It had been a long weekend. A lot of silence between them. She wasn’t sure what was going on. He’d fucked her that morning then left the house, said he was going to check out a gun show and maybe stop by the music store… she’d wanted to ask if she could come along, but for some reason today it felt best to let him go.
It was quiet when he wasn’t around. Not that he was noisy. But he moved a lot. He kept busy. And even when he slowed down, napped on the couch or in the wicker chair in the front room, he snored. She took comfort in his presence. Even the snoring made her smile. Sometimes she watched him sleep, watched the lines fall away, the years melt, imagined the curious little boy he’d been before worry and responsibility laid their loads on him.
She heard the door off the kitchen squeak on the one hinge. He kept oiling it, and it kept squeaking. He came in from the garage. She finished folding the towels and stuffed them into the linen closet, and went down the carpeted stairs on bare feet. She was in her cleaning clothes; blue jean shorts and an oversized T-shirt with no bra. She didn’t wear make up. And fingers passed for a comb in her preening vernacular. As she stepped off the landing she heard the TV. She stuck her head around the door and he looked up and smiled. “Hi baby girl.”
“Hi Daddy. Did you have fun?”
“I did. Found my strings.” He motioned at a paper sack on the coffee table.
“Would you like me to bring the guitar up for you?”
He patted the cushion beside him. “No, sweetie. Come here and sit with me.”
That made her happy. She sat next to him and settled under his arm. She smelled his warmth and deodorant and felt the prickle of his whiskers as he pressed a firm kiss into her hairline. “I missed you,” he said.
She smiled and looked at the TV. “Who’s playing today?”
He turned her face toward him with his index finger. “I’m sorry.” His eyes were dark and warm, familiar.
He kissed her nose, and his fingers trailed absently along her jaw and down her neck. Her entire body knew their path, their destination, and her heart sped and her nipples peaked in invitation. “I haven’t been very nice this weekend.”
She tried to shake her head. His hand came back up swiftly to firmly clasp her chin, his other arm tight around her.
“Don’t do that.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Don’t excuse me. Just forgive me for being a dick.”
His hand left again, and before she could say anything his mouth was on hers and his hand covered and kneaded her breast. He growled in his throat. She knew it was because of the absence of a bra. He preferred her this way.
Her hands went to his neck and she shifted to straddle his thighs, sitting on his lap, kissing him with the fire he always lit in her. When they broke, he looked up at her. She felt him throbbing between them through his khakis, through her denim.
“I want you for supper.”
“I need to shower,” she said with a grin. “And actual supper is in the oven.”
His grip on her hips tightened, fingers digging her flesh. He kept looking at her, holding her blue eyes, holding her hips, and he’d begun a gentle but insistent rhythmic push with his pelvis. Her own answered. It was instinctual. It was the need they ignited in one another.
He took her mouth again, his tongue brushing hers, probing deep, tasting. He fucked her mouth with his. Invading and retreating, breaths mingling, and those gentle thrusts became urgent.
He pulled back as his hands went to his belt. “Get them off,” he said casting a look at her clothing. His voice had a rough edge and her excitement flared. The sounds of football faded into the background. She stood and stripped in front of him. Quickly, without fanfare. His cock was in his hand and he pulled and stroked it. She fixated on the shining dew leaking and running. He looked hungry. Everything about him looked hungry and masculine. She felt the trickle of her own juices.
A groan from him as he looked at her. Always for her that moment of discomfort, shyness, vulnerability with all her flaws on display for him. But he would growl, take his hand away just so she could see the independent twitch and wave of his cock. He knew she thrived on his arousal. He knew exactly what to give her to make her need to please him.
She didn’t ask. She dropped to her knees on the soft carpet between his. He said, “Yes, little girl,” as he reached to touch her face. She caught his hand, and sucked his thumb into her mouth, their eyes still locked. She licked over the ball and let her tongue slide over the nail before taking it all the way, rolling her tongue to cup it like a taco. She held him there, tasting his flesh, teasing.
She sucked as he took it back, and there was something intensely erotic in the exchange. The anticipation. Her other hand was wrapped around his shaft. She hesitated, knowing well what would happen when she did. His hand on her head, pulling her face into his groin. There was no teasing, no denial today. There was only Daddy needing his cock sucked. Needing his perfect whore’s hungry mouth.
