by Sylvia Fox
“Josephine, I can tell by the way you’re staring at it that you want to taste it. Do it now. Your daddy needs his girl’s mouth on him. You want to please me, right? No one will know. It can be our secret, baby. Mmmm. Yes. That’s very good, my princess.”
He’d already demonstrated that he knew things about my body that I never knew. Now he could read my mind, too? I did want to taste it. To suck it. To take it as deep down my throat as I possibly could. To submit to it. To him. I loved when he asked me to suck my daddy’s cock, loved pretending to be doing something so dirty.
As if it wasn’t already dirty enough to fuck him.
I stroked it again, lifting it perpendicular to his body. I leaned down, closing my eyes and opening my mouth.
“Good girl.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Just hearing him call me that made me flood my now-ruined yoga pants.
I engulfed him with my mouth, inhaling as much of him as I could, my hand still wrapped around the shaft. I bobbed once, then twice rolling my neck and swirling my tongue, wanting to taste every square millimeter of him. He fit into my mouth perfectly, his head resting against the roof of my mouth as I withdrew, whimpering with pure, undiluted lust.
I’d given blowjobs before, and that’s all they were – jobs. I was duty-bound to give some boy a thrill, a few minutes of pleasure in exchange for him telling me how pretty I was. The typical bargain struck by sexually-active adolescents and college kids all over America.
But I’d never sucked cock. And I mean eagerly. Lewdly. Sloppily. Like a starving slut deriving sustenance for her very soul through the tip of my lover’s manhood.
He grunted and adjusted himself on the couch, getting comfortable, settling back to be serviced. That’s what I was, at that moment. Someone, something, to give his swelling, pulsing cock pleasure. Nothing more, nothing less.
He reached down and pulled the hair from my face and tucked it behind my ear to survey the job I was doing.
I could feel my face flush hot with shame knowing he was watching me, knowing that he was seeing me, the little girl he’d watched develop and grow up, attending my every graduation, a few recitals here and there, birthdays and ballgames, and now he was watching me slobbering all over a huge cock as if I were in heat. His huge cock.
“I had no idea you were such a slavish fellatrix. You enjoy sucking my cock very much, don’t you, Josephine?” His words touched me like electric shocks, making me writhe beneath his gaze.
I tried to nod and make a sound that resembled “yes,” without letting his now immensely erect cock leave my mouth.
He chuckled. “Such a very good girl.”
If he said that again, I’d come. I had no doubt. Each time he called me a good girl, it felt like he was thrusting into me. And I redoubled my effort at pleasing him.
I paused for just a moment. “Daddy? Am I doing a good job?”
He moaned. That was answer enough.
I sucked and mewed and licked and whimpered, worshipping the length and width of him. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that he’d set his book aside somewhere and he’d placed his hands behind his head, elbows out. Completely relaxed. Only he wasn’t. He reached for the end table behind him and retrieved his phone, scrolling through it, paying me no mind.
While I should have been crushed by his indifference to the desperate way I was using my mouth to make love to his cock, the contrary occurred. I was enveloped in sexual flame. He was ignoring me. He’d happened to wake up and he needed to check his texts, catch up on his e-mails, maybe review his portfolio. Who knows? All I knew was his cock, and that I had to please it. Sucking, fighting to get every inch into my tender throat that I possibly could, and my only reward from John was the occasional sigh of contentment.
I’d been rolling my hips, rubbing my thighs together, but I needed more. My left hand had been clutching the sectional cushion with a white-knuckled grip, but I let it fall to my lap, into the waistband of my yoga pants, its destination the sopping mess my pussy had become. I needed a climax in the worst way.
“Ah, ah, Josephine. Focus on the cock. Your pleasure comes at my discretion. Not yours. I’m your daddy. Do as I say.”
What. The. Fuck.
This man, this beautiful, brilliant man, who had been completely ignoring me, was telling me I couldn’t even touch my own pussy? While his cock throbbed in my throat and gushed what seemed like gallons of sticky-sweet precome into my mouth, so much, in fact, that it ran down my chin?
