Her Cowboy Her Daddy Read online

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Epilogue

  More Stormy Night Books by Shanna Handel

  Shanna Handel Links

  Her Cowboy, Her Daddy

  By

  Shanna Handel

  Copyright © 2018 by Stormy Night Publications and Shanna Handel

  Copyright © 2018 by Stormy Night Publications and Shanna Handel

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.

  www.StormyNightPublications.com

  Handel, Shanna

  Her Cowboy, Her Daddy

  Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson

  Images by Dreamstime/Charles Knowles and iStock/4x6

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.

  Prologue

  I needed a bad boy.

  One who would pull my hair and slap my ass. A guy who would give me an orgasm that would make me lose my mind.

  A man who would fuck me so hard, every piece of shit guy I had dated before him would be pounded out of my memory.

  A bad boy with a body like a model, and a face to match.

  A man who wouldn’t take my crap, wouldn’t stand for me to create my usual emotional turmoil. I did so love to play games with the good ones.

  A guy who would take control, make me tremble, make me sweat.

  I finally found him. In the last place I would have thought to look.

  And his love means more to me than I thought possible.

  I guess you could say I got the man of my dreams.

  He’s my bad boy…

  And my daddy.

  * * *

  Recurring dreams freak me out. I mean, really freak me out.

  Maybe I took one too many psychology courses in college but whenever I have the same exact dream two nights in the row, I get this creepy feeling that my mind is trying to tell me something.

  Or, I begin to worry that having a dream more than once means that deep down below the surface I have a secret craving. A desire so strong that if it were to go unfulfilled at the end of my life, I would lie on my death bed with nothing but regrets.

  This particular dream made me think I was stuck in some immature phase of life and hadn’t yet evolved to where I should be. I told you I took one too many psychology courses.

  Was there something wrong with me?

  My most recent dream had been plaguing me in a way that none before it had. And it wasn’t even a bad dream. It was a please-don’t-let-me-ever-wake-up dream. One of those sexy, dirty, did-I-just-orgasm-while-I-was-sleeping dreams. A delicious dream that left me with serious FOMO (fear of missing out).

  It started with a devastatingly handsome man but I couldn’t clearly see his face. I was lying on the bed, wearing a flimsy see-through white baby doll nighty and lacy panties—get this—with ruffles on the bottom. Actual lace ruffles! If you sifted through my underwear drawers, you would find nothing of the sort.

  Every stitch of lingerie I own is black.

  The strongest sense of vulnerability washed over me—the part I remember most about the dream—it’s like I’m not quite comfortable and yet there is a feeling that this man—this faceless, nameless man—will take care of me. To my core. He touched parts of me that run deeper than sensation.

  He meets every single one of my needs. Physically and emotionally.

  What we do isn’t just sex, but deeper than sex. He’s caring for me on a level that no one has before. It’s exciting and in the dream I feel nervous but there is an underlying sense of calm and peace.

  I’ve never known a man to make me feel this way.

  He moved toward the bed, shirtless, wearing only perfectly worn-in jeans slung low on his jutting hipbones. Climbing toward me with the prowess of a panther, he was suddenly over me. Leaning down, his smooth cheek brushed against mine. He whispered into my ear, “Who’s my good little girl?”

  I moaned, my pussy clenching, my nipples tightening beneath the filmy fabric of my negligee. I can feel his cock—hardened just by the sight of me lying on the bed—through his jeans as it pressed against me. My hips thrusted upward, my clit aching to make contact with him. Rubbing back and forth, my panties drenched as I shamelessly dry humped against him. My hands went to the back of his neck and pulled him in closer.

  “Take me,” I whispered, nibbling on his lip.

  He pulled away from me, sitting up on his knees on the bed—again, I couldn’t quite make out his face. He unbuckled his belt, pulling down his jeans to expose the largest cock I’ve ever seen. His rough fingers tugged at the waist of my ruffled panties as he pulled them down over my hips, down my legs, over my feet, and flung them from the bed.

  His chest hovered over mine. In one hard thrust his ramrod cock pressed through my slick, begging opening. I groaned as I pressed my hips upward to meet his. His cock brought me pleasure through pain from the sheer size of it and the force of his entry. Tears sprang to the corners of my eyes and he was all over me, kissing my ears, my cheeks, my neck.

  The words he said—oh, my God, the way he talked—made my sheath clench around him so tightly I fear I will break something.

  “That’s right—take all of Daddy’s cock in that tight little pussy.” His hands went to my ass, his fingers digging into the cheeks of my ass as he lifted me, pressing even harder within me. My legs went up over his shoulders (my goodness, am I flexible in my dreams) and I screamed. I could no longer contain myself.

  “Fuck me! Make me come!” I begged.

  “Someone’s being naughty. Tsk, tsk. Patience, little girl,” he murmured.

  He thrusted again. “I want to spank your ass before you come. You seem to need a reminder of who the boss is.”

  In one movement, he had me flipped over and on my knees. My hands pressed into the pillow-top mattress. Kneeling behind me, his hand was back on my ass. I groaned as his palm swept over the curve of my bottom, then gave it a sharp slap.

