didn't hesitate.

Once they were back in the car, Jeanie looked over as he started the engine. "Thank you. For dinner."

He gave a small nod. "You ever see much of the town at night?"

She shook her head. "No, sir."

He didn't correct her. Didn't encourage the title, but didn't flinch from it either. Instead, he turned the car away from the road home. Jeanie didn't ask where they were going.

They left the main stretch of town behind in minutes, the headlights cutting through open fields and unlit side roads. The air outside was still, the only sound the hum of tires and the occasional rattle from the dash.

Eventually, he turned onto a gravel path that led to a low ridge above a water basin. There was nothing developed in sight, just flat earth and dark silhouettes of trees in the distance beyond the basin. When he parked, he didn't turn off the engine, just shifted into park and left the lights low. The reservoir stretched out quietly below them, its surface catching the moonlight in long, scattered reflections.

Jeanie looked out her window, then back at him. "It's quiet here."

"It is."

She sat still, hands folded again in her lap. Her eyes adjusted to the dark, her outline just visible in the faint light from the dash.

"Your father wouldn't like this," James said.

"No, sir," she replied, after a moment. "He expects me in before ten."

"You worried?"

"A little." She paused. "But not enough to ask you to take me back."

James studied her face and how the slight rebellion in her words changed it. It was softer and still unsure, but not she looked happy to be out.

"You ever been alone with a man like this before?"

She turned her eyes toward the window again, then gave a small shake of her head. "No."

James leaned slightly toward her, just enough to close the space without pressing to much. "You nervous?"

Jeanie didn't speak right away. When her words came, they were quiet but clear: "A little."

That was enough, he didn't reach for her. They sat in the dark for a while, the steady hum of the engine low beneath them. Jeanie's gaze wandered to the stars, her expression unreadable. She hadn't moved since she answered him.

James let the silence between them linger. Then, casually, "Your father won't ask where we went."

Jeanie looked over, unsure whether it was a question or a statement.

"He'll see you got back safe, and he'll leave it at that," James said. "He wouldn't dare press me."

Her brow furrowed slightly in quiet confusion. Wouldn't dare? That didn't sound like the man who inspected her chores down to the sweep marks on the porch. It sounded like someone else, someone with more say in what happened under her roof than even her father had.

"He might ask me," she said.

James gave a small nod. "And you don't have to tell him more than you want to. Dinner in town, that's enough."

She hesitated. "He gets worked up over small things."

"He won't with this," James said, matter-of-fact. "He made the offer, remember? He wanted you to be seen with someone respectable. He just didn't expect I'd say yes."

Jeanie blinked, processing that. She remembered the way her father had said it, like a joke, or a challenge. James is gonna take you out, show you how proper women act. She hadn't thought anything would come of it. But now here she was.

The corner of her mouth twitched like she might smile, but it didn't quite make it. Something about it sat oddly in her stomach. Her daddy had wanted this to happen. He'd offered her like a solution, like a piece of something being traded. Not because she was ready. Not because anyone asked if she wanted to. Just... because it was useful.

She wasn't angry. She didn't feel ashamed. But there was something in it that made her feel a little like livestock. Cleaned up, sent out. Watched over.

Still, she was grateful James had said yes.

James continued in his voice calm. "You're not in trouble, Jeanie. Not with me. And not tonight."

Her shoulders eased the smallest amount. That, more than anything, made it feel real. Something about the certainty in his voice. Like she didn't have to brace herself when she got home.

"You don't need to be nervous every time someone looks at you," he added. "Least of all me."

And that got her attention. She turned slightly toward him, her face now faintly lit by the dash. She could feel the warmth on her cheeks and wasn't sure if it was embarrassment or something else.

"I don't think I know how not to be," she admitted.

"You'll learn."

She nodded, unsure if she should fully believe him, but because some part of her wanted to. Wanted to believe he saw her for something more than a simple farm girl. She wanted to learn whatever it was he thought she could to be more than she was.

James didn't move closer, didn't reach for her, yet he'd planted something in her. An assurance of control, protection, and all without touching her once.