Yes. Yes, he was. And my only option was to obey. His voice, not my mind or desires, controlled my body. With a moan of frustration, I removed my hand from my pants and added to his shaft, all of me now focused on John’s manhood.
“We’ll have to train that petulant little whimper out of you, Josephine. Take me deeper now.”
Deeper? Was he fucking crazy? I was already gagging on him, my face and throat wet with my efforts.
I struggled to accept more of him, and I felt his hand at the back of my head, gently, but firmly, guiding me.
“The key is surrender. You have to surrender yourself fully in order to sublimate your gag reflex, Josephine. That reflex is an act of self-preservation. You can only be free by abandoning ‘self’. Only pleasure matters now. My pleasure, and the pleasure you get from being the source of mine. My orgasm must be paramount. It must mean even more than your own.”
As he spoke, without me realizing it, he applied steadily-increasing pressure to the back of my head, and as the word “own” left his delicious mouth, I realized that my face was pressed against his crotch, the fabric of his pants, and that I’d take him deeper into my throat than I ever imagined possible. The sense of pride I felt was overwhelming. The arousal absolute.
“Good girl. You’re pleasing me very much.”
I squirmed, rapturous tremors rippling through my thighs and around to the small of my back. He’d given me yet another orgasm without touching my pussy. A deep, rolling climax as I nestled my face against him, ignoring the burning in my throat and lungs. Tears rolled down my cheeks. The tears weren’t fueled by any sort of sadness; they were just a sign that my body was on some sort of overload again.
I slowly rose, releasing his wet, majestic cock with a loud gasp. Everything was silent, but for our collective heavy breathing. Wordlessly, he rose and divested himself of his pajama pants, kicking them away.
“Up on the couch, Josephine. On your knees. Show me your gorgeous ass again.”
I pulled my hoodie off and tossed it away, shedding my yoga pants as I stood. They were was wet as if I’d swam in them.
Standing before him, he looked down at me with the sexiest smile I’d ever seen, closed-mouthed and crooked, completely cocksure and satisfied with himself.
I clambered up onto the couch, my elbows on the back, knees on the cushion, arching my back in a way I imagined and hoped he’d find sexy.
He stepped behind me, taking a great handful of my ass. “I’ve been all over the world, Josephine. From Copacabana Beach to New York City, from Tokyo to London, and I’ve never seen such an ass.” He lifted the flesh he held, letting it fall, and then he spanked it with his open palm. Hard.
I yelped with surprise and pain, and he responded by spanking the other cheek, even harder. I clenched the rear cushion of the sectional, my mouth hanging open in a silent scream.
“I mean it’s just magnificent.”
Spank!
“I could never tire of spanking it”
Slap!
“And eating it.”
Oh my God.
Spank!
“I loved fucking it.”
Slap!
At that, my body became liquid. The searing heat of his hands on my ass, the slick wetness of my starving cunt, the raw ache in my throat, it was all too much. I found my voice. Or maybe my voice found me. I didn’t recognize it. But it had to be mine. It was more animal growl than human speech. Low and steady, as if I were possessed.
“Fuck me.
Fuck my ass, fuck my cunt, fuck me anywhere you want, just fuck me. Fuck me so hard with your big cock. But please fuck me into oblivion.”
“Oh my,” he chuckled. “As you wish.”
He plunged inside me and I cried out, “Daddy! You’re so hard!”
A telephone pole. He was fucking me with a telephone pole. It couldn’t have been anything else. A baseball bat would have been a toothpick next to what he’d put inside me.
He grabbed hold of my hips and drove himself into me, fully, and a lump formed in my throat. He left it there for three heartbeats. I counted them. His, not mine. I felt them in his cock. Pulsing, throbbing heartbeats.
He withdrew and slid back in, slowly, letting me feel each inch. I was so fucking wet. So horny. So desperate.
Within a few thrusts, he was pounding me. Standing, hands at the small of my back, ravaging my cunt. Driving deep inside, shifting his angle to hit places, tender, magical places, battering my sex relentlessly.