  My skin burned, and my empty pussy got even wetter from the spank. My bottom is very sensitive to… stimulation. I loved being spanked but had never been brave enough to ask a man to do it (hence why my dream man was probably spanking me). He spanked me again, this time a matching smack on the other cheek.

  My pussy clenched. Groaning, I pressed my aching breasts into the mattress, causing my hips and ass to rise up further toward him.

  “There’s my girl. Loves to have her ass spanked.” Another smack landed, making me let out a little yelp. This one was harder, and burned, making my hips wiggle. “Naughty thing. Your ass is already turning pink. Should I make it red?”

  My answer was a low moan, followed by the words I so longed to say in real life:

  “Yes… Daddy.”

  He started spanking me in earnest, my skin burning as the smacks landed on my already warmed skin. Each spank stung with a delicious pain that had my pussy dripping and clenching and my peaked nipples so tight they hurt as they pressed into the bed. The spanking stopped, and my hips wiggled expectantly.

  His husky voice demanded, “Say please, like a good girl.”

  Would I say it? What the hell… it was just a dream. “Please, Daddy. Spank me some more. Make my bottom red.”

  His hand came down again, just where the curve of my bottom met my thigh. I gasped in pain as his palm landed, in the same exact spot, several times in quick succession.

  “Oh, Daddy, I don’t think I can take much more.” My fingers grasped the bed covers, my ass on fire.

  “Baby girl done with her spanking? Are you ready for my cock to be back inside of you?” His fingertips enter my dripping pussy and collected my juices. Then, he stroked upward, playing with my clit. I screamed as he circled and pressed my hard bud.

  Suddenly, his cock was in me, banging me from behind while his fingers still played with my clit. He fucked me harder and harder, the orgasm building within me until I thought I’d burst. Stars filled the backs of my eyelids as I pressed my ass into his pelvis. He gave a final, hard thrust, while mercilessly massaging my clit.

  I screamed “Oh, my God!” as I came in a burst, my pussy pulsing and clenching against his cock as he came. I collapsed onto the bed. He kissed the back of my neck, stroking me and murmuring sweet nothings into my damp hair.

  My daddy wrapped his arms around me. I felt safe, loved, and completely satisfied. The skin on my ass still burned, and I adored the feeling.

  Then I woke up.

  I hated waking from this dream for two reasons.

  Number one, who would want to wake up from a dream like that?

  And reason number two—after the dream, I was left with a deep, deep empty sadness.

  Will I ever find my real-life daddy? One who would give me boundaries, spank my ass? Fuck me till I scream? Then cuddle me?

  A man I could share my true self with? One I trusted.

  To be able to call someone Daddy? And him get it? Want it, even?

  Or, will I live my entire life, missing out? Knowing that the dream and the man in it, is only that… just a dream.

  Chapter One

  I needed a drink. Badly.

  I’d only been at my parents’ house for forty-five minutes, and I knew I wasn’t going to make it through this visit without having a good buzz tied on. It wasn’t so bad when they still lived in the city of St. Paul, Minnesota where they had moved when I went off to college. At least then I met some interesting people, got out a bit. Now, my aging parents had retired to Little Peak. A town of population seven hundred in nowhere, Wyoming. This was my first time visiting since they had moved three months ago, and we were trapped in their house together.

  Nowhere to go.

  I hated the holidays.

  Within fifteen minutes of walking in the door, my mom had me cornered in her coral and ivy wallpapered dining room, asking, “What happened to that man you were dating who was studying to be a lawyer? He was such a nice man. Do you think maybe you scared him off with that black leather coat you’re wearing? It’s not very feminine, Bridgette. You might do better in a soft pink pea coat. Or maybe a beige cashmere? Tell you what, we’ll have Dad drive us to the mall—it’s only a few hours from here—and I’ll take you to Macy’s get something with a little bit of a softer look.”

  And my dad was no better. “Wasn’t his GPA a 4.0? Smart guy. You know what that means, hard worker, which leads to a good career, great income. You know, the kind of man who can support a family.” Then he elbowed me with that goofy grin, saying, “I’d like to be a grandfather someday, honey.”

  I knew to expect it, but my parents’ chronic harping on my nonexistent love life didn’t hurt any less.

  I had dated a string of guys during my college years at the University of Southern California. They all looked perfect on paper. Top of their class, on track for successful careers, hold the door open for you on the first date. You know—the kind of guy that makes your mom’s face absolutely light up when you bring them home.

  And each relationship had ended up sucking.

  Either the guy was too nice, and I walked all over him or worse—got bored and dumped him—or I thought he was a good guy but he ended up being a total douche. Like the last one who ended up dumping me for my tall, brunette roommate, Suzie.

  I needed to break the mold.

  I needed a bad boy.

  One who found my cute little black leather jacket a turn-on. One who wouldn’t take my crap.

  I knew it was asking too much to hope for the daddy in my dream. Men who wanted you to call them Daddy—in the smolderingly sexy way—and called you baby girl, just didn’t exist in real life.

  But couldn’t I at least find a swoon-worthy man who had a slight edge to him? Maybe even one who wouldn’t cheat on me? In this Tinder hookup day and age, was I asking too much?