She went back to looking at the stars, and he let her. They sat a few minutes longer before James told her it was time to head back. The drive home passed without conversation. But silence between them felt more comfortable for her, no longer tense. When they reached the farmhouse, the porch light was on, but no one was waiting outside.

Jeanie thanked him softly, and James reiterated that she didn't need to explain anything to her father, but he wouldn't be likely to ask. She seemed unsure but accepted it.

She stepped out on her own, paused to look back, and gave a small wave. James nodded once, waiting until the porch light went out before driving off into the night.

The next morning, miles away, Carmen stood at the kitchen counter with her phone face down and a cooling cup of coffee untouched.

She'd learned about the date in a roundabout way. Of course, Dalton couldn't help but brag. He hadn't said much, just enough to make it clear James had taken the girl out. That he'd come back late. That Jeanie had said thank you.

Carmen stared at nothing for a long time. She'd outgrown jealously long ago. This was about the fact that James didn't waver. He didn't get distracted. His attention, once fixed, was not easily turned. Which was exactly why this unsettled her. He was supposed to be home Friday. It was now Monday.

Their second outing had been brief, a walk through the park just after sunset. Jeanie had worn the same dress from the first date, freshly cleaned and pressed. They walked the paved loop in quiet conversation, her voice soft but more sure than before. She didn't take his arm, but she stayed close. When he dropped her off, she thanked him without prompting as usual.

The third was dinner at a roadside café two towns over. Less familiar, a bit more crowded. She'd spoken more, even laughed once, which surprised even herself. When he brought her home, she hesitated at the car door, unsure if she should linger. James said nothing, only nodded. She got out without looking back.

The fourth date was different. He picked her up in the afternoon without telling her where they were going, only that she should wear something comfortable. She came out in a long skirt and soft blouse, her hair brushed down, parted in the middle, her makeup simple as usual. She had a natural beauty that didn't require the makeup, and it was apparent by only the eyeliner and a hint of blush.

They drove beyond the edge of town, past fallow fields and old farm fences, until the blacktop turned to dirt. James pulled off beside a clearing sheltered by cottonwoods. In the back of the car, he had a folded blanket, a thermos, and a small canvas bag.

They didn't talk much after they arrived. He spread the blanket while she stood, hands clasped in front of her. When he sat, he gestured for her to do the same. She did.

He poured coffee into metal cups, handing one to her. The wind had cooled, rustling through the trees overhead. She sipped carefully, unsure if she was supposed to speak. He didn't ask anything, so she didn't.

After a while, she stretched out on her side, facing away. The ground was uneven beneath the blanket, but she didn't mind. It felt like something borrowed from someone else's life.

At one point, the breeze lifted the hem of her skirt, and she felt his hand brush it back down. A soft and simple gesture, but a touch she'd never experienced either. And even to her it felt like an intentional excuse to touch her.

She didn't say anything. Just closed her eyes.

They stayed until the light began to fade and shadows moved across the field. He stood first, then offered her a hand to help her up.

She took it. On the drive home, she made small talk with him, slowly becoming more comfortable with the way he interacted with her.

Their fifth date brought her to his home. She'd never been to his house before, only heard her daddy talk about it after some of his visits. The way he described it, didn't begin to cover the awe that she felt as they pulled up the manicured driveway.

She hadn't known what to expect. Something cold, maybe. Or formal. But the space was still and polished, built for someone who moved through life without having to worry about things like cleaning the rooms. When she stepped inside, the quiet of the house pressed in. The floors didn't creak. The walls were pale and high. The windows stretched tall, letting in the last of the daylight in a way that made the whole place feel like a painting.

Her shoes made the only sound as she followed James to the dining room. The table had been set with a kind of precision she'd only seen in magazines: fresh flowers, folded napkins, silverware arranged in layers. She stared for a moment before easing into the seat he offered.

"It's just dinner," James said as he took his place. "I kept the menu simple."

Maybe for him. But everything felt unfamiliar. The chicken was roasted and carved and seasoned with things she did recognize. The rice was soft and fragrant, the vegetables cooked with something she couldn't place, lemon maybe. Nothing tasted bad. But nothing tasted like home.

