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This story inspired by conversations with the lovely https://www.reddit.com/user/Her0808/
The first splattering raindrops were whipping down from the gray sky, clouds scudding and unspooling above her. The weather both matched her mood and annoyed her; in her mind, fury mixed with anxiety in a way that made her feel almost physically sick. There had been no one thing today, but just an endless series of trivialities to bring her down; her assistantâbarely worth the nameâhad done a shit job of the candidate research assigned to him, and had passively-aggressively blamed her for âunclear instructionsâ. Her attempts to get solid work done herself had been constantly interrupted by higher-ups walking into her office and asking questions, causing her trains of thought to collapse in on themselves, and of course each of those questions had been something the person asking her could have figured out on their own. She was tired of being the outsourced brain for so many middling people, but there was no one to appeal to, no one in the organization who wasnât part of the same social circle.
Her steps hastened as the rain increased, the sudden squall making drivers honk crabbily at each other. She sped by the open-air cafĂ© near his place, but still overheard a scrap of irritating conversation, the braying laugh of an idiot after a badly-told joke. Finally, she made it to the door of his small but elegant little row house before the downpour started in earnest. She fished in her purse for her key but tried the knob first, and it opened smoothly, the heavy wood swinging wide silently. She stepped in, and the door closed behind her with a firm, definitive click. Instantly, the sounds of the street were gone, not just muffled but absent, replaced with the warm tones of musicâprobably that Ethiopian jazz guy heâd been talking about recently. She felt the irritation of her day rebounding inside her like a small metal ball, striking little sparks of resentful thoughts: his place was so nice, so calm it was almost annoying, a perfect little construct divorced from the outside.
She heard clattering from the kitchen and slipped her shoes off before padding over the soft rug of the living room to the arched door leading there. He had his head down, gazing into the depths of the saucepan with curiosity, adding small handfuls of herbs from a neatly-chopped pile on the olive-wood cutting board near the stove. She rolled her shoulders and put her laptop and purse down on the counter, a little harder than necessary.
âRough day, I see,â he said, without lifting his head, giving her another little jolt of annoyance.Â
âYouâre not even looking at me,â she shot back. He brushed the herbs from his hands and turned to look at her levelly.
âYouâre right,â he said, âIâm sorry. But I can tell from your footsteps.â The smell from the saucepan had reached her, tomatoes and spices mingling together, his shakshuka sauce. He hadnât made it for awhile, but it fit the weather perfectly.
His ready apology was also almost annoying, how quickly he could admit any fault and acknowledge it, but already her inner annoyance was being tempered by the other feelings that his presence brought. Not just his presence in himself, but this house he had, the homeyness of it, the refuge it was. The first time heâd ever brought her here, sheâd been in a state of high excitementâgoing home from a bar with a man, especially a man so much older than her, was still something she did rarely, daringly, but as soon as sheâd walked in sheâd been charmed by it, the long living room with the rugsâhandwoven by his grandmother, as it turned out, the disparate art on the walls, none of it really matching the other but all fitting together, like a group of friends with different life paths. There had been music that time too, Blockhead, his perennial favorite, something sheâd never heard before. And there had been spice in the air, too, heâd been simmering cider.Â
âWhat if I was just walking that way to deceive you?â she asked, âDonât you think Iâm capable of that?â
âMore than capable,â he returned, âIâm sure you could also cover up your rough day if you wanted to. Iâm glad you donât.â
His almost-placid response gave her a bratty spike of annoyance, but a totally different color than the annoyance she felt all day. She didnât have to watch what she said here, she could be reckless and let him deal with it.
âMaybe Iâm exaggerating how rough my day is, and actually spent the time flying kites and talking about the older man I have wrapped around my finger,â she said, glaring at him.
