“Kneel,” he tells her, and she obeys.
She’s a good girl.
She does what Daddy says.
“Eyes on the ground,” he tells her.
Maybe not such a good girl after all: she looks up.
He smirks down at her. “We’re still working on following orders, aren’t we?”
“Yes, Daddy,” she says, cheeks flushed. She hates looking down. He only lets her speak when spoken to; her eyes are her only form of communication. She wants to gaze up at him adoringly, tell him how she loves him in a flutter of eyelashes.
Instead, she lowers her eyes and stares at her reflection in the black shine of his shoes. Her hair has fallen over her cheeks, hiding her face. Her collar encircles her neck, a delicate silver choker. Her leash is an elegant string of pearls that hangs before her and leads up to his hands. Her breasts are bared. Her hands are behind her back. In her dark reflection, she looks every bit the slave that she’s meant to be– but it’s too late for that now. She knows her Daddy better than that.
“Close your eyes,” he tells her.
When she does, she feels cold silk against her eyelids.
The world has gone dark, but her other senses are heightened now. She can hear her own heart thrumming, quick like a bunny’s. She can feel the cold, hard tile of the floor beneath her, bruising her knees with her every move.
She can sense him move before her.
His hands smell like coffee and ink. She can smell them as he runs his fingers through her hair, stirring up the scent of her shampoo. Vanilla and roses. She smells as sweet as he is masculine, but her scent is light, and his is strong.
The smell fades as he withdraws his hands. She hears the sound of a zipper.
He pulls her closer.
“Open your mouth, girl,” he tells her.
She’s a good girl.
She does what Daddy says.
His cock is hard and demanding against her lower lip. When she flicks her tongue out, she tastes the salt of his pre-cum, slick and still warm from his body heat.
He pushes in, and she takes him. Her mouth is wanton, wet with longing. He pushes deeper, and she feels his foreskin pull back as it slides against her open lips. The underside of his cock, the sensitive ridge that connects head and shaft, smooths against her tongue, in and in and in, and then back out. She hears Daddy’s breath hiss. She knows then that she’s pleased him. He loves the feel of her tongue.
As his cock slips back out of her mouth, she draws in a breath. Her heart is racing with excitement. She knows what comes next.
He presses in again, harder this time. He is no longer relishing the warm wetness of her mouth. He’s only taking now, taking the mouth that he owns, the tongue that serves him, the lips that worship him. He uses her mouth like it was made only for his pleasure. In the moment, she believes it: she was made for this. She was made for him to fuck and him to own, him to use as he pleases.
In another thrust, he takes her throat.
There’s the old choking sensation, the inevitable panic as he pushes past her gag reflex and down her throat. She can’t breath, and he knows this. He’s waiting for the signal, the three quick taps against his thigh, but she doesn’t give it. She can take it. She can take whatever her Daddy gives her.
He wraps one hand around the back of her head– leverage. The other, he wraps around her throat. She imagines he can feel it, the way his cock bulges beneath the skin of her neck.
He ravages her and she loves him for it.
And just as she fears she has neared her limit, he withdraws. The first shot of cum lands against her lips, all salt and musk. The next finds her cheek; another still shoots all the way across her face, from forehead to jaw. He presses his cock back into her mouth for the final few spurts. His seed is sweet, salty, sour– a whole palette of flavors that he paints her tongue with.
He replaces his cock with his fingers, wiping the cum from her face and feeding it to her. Not a drop is wasted. She loves her Daddy’s cum. She licks his fingers clean.
When the blindfold is removed, he’s smiling down on her, soft and sweet so she knows that she’s done a good job.
“I’m afraid that we’ve stained my tie,” he says with a laugh. She watches as he examines the length of cloth that was covering her eyes: his favorite tie, the black silk one she picked out for his birthday.
“I’ll wash it,” she offers, but he shakes his head no.
“Let the housekeepers deal with it,” he tells her. He helps her up and she leans against him. Kneeling for so long has made her knees weak. “You did too well today, darling girl. I want to pamper you now.”
She smiles. She loves being pampered.
“How’s your throat?” he asks, but before she can answer, his lips are on hers.
“A little sore,” she admits when he finally pulls away.
“We’ll get you some tea with honey,” he says.
He holds her against him like a small kitten, pressing her cheek to his chest until she can hear his heartbeat through the linen of his shirt. It’s strong and steady, just like he is, and she slows her breathing until it matches her own.