“John…” I called to him, our role-playing over for a moment. “I love when my lover takes what’s his.”
Self-preservation returned, fight or flight, and I felt myself trying to scramble up and over the back of the sofa to escape his punishing cock. But his grip remained steadfast. All I could do was take it. Receive it. Surrender to it.
With pile driving thrusts, he stretched and bruised my pussy, plundering it for orgasms, wrenching them from my soul again and again. The world began and ended with his marvelous cock. I was screaming incomprehensibly, trying to thank him and beg for more and exclaim how fucking amazing he was and how I felt all at once.
Sweat poured off us, and despite the fire having burned down to glowing embers, the room felt consumed in an inferno.
His hands had moved up to my shoulders, and each thrust made a deafening loud sound of wet, crashing flesh. His balls smacked against my clit setting off fireworks each and every time.
My muscles ached and cramped, and I went limp, a ragdoll on the end of his cock.
“The next time you come, I’m going to stop thrusting and let your orgasm massage my shaft until I come. Do you understand, Josephine? Your body is going to make me come. Do you want that? Do you want me to come?”
Exhausted, I nodded my head, hair plastered all over my face with sweat and saliva.
I was soaring somewhere between orgasm and ultimate ecstasy, something on the horizon with which I was unfamiliar and unprepared. The climaxes were constant, each one rolling into the next.
I got lost in the fantasy. I was his young little whore, the one he’d brought in from the streets in order to use me to fuck. The thought of my duty and purpose only being to pleasure him made the orgasms that much more intense. I wanted and needed to be his good girl. His princess. His Josephine. He was my Daddy, the man who took care of all my needs, and in turn I was the one that took care of his carnal ones.
Until.
He reached down and circled my asshole with his fingertip, never changing his rhythm. He fucked me hard and fast, and on one particularly aggressive thrust, his finger went inside.
Inside my ass.
Where, up until last night, nothing had ever been.
Until his tongue.
And then his cock.
As it commenced, he reached for my hair, taking a handful of it and pulling my head back, his other hand working my tight asshole.
My climax was more seizure than orgasm. My thighs trembled and quaked, my back arched like a contortionist, and I had an orgasm to end all orgasms.
The contractions inside my sex were powerful and intense, clutching at him. True to his word, he pushed deep inside and stood very still. As the waves ripped through me, he bellowed. Not words, just a guttural scream that sounded more pain than pleasure, but I didn’t care what it was. My own orgasm was endless and shattering, body slamming my very soul.
I felt him pulsing, emptying himself inside me, as if a fire hose had been shoved deep inside me. It seemed to never end, our mutual eruption, mine feeding his and vice versa.
My muscles tensed and relaxed, all over my body, again and again. As our screams died down, he let my hair slip through his fingers, and my head came to rest on the back of the sectional. Likewise, his finger disappeared from my ass as if had never been there. He remained solid inside me, and as sort of a cool down he pistoned his cock in and out of me slowly as I whimpered.
Finally, mercifully, he eased out of me, helping me to collapse onto the wide cushions, facing inward to the back of the couch. He pulled the ottoman tight against the front of the cushions to give himself more room, and he curled up behind me, an arm beneath my neck and the other wrapped around my middle, fingers intertwined with mine. The room, once the temperature of the inside of a furnace, was suddenly very cold, what with the fire having gone out completely. He pulled his hand from mine and reached back to tug a quilt draped over a nearby chair over the top of us.
Once content that we were both covered and comfy, he kissed my shoulder and the side of my neck.
“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything. How can I ever be without you? We’re in so much trouble.”
I was too exhausted to speak much.
“I’m yours, John,” I said. “I always have been. I’m starting to think its the reason I exist at all. To belong to you.”
And with that, I fell deep asleep.
All had been said.
Chapter Seven
Hours later, the sounds of cooking, lids hitting pots and oil sizzling in pans, pulled me forth from my hibernation.