âThatâs not usually what Iâm wrapped around,â he said, âActually, that phrase would generally apply to you more than me.â
âDonât try to jump ahead in the evening,â she said, âThatâs cheating. And I remember you giving me a really wounded look when I cheated at that dumb game you taught me, even though if I hadnât, it would have taken forever.â
âYouâll never know how long itâd have taken,â he said, âBut you were impatient that night. Tonight youâre a different kind of impatient.â A smile took over his face, transforming his serious visage, a chaotic impishness there.Â
She let out a long breath without breaking their eye contact, letting the music wash over her, feeling the difference of being in this space.. âI sometimes want to set a fire in here just to see if youâd finally freak out,â she said, but there was already humor in her voice, the dayâs poison dissipating.Â
He smiled, âWould that be a test to see what Iâd save first? Would you want me to rush to your aid or would that be presumptuous, interfering with your independence?â His tone was light, and he opened the fridge and brought out a chilled silver shaker as he spoke, then brought down a glass from the cupboard.
âDefinitely I can get my own ass out of a fire, thanks,â she said, âAnd youâd probably be annoyingly competent with it. Iâll find something to shake you.â
âJust ask me to dance,â he said, pouring the pearly-green contents of the shaker into a glass, topping it with a kumquat and handing it to her, âAnd watch me break my neck.âÂ
She chortled, âI hadnât thought of that one. You canât dance? Iâm surprised. Youâre not clumsy. You have good body control.â That sentenceâremembering just how good his control of his, and her body was at times, was the first time her libido had really flickered to life tonight, briefly breaking above the morass of stress.Â
He shook his head ruefully as he watched her take a sip, then a longer draught of the cocktail heâd made for her. âI could give it a good spin and say that I just get so lost in the music I canât connect it with my body, but thatâd just be an excuse.âÂ
The drink was refreshing, the tastes of cucumber and mint flowing over her tongue, and she drained the rest of it, chasing the foamy drops with her tongue. She was glad to see his eyes flare a little in response to that.Â
âWell,â he said, in his dark voice, âSpeaking of spin, do you want to talk through the day, or would you like to move on more immediately?â
It was tempting to just throw herself into the next part of the evening, but she knew she wasnât there yet. This part of the night was important too, on a lot of levels. âSpin my day for me,â she said, sitting down on one of the kitchen island stools, and began to recount all the petty and not-so-petty conversations and frustrations of the day. He listened without significant interruption, asking a few clarifying questions, letting her vent, pouring out another serving of the cocktail.
When she was done, he started off with a few sardonic observations about the mediocrities she had to work with and for. âOne of the biggest negatives of this job is that youâre basically teaching yourself,â he said, âBut on the other hand, that means youâre not being mistaught.â He offered her a few strategies for dealing with the various intrusions on her time, the attacks from below and above, starting with forgoing the idea that her useless assistant would ever be able to do a decent job that involved his brain, moving on to diversion strategies for her bosses. âThese are purely transactional people, but they also have no positive memory: favors you do for them just make them think they can ask for more favors from you. Be cynical about cynical people.â He freely admitted most of what he was giving her as advice was only ameliorative, ways to make things less bad.
âBut most of all,â he concluded, âI think you need to decide if the job is still valuable to you; you wonât burn any bridges if you leave for something better. The only thing they really respect is accrued power. What they should be to you now is their connections; they are the bridge to your next job. Not by their recommendationâfuck all that, it might even hurt you. Some of their âfriendsâ know what idiots they are. Join in any meetings youâre allowed to, socialize with their groups after hours, and find your next job. Either with other cynical, transactional assholes with more to offer, or with actual virtuous folkâthe rarest of the rare.â
She had been feeling that itch for a while, the âitâs time to move on,â but the way he put it made it seem like a more feasible path. She liked not feeling sheâd be dependent on them. Something lifted from her, but a lot remained.
He took the glass from the table and put it in the sink, and washed them out briefly. His muscles moved under his shirt, and she started to be more aware of that, his body, her body, the contrasts between them. He dried his hands and moved towards her, reaching out, brushing his thumb against her bottom lip. Defiance rose in her, but submission rose with it, that touch a trigger. Still, she reached up to push his hand away, but used a green word.