  I think not.

  There had to be a good/bad guy out there… somewhere. One made just for me. It was time to find myself a man. A real flesh-and-blood guy who visited me more than just in my dreams. But, seeing as I was living with my parents for the next few weeks, I’d have to put a pin in that mission. Instead, I would do my best to be a loving daughter and have a nice visit.

  But first, I needed a drink. And other than the ten-year-old bottle of cooking sherry my mom kept in her kitchen cabinet, there was not a drop of alcohol to be found in my parents’ house. Luckily, I had seen what looked like a local watering hole when I was riding in the backseat of my parents’ Buick on the way to their house from the airport.

  The desire for a cold beer welled in me as my mom droned on in my ear, “Bridgette, you always looked so nice in floral. Maybe we can find a nice rose print jumpsuit—all the girls are wearing jumpsuits these days. That man you were dating back in LA—he sounds like a man that would appreciate a floral jumpsuit—”

  I could take no more. Springing up from the plastic-covered couch, I interrupted her ramble. “Jumpsuit? I never did figure out how women have time to unbutton them every time they go to the bathroom.”

  Mom said, “That’s disgusting, dear.”

  “Well, I have wondered. I guess I’ll never know. And Tim, you know he broke up with me for my roommate, right?” I asked.

  Waving her hand dismissively in the air, my mother said, “Oh, Bridgette… everyone makes mistakes. Besides, he’s probably over her by now. You should give him a call.”

  “Um… that’s a pretty big mistake, Mom, but, hey! I’m desperate. Right? What’s a single girl to do? Maybe I should give him a call.”

  My overwhelmed brain quickly hatched a plan to get me out of there for a few hours. I decided to use my mom’s bizarre suggestion of calling Tim to get me out of my parents’ living room for the night. “My cell phone isn’t getting any reception here. Maybe if I drive into town I’d be closer to a cell tower. I could find a few bars of reception and Tim and I will probably end up talking all night.”

  “That doesn’t sound safe, Bridge. Sitting in your car by yourself?” My dad pushed his glasses up further on his nose, peering at me over his newspaper, Little Peak Times.

  Crime? In this town? I was pretty sure I could outrun the over-sixty crowd who had made this place their retirement home. “I don’t want to run up your long-distance bill. Are there any payphones in town?” I asked.

  “Ahh. A payphone. Good idea—I think I lost some quarters in this chair awhile back.” My mother started digging in the cushions of her burgundy recliner. Her brow furrowed as she clawed her way into the crack in the back of the chair. “Now where to find a payphone in Little Peak? I’m not sure.”

  My mid-western parents—aptly named Glenda and Dale Smith—did not understand sarcasm. A payphone? Did those things even exist anymore? I would go along with it—whatever got me out of here and into a beer.

  Her cheeks flushed from her efforts, my mom’s head popped up triumphantly, holding a shiny quarter in her hand. “Aha!”

  “Thanks, Mom.” I took the quarter from her and gave her a kiss on her cheek. Her skin was soft and feathery and smelled of the perfume she’d worn ever since I could remember—Chanel No. 5.

  My dad put down his paper and pushed himself up and out of his easy chair. “Great work, Glenda. Now we just need to find a payphone. Let me look it up in th e Yellow Pages.”

  I was already halfway out the door. I had to get out of here, fast, before I snapped at my well-meaning parents. “I saw a place when we were driving in from the airport. Bud’s? Down the road? I’ll just go there and give it a try.”

  I didn’t mention that the glowing beer signs I had seen in the windows were calling my name. White and red words declaring Miller Lite and Budweiser, shining like beacons, beckoning me to the promised land where the beer flowed like… beer.

  Mom said, “Oh, yes… Bud’s. Such a nice gentleman. He opened the place not too long ago. I think they have dancing on Saturday nights.”

  “Take the Buick, Bridgette. I’ve just had the Firestone Winterforce tires put on it. It’s been unseasonably warm, but sometimes they get snow here in November. Best tires money can buy,” my father called to me, tossing me the keys.

  I reached up, the sweet clink of freedom ringing in my ears as the keys fell into my palm. My fingers quickly closed around them. “Thanks, Dad.”

  Mom sighed. “Snow for Thanksgiving… wouldn’t that be something. Really sets the mood for the holidays. Such a romantic time. Right, Bridgette? The perfect time of year to meet someone. You know… there’s a few young men—”

  “Gotta go!” I called, interrupting my mother before she could get to the part about setting me up with a local yokel. My guess was that the only single men living in this town called fast food picking up roadkill they had hit with their camouflage-covered trucks. I replied with a smile and wave. I was out of there. “Bye, guys!”

  Five minutes later, I pulled my Dad’s pale blue Buick into the gravel parking lot of Bud’s. Slamming the car door a little too hard, a nervous tremor ran through me as my boots crunched over the gravel lot.

  Other than my parents, I didn’t know a soul in this town.

  I pulled the heavy door open by its sticky metal handle. I was hit by the familiar smell of stale beer as I stepped into the dimly lit bar. The inside was a lot bigger than I had thought it would be. The walls were covered in dark wood paneling and the dim lighting had a bluish glow.