The fire was roaring again, and I lay still and watched the flames dance for a while as I listened to John humming a tune I didn’t recognize as he busied himself in the kitchen.
He couldn’t see me where I lay, so I let myself wake up slowly, stretching languidly and rolling over onto my back. I stared up at the ceiling and stifled a giggle as I recalled the events of the early morning.
My hand drifted between my legs, finding a sticky mess, a coating of my own arousal and his orgasm all over my inner thighs. Just brushing against my vulva made me shudder. Everything was super-sensitive and tender.
I caressed my sides with my fingertips, rolling my right nipple casually. I was supercharged with lust. Nothing mattered except fucking. And coming.
Whatever John was preparing in the kitchen smelled fantastic, and I was famished, but all I could think of was my next orgasm, my next sexual rendezvous with this man who had turned my world completely upside down in just a few short hours.
I was hopelessly obsessed. Addicted. I could think of nothing but John, and I did a quick calculation in my head to figure out how many hours I had left in the cabin with him. Then, roughly how many minutes. Large as the numbers seemed, they were too small. I didn’t ever want to be anywhere but within arm’s reach of John. Mouth’s reach. Cock’s reach. I was created to give him pleasure.
Pulling the quilt around me, both for the comfort and whatever remained of my modesty, I rose to my feet.
“Welcome back, sleepyhead,” John said to me, swirling and sipping a glass of wine as he stood, shirtless, near the stove.
I wondered how I must look to him. How messed up my hair must be. “Hey,” I said, in a soft, raspy voice. “That smells so good.”
“Well, everything’s coming together. It’ll be just a little while yet, but we ought to have ourselves quite a feast. Hope you packed your appetite.”
When he said the word “coming,” I felt a clench between my thighs. I wanted to broach the subject of our sex, but John was speaking to me as if none of it ever happened. As if I was just his guest for the holiday, someone for whom he was preparing Thanksgiving dinner, not as someone he’d just fucked completely senseless.
Someone he’d confessed his love to.
“I am starving,” I replied, stepping around the sectional, careful to keep the quilt around me.
He dipped a fingertip into some concoction on the stove and placed i
t on his tongue, tasting the product of his efforts. “Perfect,” he said, and I wasn’t sure if he meant what he’d tasted, the fact that I was so hungry, or both.
I ran a hand through the mess atop my head, trying to gauge just how wild and freshly-fucked my hair must look before I faced myself in the bathroom mirror. I glanced at John, and he was staring at me with a puzzling smirk.
“What?” I asked, smiling weakly. The few shuffling steps I’d taken toward my room found me stiff and sore. I looked forward to a soak in the tub after dinner. Just a soak. My body couldn’t handle more of John at the moment.
“Oh, nothing, Josephine. I’m just disappointed in myself.”
I cocked my head, hoping I wasn’t on the brink of the abyss, that he wasn’t about to tell me what a crazy mistake everything had been.
“I wish I’d been able to finish up in here more quietly. I wanted to reward you by waking you up the same way you did me,” he said, staring directly into my eyes.
I bit my bottom lip as a tremor rolled through my very messy pussy at the thought. I couldn’t speak.
He stepped around the counter and out into the living room, where I was rooted to the spot. He wore the same pajama pants I’d found him that morning, and nothing else. He arrived in front of me, placing a hand on my cheek, cradling my face as he looked down at me.
“You’re such a rare beauty, Josephine. Everything about you is sexy. It’s effortless. You can’t even help it. Can’t turn it off. The way you move, your voice, the way you smell; I just have to have you. I can’t stop having you.”
He was so close to me that even through the quilt I could feel his arousal pressing against me. He was hard. Again.
I staggered back half a step and leaned against the back of the sectional. The quilt slid from my shoulder, and he helped it along. It puddled on the floor at my feet.
He took my face in both hands and kissed me passionately, a long, deep kiss. I trembled.
I kissed him back, my arms on his shoulders, pulling him into me. His hands slid down to my hips, and one of them dipped between my legs, finding me soaked.