âStop that silliness,â she said, âIâm not your plaything.â
âYet,â he said, his voice dropping deeper, and he put his hand against her cheek, big fingers against her soft skin. She leaned into it for a second, body thrumming, and reached up to move his hand again, but this time he did not let himself be moved. She slid her hand up from his wrist to his forearm, the muscles hard as old wood. Not just strength, but old strength, strength that heâd carried with him for years, reified and manifested over decades.
His hand slipped back to her hair, gliding through it to the back of her head. He leaned in and kissed her hungrily, his lips capturing hers, tugging on it and then releasing. âHow many days have you edged now?â He asked, though she was sure he knew.
âFour,â she lied.Â
âThree,â he corrected, and his hand tangled in her hair, âTrying to provoke me. I know that you know. But since you chose that lie⊠maybe Iâll make it four.â
A real flash of fear rushed through her, âYou said that youâd give me release she said,â a tremulous note entering her voice.
âI said if you were a good girl. Youâre being willfully bad. Thereâs still plenty of time for you to be good.âÂ
She pressed her thighs together, but wasnât willing to give in quite yet. âThen thereâs still time to be bad for a while, too,â she said, defying him even with his hand in her hair, his hazel eyes locked on hers, and the desire for what might come next so profound inside her.
He smiled again, a smile with more savagery than the one heâd shown her so far, âSure,â he said, âletâs work with that.â
And then he was half-lifting, half-dragging her off the stool, his arm forcing her face down onto the kitchen island, her vision suddenly full of the fine wood grain of it. He roughly pulled up her skirt, flipping it over, revealing her ass. Her arms scrabbled under her, trying to push up for a moment, but he leant into it, easily controlling her body.
âYouâre going to want to brace yourself,â he said, but before she could make any adjustment at all, his heavy hand was smacking down onto her ass, the sound as much of a shock as the blow, a resounding, stinging smack. The pain jolted through her and she let out a formless noise. The next slap landed on the other asscheekâhis fingers were spread and she could feel the outline of them after he withdrew his hand. Her arms reached desperately for the edge of the island and gripped hard.Â
âSmart girl,â he said, and he released the pressure on her back, both of his hands grabbing handfuls of her ass, fingers stroking over the flesh heâd just reddened, thumbs devling between the soft mounds of her ass and spreading her apart. Sheâd chosen a brief thong that from this position concealed little, and she heard his chuckle of approval.
The next blow was a relief from anticipation; not as sharply stinging as the first too, but firm, solid, as was the next, and the next. The pain began to mount, burning, stinging, the impacts rippling through her body, snaking up her spine to that beloved, traitorous part of her brain that needed this, craved this, the lock where this was the only key.Â
âItâs so much,â she gasped out, raising her head up from the kitchen block. He took her hair in his hand again and pulled her around so she could see his face, the stormy, lustful, but controlled expression. Seeing how much this affected him gave her a swirl of emotions; a connection like no other. He reached out and stroked her face gently with his fingertips, and then slammed another spank onto her ass. âRaise it up for me a little more,â he said, and when she hesitated, his fingers tightened and pulled in her hair, âRaise it, I said.âÂ
She arched her back, offering him her vulnerable ass, posed there in the kitchen like a toy, obeying his commands like a pet. She still felt defiance in her but it was drowning in this sea of pain and joy, overwhelmed with the sheer volume of sensation. He kept that firm grip in her hair, and the fingers of his free hand stroked up the back of her thighs, reaching the delicate skins just below her ass, triggering that exquisite fear again, but his fingers continued on their path to the thin fabric covering her pussy. He flicked it to the side, and slid two fingers up and down her pussylips, opening her up. The contrast between his strong, slightly roughened fingers and the slick silkiness of her pussy was a glorious feeling.Â