She copied the way he used his napkin. Picked up the right fork only after watching which one he chose. When he poured her water from a glass decanter instead of a pitcher, she thanked him with a soft smile and didn't mention that it all felt strange.

"You don't like it?" he asked midway through the meal.

"I do," she said, quickly but honestly. "It's just new."

He nodded, accepting it at face value.

After they finished, he offered to show her the rest of the house. She followed close behind, her eyes flicking from room to room. Each space was quiet, and minimally furnished with what looked like antiques most. It felt like nothing had been left out of place in years. A room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Another with nothing but a piano and paintings. He didn't explain the purpose of any of the rooms, and she didn't ask.

Then he opened a door from one of the sitting rooms and stepped outside onto a wide, low deck. Jeanie stopped in the doorway. Steam rose steadily from a recessed tub set into the far side of the patio, soft lights glowing from underneath the water. It shimmered faintly, gold and quiet in the dark.

She stepped forward slowly, as though drawn to it. Her hand reached out, hesitant at first, then dipped just her fingertips into the surface. The warmth surprised her. She'd heard of them, but it was another first for her.

"I've never seen anything like this," she said softly.

James didn't respond right away. To him, it was just a hot tub, something built into the deck years ago, more decorative than useful. But as he watched her, the way she lingered, the way her fingers skimmed the water again like she couldn't help herself, he realized she wasn't just curious. She was enchanted.

As she turned to head back inside, he held the door open and asked, "What do you think of it?"

Jeanie hesitated. Her voice was soft, almost embarrassed. "It's beautiful. I wouldn't even know how to use it."

"You don't have to know anything," James said. "It's not complicated."

She smiled, looking down. "Even if I wanted to, I don't have a bathing suit."

"There's one here," he said simply.

She blinked. "Here?"

He nodded. "Carmen leaves some for weekends and unplanned trips."

Jeanie's face changed, she didn't scowl or frown, but the shift was visible. A small retreat behind her eyes. Her fingers curled slightly against her skirt.

"I wouldn't want to impose," she said quickly. "I don't need to go in."

"You're not imposing," James replied, his voice still calm. "It's not for her tonight. It's for you, if you want it."

She looked up at him and for a second, he thought she might say yes. Her lips parted, her body leaned just slightly forward as if drawn by the idea of warmth, weightlessness in the water, a moment where she wasn't obeying or preparing or cleaning up after someone else.

But then she stepped back.

"Maybe another time," she said, a little breathless.

James let the moment go, stepping back as she passed through the door. He didn't press again.

Inside, the house felt warmer now. Not just from the air, but from the shift between them, a subtle unspoken change in her. Jeanie moved a little more comfortably than she had at the start of the evening. Her fingers grazed the back of a chair as she passed it. She glanced into rooms they'd already toured, like she was beginning to picture how it all fit together.

James poured her a glass of water and handed it to her without a word. She accepted it with a small nod, her fingers brushing his in the exchange. Neither of them commented on it.

They sat in the den for a while. They talked quietly, about nothing and everything. She told him about the chickens she helped feed, how one of them followed her around like a shadow. He told her the story of the deer that had once walked straight into the yard, stared through the window like it was casing the place, and left without a sound.

The time passed and eventually, Jeanie checked the small watch on her wrist, more out of instinct than worry at this point, having grown comfortable with the way her daddy acted when she came home from being out with James.

"It's late," she said gently. "I should get back."

James stood without a word and walked her to the door. As he helped her into her cardigan, his hands brushed her shoulders. She looked up at him unsure of what to expect, unsure if it was even okay to want something more from the night.

They stepped onto the porch together where the wind had cooled. There was only the sound of crickets now.

James walked her to the car and opened the door. She settled into the passenger seat, her dress drawing just above the knee as she sat, the hem shifting slightly higher with the motion.

During the drive back, they didn't say much which she realized was typical for him. The dark road stretched ahead like a ribbon of shadow compared to the fields to the sides catching the headlights. His eyes flicked toward her once, not her face this time, but her legs. The dim lighting from the dash caught the outline of her thighs, full and firm, pressed modestly together beneath the fabric of her dress. They tapered into calves that always surprised him, slender, but clearly defined. They looked strong in a way she probably didn't even realize. His gaze lingered a moment longer than it should have.