She loved this feeling. Of kneeling naked before him. Of his strong thighs surrounding her body and the stiff fabric against her bare skin. Of his eyes watching her and the sight fueling his arousal. His hand in her hair, sometimes resting lightly but possessively, others guiding her movements, her speed, her depth. It was a dance they performed well together, for maximum satisfaction. Never the same twice, but always perfect.
He filled her mouth, her throat. His flesh was rubbery and pillowy over the tip, swollen and hot… it was her favorite. Those textures, like a ripe plum. She scraped her teeth over him as though to leave an indentation but no mark, careful not to rupture or bruise. She sucked, gently then harder, and the tip of her tongue swirled and danced over him until she found his slit… gingerly playing there, tracing; such intimacy… to suck and taste, hoping he would feed her, her hands always working along his shaft, around his balls, a finger straying to stroke lightly over his asshole now and then. Her eyes always finding his again.
She paused briefly to give her jaw a rest. She bumped him playfully against her chin and lower lip, darted her tongue out to flick his frenulum. Smiled up at him. “You taste good, Daddy,” she whispered. “I love sucking your cock. I want to swallow you. I want your hot cum, what you made for me,” she whispered as she gently squeezed his full balls.
His reaction was an intense darkening, a deeply growled “Fuck!” and he stood and pulled her up. He pushed her onto the couch where he’d been sitting, his pants around his ankles, and he held her head with one hand wound in her short hair while the other guided his cock to her lips. “You’re going to make Daddy feel so good, baby girl. Open.”
She did, but not all the way. Only enough that he could push through her lips. Carefully wetting and wrapping them over her teeth, she braced against him and felt him push, felt the throb, heard the groan as she provided friction on his shaft while her tongue worked over him. He paused, reveling in the onslaught of sensations before beginning to thrust with some rhythm. Pushing deeper and deeper… faster. Her hands on his ass feeling his muscles contract. She had the vague passing thought that she was probably leaving a spot on the sofa cushion. Then he was blocking her airway.
She relaxed. Closed her eyes. She thought of the intense pleasure she was giving him, the things he would tell her he’d felt later, when they lay close together and he sheltered her with the same body that was taking from her; all those things only he told her because only he knew how she needed to hear them. When he pulled back she inhaled deeply and looked at him through watery eyes. He thrust again. Both hands on her head now. His pubic hair tickled her nose. She loved the heat from his body, his scent. She heard him saying words, words like take it like the little bitch you are, take Daddy’s fat cock, Daddy’s good whore swallowing his cock… And every word excited her on a level she’d never quite understood.
She knew when he came, when she tasted the salt and bitter of him, her cunt would throb and ache and long for her own release.
He pumped a few more times, giving her time to catch her breath before the last one that shot a hot stream of seed against the back of her throat. She cupped his balls to feel the contraction. She loved that moment. His release. His body climaxing, the throb of his cock and the grunt as he spasmed. Tears ran as she struggled to swallow, and he pulled back, but not out. He knew she wanted all of it. She needed him like a drug. She felt him over her tongue, one spurt after another, each hot and thick. A little ran out the side of her mouth over her chin. As his contractions eased, she sucked him gently, again touched her tongue to his opening and felt the drops pushing out. She moaned around him. She needed him now, needed him to get hard again and fuck her.
“Suck, baby. Make me hard again so I can fuck your beautiful sloppy cunt.” He lifted her breasts, thumbing over nipples so sensitive that she moaned again. And she suckled and teased and pulled at him. She dipped her two middle fingers into her cunt, then looking at him, offered them. He took them and sucked them clean. “Again.”
Again she fed him her juices. Each taste, each firm suck had him hardening.
He finally pulled away and in a swift movement pulled her up and spun her, made her kneel on the couch, hands braced on the back. And he filled her in a single brutal thrust, all the way to her cervix, his hips pressed hard and forcefully against her ass. A firm smack with his open hand. Then his body against hers, his hands crushing her breasts, and he was fucking her like an animal. Hard, fast. And she was screaming with every thrust, begging him for more, calling his name.
He fucked her until she orgasmed over his cock, her juices flooding over him, and he came again. He kept fucking her till he softened and as his cock left her she felt his arms catch her as she sank down.
He laid down next to her on the narrow couch, his body half hanging off, and he held her close, tasted her sweat and tears and his cum on her lips. Kissed her and touched her while her shaking stopped and pulse slowed. His spent cock pressed intimately against her soft belly.
The referee’s whistle sounded over the hum of the audience, and the sun was falling in the autumn sky, and the smells of roasted chicken and baked apples mingled with the musky odors of sex and skin.
Just another perfect Sunday with Daddy.