âSo we already, little slut,â he said, âWet from having been bent over and spanked like the brat you are,â his fingers sought her entrance, slid into her, two thick fingers pushing into her tightness, âAnd now such a good girl. Offering yourself for me to play with.â In the silence after he spoke, she could hear the small, distinct wet sound of his fingers going deeper in her, and then she felt him curl them inside her, a beckoning motion. He sighed deeply, and she heard in that a release for him that matched what she felt, and was proud to have elicited that sound. âYour pussy is ready for Daddy already.â
She had the half-hope, half-fear that heâd just haul his cock out and slam it into her, to pump into her in a rage of need until he filled her, and she would have accepted it if that was his choice but it was not. He leant over her, big body looming above her as he pulled her into position to kiss her claimingly, his tongue pushing between her lips, invading her mouth the way his fingers were invading her pussy. These moments where he made her feel so surrounded, so taken and held were intoxicating; she rose on the balls of her feet, wanting to be a perfect pet for him. Â
He broke the kiss and stood up straight again. âEager for more,â he said, not asked, and added a third finger in her. She gasped as it slid in, stretched, and heard him say, âStill not as thick as my cock,â and marveled at the truth of that. She whimpered in need, longing to feel him press up against her so she could feel the hardness of his cock, but he stayed in his position behind, her, his hand idly controlling her head, his fingers pumping and working in her, now rolling his thumb into position to nudge and tease her clit.Â
âYou look so fucking beautiful like this,â he said, his voice an earnest growl, that unfakeable rough edge of lust in it, âLike you were made for this. Made to be Daddyâs little fucktoyâ He slipped his fingers from her pussy and smacked them wetly down on her ass, hard as he had before, and then pushed back into her. âNo, not just made, chosen, too. You choose to be a slut for Daddy. You know you need me to bring it out of you.â His hand released her hair, caressed her face, and then his fingers were at her lips. She opened her mouth obediently even before he gave any order, welcoming them in, curling her tongue around them, sucking gratefully.Â
âYou would look so good sucking on a cock right now,â he said, and for a moment her mind rejected the idea, asserted that she only wanted him, but he drove his fingers deep in her pussy and said, âI want to feel how wet you get when I share you that way.â The image rose in her mind, of her between two men with his energy, serving them both, doing it to please him, to please herself. She nodded frantically with his fingers in her mouth, in her pussy, her body laid out for him.Â
With all the edging sheâd done and the intensity of the sensations, she was dangerously close to orgasm already, her body trembling. âOh no, not yet,â he said, and slipped her fingers out, leaving her feeling bereft. He took a step back; she kept her grip on the table, having been given no other order, feeling compliance holding her in place as sure as any binding could. He walked around the island and she heard the clank of his belt buckle as he undid it, the rough rasp of fabric as he opened his pants, and then in front of her was his thick cock, his heavy balls.
He thudded it down on her foreheadâshe was so gratified to feel it fully hard already, hot on her skinâand she opened her mouth and extended her tongue, trying to make some sort of contact. He took his cock in hand and slid it down her face, the soft head of it moving against her cheek like a kiss before he laid it on her tongue. She wrapped her lips around the head of it, surprised as always by the girth of it, something impossible to truly remember between sessions, and looked up at him with wide eyes.Â
He let her suck greedily on the head of it for a while, hand mussing her hair, and then pulled his cock back. âOn your knees,â he ordered, and grabbed her by the arms, forcefully helping her achieve that goal. She tried to keep eye contact throughout, and was looking into his eyes when he invaded her mouth again, his thick shaft gliding across her tongue, pushing against her throat and making her gag. She steadied herself, putting her hands on his thighs, but he swatted them away, âI didnât tell you you could brace yourself,â he said. She put her arms behind her, and he nodded in satisfaction, and started to fuck her mouth.