There was a quiet elegance to the way she naturally held herself. And it stirred something deeper than he expected. The hem of her dress rested just above the knee, proper and unassuming. But a part of him, one he didn't often indulge, wondered what more he might see if it sat just an inch or two higher. The idea had planted itself in his mind, making it difficult to keep his eyes on the road. Yet he managed to look straight, not letting the thoughts go any further.

She caught him looking once but said nothing. If she felt self-conscious, she didn't show it. Or maybe she just didn't realize what he was seeing. When they turned onto the long gravel drive leading to the farmhouse, she shifted slightly, straightening her posture. James noticed the small adjustment.

"Again, don't worry about Bob," he said, voice low but sure. "There's nothing to explain."

She nodded, that particular concern no longer bothering her the last couple of times she spent with him.

He parked near the front of the house and turned off the engine. The porch light was on, casting its familiar yellow cone across the steps. No one was outside. James came around to open her door. She stepped out carefully, the gravel shifting beneath her, he didn't rush her, but stood nearby, watching.

"Thank you," she said softly. "For the dinner. And... everything."

James didn't answer right away. He stepped in close. His hand lifted to her jaw, fingers brushing just beneath her chin as he tilted her face up. She let him. Her breath caught, but she didn't move.

His mouth met hers, in response to the warm and deliberate press of his mouth against hers. The pressure was light at first, lips pressing together with quiet intention. His lower lip moved against hers, slow and certain, then pressed again, firmer this time. She felt how assured his mouth was, the way it guided the kiss without hesitation.

Pulling her a little closer with a hand on her hip, her lips parted slightly without thinking. When it did, she felt the quick touch of his tongue to her bottom lip, before he caught it between his. A small intake of breath left her as something in her stomach tightened. Her chest lifted with the effort to stay calm, but her body was responding as her thighs tensed, yet her knees felt weak. Her hands were still at her sides though she wanted to reach for something. Her skin prickled beneath her dress, every inch aware of where he touched and where he didn't.

His thumb moved gently along her jaw as the kiss continued, deepening only slightly. Her breath caught again. She didn't pull away.

When he eased back, it wasn't sudden. He lingered, letting her catch her breath.

Out by the barn, in the dark just beyond the reach of the porch light, Dalton stood watching. He hadn't planned to be there. But he'd seen them, his daughter and James, close together.

There was no tension in his face. No disapproval. Just quiet satisfaction. James had taken her out more than once and this was the first time he'd seen him touch her. It had to mean something.

James stepped back, his hand resting at Jeanie's cheek for a moment longer before dropping.

"Goodnight," he said.

She didn't answer. Just nodded and turned. The door clicked behind her. She stood just inside for a moment, still and quiet. Her fingers brushed her lips lightly, like she was checking for something. It was different than the kiss the other boy had stolen from her. At least, that's how that kiss felt now. James had been careful. She'd only ever had a few kisses in her life, none that stayed with her like this.

Outside, James got into the car and closed the door with deliberate ease. He didn't start the engine right away. His hand rested on the wheel, eyes still on the porch. She hadn't said much, but her response had been genuine, uncoached, and unguarded. It was exactly what he'd hoped for.

He leaned back slightly, the faintest smile forming as he started the engine and pulled away down the drive.

Jeanie didn't go straight to bed. She stood for a moment just inside the door, one hand still brushing her lips, the other loose at her side. Her heart hadn't settled. Her skin felt oddly warm, even in the quiet. She wasn't used to feeling like this, like she'd been wanted.

She made her way to her room, unbuttoned her dress, and slipped it off without turning on a light. It pooled at her feet. Her shoes came off next, her toes curling against the cool wood floor. She sat on the bed in her modest bra and panties, legs drawn up slightly, her arms wrapped around them.

The kiss replayed in her mind. Not just the kiss, but everything about it. The way James had looked at her before it happened. Like he was certain he wanted to do it. Like he'd already decided she was worth the trouble. His hand had touched her face with care, his thumb at her chin, the kiss soft but sure. She'd never felt anything like it.

A phantom warmth sparked across her skin as she traced the line of her collarbone with a hesitant finger, then down the curve of her shoulder. She trailed her touch along her arm, remembering the press of his body, the hard lines of him against her. Her fingers drifted to her hip, where his hand had rested, that initial contact sparking a desire she hadn't known how to contain.

Her hand continued its journey, gliding upward over the smooth, taught skin of her stomach. She felt the soft indentation just below her ribs as she lay back, a subtle curve that dipped inward. Slowly, her fingers ascended, brushing over the modest fabric of her bra, where it covered the firm swell of her breasts. The skin there grew increasingly sensitive at the memory of his kiss, a low thrum of anticipation that tightened her core.

She didn't do things like this. She wasn't supposed to. The church taught that a good girl didn't touch herself. That it was filthy. That it made God turn His face away. She'd believed that for a long time. Still did, maybe, but that didn't stop the immediate ache that flared through her, centering low in her belly.

Her hand, still trembling slightly, settled over the thin cotton of her panties. The fabric stretched smoothly over her, but the intimate pressure of her own palm against the heated skin beneath it was a new kind of thrill, a quiet assertion of her own desire. The heat blooming there, already vivid from the memory of James, intensified with her touch. It didn't feel dirty, but it felt impossible not to follow.

Her hand trembled, as the moved to find the elastic. The cool air of the room hit her bare thigh at the same time the fabric shifted above, a fleeting contrast to the immediate heat growing within her. The thin fabric of her panties brushed her skin, a sensation now charged, and electric. The memory of his lips on hers, the lingering warmth, pulled her focus down. Her fingers, hesitant at first, then more determined, slipped under the elastic, feeling the tuft of hair below before pulling back as a sharp intake of breath escaped her lips.

She lay on her back, her plain bra and panties the only protection and now being pushed out of the way. Her fingers dipped lower over the top of them, finding the familiar texture of the cotton. They were soaked, dripping even, a shocking slickness. It was embarrassing, yet undeniably arousing, a clear physical response she couldn't control.

The ingrained voice, quiet now, offered its familiar whisper of condemnation. But tonight, a roaring current of physical need pushed against it, threatening to sweep away all restraint.

Her fingers, still unsteady, slipped beneath the elastic of her panties once more, then venturing lower beneath the material. The cotton was sodden, clinging to the soft mound beneath. She pressed gently, feeling the springy texture of her pubic hair, matted and dark with wetness. A jolt of raw awareness shot through her. Her chest tightened. A deeper, insistent throb began between her thighs.

She explored slowly, her touch hesitant and curious. The overwhelming wetness coated her fingers. A low moan escaped her throat, a raw unbidden sound. She quickly bit her lip, stifling it. Her parents, barely a wall away, were asleep. She had to be quiet.

Her bare thighs tensed, then parted slightly. She pressed harder, her fingers sinking into the mound, the matted hair soft against her skin. Another small cry escaped. She clamped her jaw, forcing the sound back, a desperate little whimper trapped in her throat. The throbbing intensified, becoming a rhythmic pulse, echoing deep within her.

The warmth between her thighs had been there since the car ride, since he glanced down without meaning to and didn't look away too quickly. She'd seen it. Felt it. That glance had stayed with her just as much as the kiss. It made her ache in a way she didn't fully understand, but didn't want to run from.

Every brush of her skin felt overly sensitive. She wasn't thinking of shame or what she'd been taught. Not tonight. She was thinking about his voice, the weight of his hand, the certainty in the way he told her she wasn't in trouble.

Her attention shifted, drawn upwards by a sudden sensitivity in her breasts. The thin fabric of her bra grazed her nipples, a sharp, intense sensation. She lifted her free hand, brushing the fabric away from one breast. Her breasts felt heavy, swollen, nipples tight and aching.

She reached under her and unhooked her bra, letting the cups fall away. Cool air shocked her heated skin, quickly replaced by a burgeoning ache. She cupped one breast, feeling it press into her palm. Her thumb brushed across the taut nipple. A sharp gasp escaped. She bit down on her lip, stifling it, eyes darting to the wall separating her from her parents. A wave of intense heat washed over her, pooling at her core, connecting the sensations.