Such a simple phrase, but such a potent act, her lips and cheeks plumped out by his manhood as he worked it in and out, the masculine scent of him, the way her lips dragged on his cock as he pulled out, the way his cockhead challenged her throat, making her cough and sputter. He grabbed her hair and pulled her forward, off-balance, the sensation of falling forward on his cock raising alarm in her body continuously overridden by her desire to serve.Â
âYouâre being such a good little whore for me,â he said, as she pressed her tongue up against the underside of his cock, as trails of saliva escaped her mouth. Daddy was using her, Daddy thought she was beautiful, Daddy was rocking her back and forth on his cock. This was another form of edging; she wanted it to last forever, she wanted him to cum in her mouth and flood it, she wanted him to pull out and take her pussy. She wanted whatever he wanted.
Finally he pulled his cock out, leaving her gasping, smiling, letting him show all the effort she had given, arms still obediently behind her. He pumped his cock in his hand thoughtfully and looked at her, âI love making a mess of you,â he said. He reached down and put his hand around her throat and around her arm, smoothly pulling her up to her feet. He turned her around and pushed her forward, marching her into the living room, bending her over the arm of the couch, his hand never leaving her throat.Â
His other hand grabbed her ass, spread her, he jockeyed his hips into position and then the big blunt head of his cock was spearing into her pussy, alarming her body, sending wild, disparate signals firing through her nervous system, his voice cutting through it all, âTake it like a good girl,â he said, âTake that fucking cock.â Â
âYes Daddy,â she managed to say as he gave her another couple inches, stretched her, filled her, and claimed her. He grabbed one arm and held it behind her and gave a powerful thrust with his thighs, cock ramming all the way inside her, making her feel a possession, a toy, outmatched and yet proud of herself for being able to take this. Still dressed in her work clothes, taken from a professional woman to the best fucktoy Daddy ever had without changing.Â
He pulled back almost all the way, teasing her with the idea of leaving her pussy but now that he was there he intended to stay and he slammed back in, the whole length of it moving inside her. His voice was coming in ragged gasps now, losing himself to the frenzy, his belt buckle banging into her ass as he used her savagely. âGod, such a tight little pussy,â he groaned, and she wiggled under him, wanting to give him more, more sensation, to be the absolute best little fuck for him she could. His hand closed around her throat, controlling her there, pulling her back into every thrust.Â
Art one point he dropped her arm and spanked her ass again, grabbed and spread her to get a better view of her pussylips wrapped around his shaft, how deliciously full she looked. Finally his hand came loose from her throat and he grabbed her waist in both hands, pulling her back on him forcefully, keeping his cock buried almost all the way in her, withdrawing only an inch before fucking back deep. âIâm going to flood you with my cum,â he growled with the last of his coherence, and she felt his thrusts turn wild, aggressive. She was limp in his hands, moving back and forth on the arm of the couch, an instrument of pleasure. The position was sliding her clit against the soft fabric of the couch, his cock as firm as sheâd ever felt inside her, his body dominating her.Â
She felt his cock inside her pulse and throb before she heard his long, guttural groan of release, and then the warm jets of his cum were pouring into her. Golden satisfaction flooded her body; she felt bruises on her arm where heâd grabbed her, the blossoming pain in her ass, the wetness of her mouth after heâd used it. Her orgasm began as his ended, as she heard that final sigh of release and his body slumping over her. She cried out and failing her arm and his hands on her waist kept her steady as she shivered and trembled on his cock.
In the moments after there was just the sounds of their breath, his deep, heavy breaths, her still-panting sighs. His hands released their vice-grip on her waist and slid down her ass, giving a gentle pat, a coda to the session. He slowly pulled his cock out, and she felt the warm trickle of cum down her thigh and knew heâd really filled her, given her everything he had.
He sat on the couch and pulled her forwards onto his lap, cradled her in those strong arms. He was giving her words of praise, of comfort, she could half hear them but what mattered was his tone. Sheâd pleased him. Sheâd been a good girl for him. Frustration, tension, anxiety were so distant right now, all that was real was Daddy and her and the pleasure they created between them.
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