She moved to her other breast, the sensitive tips now hard and erect. The ache intensified, a deep yearning that mirrored the throbbing between her legs. She kneaded gently, the soft flesh yielding. Small whimpers fought their way past her lips, quickly choked off by a conscious effort. The pleasure intensified, sharp and forbidden, but undeniable.

Her focus drifted back downwards. Her fingers, slick and trembling, returned to the damp, pulsating heat between her thighs. The matted hair remained, a constant reminder of her arousal. She pressed deeper, exploring the swollen, yielding folds. The slickness was now profound, almost liquid, coating her fingers with a warm, intimate film. The rhythmic pulsing intensified.

With a growing urgency, she slipped a finger inside, into the slippery, warm channel. The passage yielded, almost sucking her in. The internal pressure felt distinct, a deeper, resonant ache that echoed through her pelvis, mixing with the external friction on her clitoris. She moved her finger slowly at first, exploring the velvety, gripping walls, feeling the subtle suction of her own flesh, the wet heat surrounding her finger.

Urged by a primal need, she moved her finger more boldly, tracing the inner contours. The insistent movements became rhythmic. Her hips subtly arched, meeting the pressure. Sensations in her breasts, still firm and aching, and between her legs, now a molten core of heat and throbbing wetness, intertwined. Her pleasure surged, threatening to consume her last vestiges of restraint. Her control slipped with each breath. She clenched her teeth, biting down hard on her lip, a thin line of pain helping to contain the growing tide of sound.

The whispers of shame grew fainter, drowned out by the undeniable demands of her own body, which pulsed and throbbed with a desperate need for release, building steadily towards a climax she could feel hovering on the edge, a raw, demanding tremor that shook her from within. Every nerve ending lit up with every taut muscle, as she surrendered.

She pressed her finger deeper, swirling it within, exploring the yielding embrace. The internal pressure became a delicious sensation, a heavy, urgent need that resonated through her bones. Her external movements, the relentless circles on her clitoris, grew more frantic, driven by an escalating need. This wasn't the rushed, guilt-tinged release she'd known before. This was a slow, deliberate ascent, each breath a gasp she swallowed, each pulse of pleasure drawing her further away from her conscious mind and deeper into pure sensation.

Her back arched, straining against the bed, her eyes squeezed shut as brilliant pinpricks of light burst behind her eyelids. The friction mounted, a searing heat that was almost painful in its intensity, yet she craved more, pushing against her own hand, seeking deeper, harder contact. Her body began to tremble uncontrollably, a tremor that started deep in her center and rippled outwards, making her thighs clench and her breath hitch in ragged, silent gasps. The combined stimulation, internal and external, became an overwhelming tide, pulling her under.

She felt the pressure building to a point of exquisite tension that stretched her nerves to their absolute limit. Her hips began to buck, small, involuntary movements seeking release. Her finger moved faster, the rhythm becoming a frenzied pulse, a desperate race towards the inevitable. The hot, wet slide of her own flesh against itself was intoxicating, pushing her further to the brink. A muffled cry tore from her, swallowed by the back of her hand pressed against her mouth.

Then, it hit. It wasn't the wave she'd experienced in the past, but a series of explosive, violent contractions that seized her body. Her muscles clenched, hard and unrelenting, starting deep inside her pelvis and radiating outwards with convulsive force. Her back bowed dramatically off the bed, her head thrown back, a sharp, choked cry tearing from her lips, but dying in her throat as she desperately tried to hold it back. Pleasure, sharp and intense, ripped through her, almost painful in its raw power. Wave after wave of spasming sensation washed over her, taking her bowed back, to her stomach tightening, pulling her into a crunched position. Each pulse driving a silent gasp from her lungs, each contraction drawing her deeper into the visceral throes.

Her fingers, still trapped within her, tightened their grip involuntarily, her entire body shaking, trembling, convulsing with the force of the release. It was an orgasm unlike any she'd ever known. It was prolonged, convulsive, and utterly consuming, stripping away all thought, all shame, leaving only the pure, shattering impact of physical bliss. Her breath hitched, her throat raw, as her body continued to tremor, riding out the last, lingering aftershocks, each one a fading echo of the magnificent storm that had just broken.

Laying there, spent and breathless, her body humming with a deep, profound satisfaction. A primal ache of fulfillment that lingered long after the last convulsion subsided, the quiet of the room was a testament to her desperate, successful fight for silence so her daddy wouldn't hear.

She stared at the ceiling, not really seeing it, still caught in the sensations of what she'd felt. It hadn't been frantic or shameful like before. There was no guilt clawing at the edges of her thoughts, no voice warning her she'd done something wrong. Just the echo of his touch, his voice, the look in his eyes.

She brought her hand up to her lips, brushing her fingers across them, remembering the way his lips had pressed there. It hadn't been a deep kiss, but it had been deliberate. Gentle. Like he saw her, wanted her. Her fingers, still slick with the profound wetness from between her legs, now met her own mouth. The scent, subtle and musky, hit her first, a distinct tang of herself. Then, as her thumb grazed her lower lip, she tasted it. A sudden, sharp awareness of her own taste hit her tongue with a taste that was faint, slightly sweet with a trace of salt, and utterly distinct. It was unintentional to taste herself, yet the flavor immediately ignited a deeper, more primitive spark within her. It was the taste of her desire, a raw, undeniable essence that shocked her with its intimacy. A shiver ran through her from a profound, visceral recognition. The taste mingled with the memory of his kiss, a forbidden fusion that sent a fresh wave of heat through her, pulling her further down the path she was already on.

Something had shifted inside of her, and for the first time in a long time, she didn't feel small.

The months passed quietly. Jeanie had another birthday, turning twenty-one, but James wasn't there for it. He'd called her, though, choosing to leave her to celebrate with her family. She was disappointed, a quiet ache she kept to herself, but she chalked it up to him being busy. She truly couldn't imagine what his demanding world was like.

James continued to see Jeanie, never often, never predictably, but often enough that Dalton stopped asking if another visit was coming. The outings remained simple: dinner in town, a drive, the occasional walk somewhere secluded. He hadn't pressed things further than a kiss. Her reactions were telling. Curious. Malleable. She followed his lead with that same quiet obedience that made her so easy to be around for him. So different from the rest of what he chose to surround himself with that required constant work, and attention to stay on track.

She never asked where things were going. Never pressing and James didn't offer anything more than his presence, which seemed to be enough.

Carmen, for her part, had grown tired of hearing her name. The girl this, the girl that. Even when Jeanie wasn't mentioned directly, she hung over conversations like a low hum. Carmen didn't lash out, she wasn't that foolish, but she made her displeasure known in more subtle ways. An offhand comment. A look. A question that didn't sound like one until it landed. James ignored most of it.

Dalton didn't. He watched the pattern, and each time James brought his daughter back home, each time she came in smiling and saying little, he pushed just a bit harder. A suggestion here, a well-timed remark there. As though the idea of James marrying her had never really been a question, only a matter of timing.

Eventually, James stopped brushing it off. And one afternoon, when the sky had turned the color of dry wheat and the air was thick with summer heat, he told Dalton yes. He'd take her.

Eventually, James stopped dismissing the idea. It hadn't come from anything Dalton said--he'd never taken his cues from that man. But the girl was different. There was something in her and the way she listened to him. The way she followed simple cues and adapted to conversations. She wasn't jaded. She hadn't been shaped yet. And the thought of being the one to do it... that stuck with him. So one afternoon, without fanfare or need for persuasion, he gave Dalton his answer.

"I'll take her."

Just like that. Calm, decisive. The decision didn't come from love or obligation, but for his wonder of what she could become.

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Thanks for Reading

If you made it this far, thank you, and I hope you enjoyed it as I try to lay the foundation for the story. Chapters 2 and 3 are already written and will be released after this one's had a little time to find its audience. I'd love to hear your thoughts, so feel free to leave a comment or message if something stood out.

More soon.