Chapter 73: The Morning After
The first thing she felt was the warm, solid weight of his arm across her waist. The second was the slow, sticky trickle between her thighs. She kept her eyes closed, swimming up through layers of thick, satisfied sleep. His scent—sandwood and clean sweat and him—filled her nose. She was on her side, tucked against his body, his chest to her back.
She wriggled slightly, pressing her bottom against him. He was already hard. A thick, insistent pressure against the cleft of her ass.
A soft, pleased sound escaped her lips. She reached a hand behind her, fingers curling around his shaft. It was hot, the skin like velvet over steel. She gave it a slow, sleepy stroke.
“Daddy’s awake,” his voice rumbled, sleep-rough and intimate against the shell of her ear. His hips pushed forward into her hand.
“I feel you,” she whispered. She guided him, rubbing the broad head through the wetness that had leaked from her onto her inner thighs. “Need you inside.”
“Greedy little thing in the morning,” he said, but there was no reproach, only dark amusement. He shifted, his hand sliding from her waist to her hip, gripping hard. He pushed her top leg forward with his knee, opening her up. The position was vulnerable, exposed. He didn’t enter her immediately. He just pressed the tip against her swollen entrance and held it there, a silent, teasing question.
“Daddy, please.” She whined, pushing back. He held her still.
“Since you asked.” He drove in, not with the slow ceremony of the night before, but with a single, purposeful thrust that buried him to the hilt. She cried out, the fullness a sharp, welcome shock. He was so deep like this, angled differently, hitting places that made her toes curl.
He set a relentless, grinding rhythm, his pubic bone pressing into her ass with every inward stroke. One hand stayed locked on her hip, the other snaked around to find her clit. His fingers were clever and cruel, pinching the sensitive bud, then rubbing in hard, fast circles.
“This cunt is so used up,” he breathed into her ear, his voice a hypnotic chant. “Still so tight for me. Still sucking me in. Do you feel how deep I am? I’m in your guts, baby girl.”
She could only moan, a stream of yeses and please. The coil wound tight, spectacularly fast. His fingers on her clit were electric, his cock a branding iron inside her. The sensations fused into one blinding point of need.
“I’m gonna come, Daddy, I’m gonna—”
“Come. Drench my cock. Let me feel you.”
It hit her like a seizure, a violent, clenching wave that ripped through her core. Her cunt spasmed around him, clutching and releasing in frantic pulses. He growled, his rhythm stuttering, and then he was coming too, his hot release jetting inside her with a force that seemed to trigger another, smaller tremor from her exhausted body.
He stayed there, lodged inside her, both of them panting. He nuzzled the nape of her neck. “Good morning.”
Later, he bathed her. He sat her in the deep marble tub, warm water lapping at her breasts, and washed her with a soft sponge. He was meticulous, cleaning between her legs with a clinical tenderness that made her blush. He rinsed her hair, massaging her scalp. She was pliant, a doll in his hands.
He dressed her. Not in her own clothes, which were folded neatly in a drawer he’d emptied for her, but in a simple, expensive cotton dress that fell to mid-thigh. It was soft, pale grey. It had no buttons or zippers. It slipped over her head. He didn’t give her underwear.
“My perfect doll,” he said, smoothing the fabric over her hips. He led her to the vast living area. Sunlight streamed in, harsh and clean compared to the twilight and neon of the night.
A breakfast tray sat on the glass coffee table: berries, yogurt, a croissant. He sat on the sofa and pulled her down to sit on the floor between his knees. He ate a strawberry, then fed her one. The ritual was intimate, domestic. He stroked her hair as she chewed.
“Do you remember your thesis?” he asked casually, his fingers tracing the rim of her ear.
She frowned, the question a pebble dropped into the still pond of her mind. It rippled, disturbing vague, sunken shapes. “The… the Caravaggio paper? The chiaroscuro…”
“That’s right.” His voice was soothing. “All that work. All that stress. It doesn’t matter now, does it?”
She leaned her head against his knee. The shapes sank again, out of sight. “No, Daddy.”
“What matters is being here. Being empty. Being good for me.”
“Yes.”
He fed her a spoonful of yogurt. “Today, we’re going to practice something new.”
A flicker of something—not fear, but a quickening—passed through her. “Practice?”
“Mhm. You’re my good girl with my cock. You take it so beautifully. Now I want to hear how beautiful you can sound.” He tilted her chin up. His green eyes were calm, absorbing. “I want you to use your pretty, educated mouth for its true purpose. Do you understand?”
She did. The understanding was physical, a clenching low in her belly. She nodded.
“Words, Elise.”
“Yes, Daddy. I understand.”
He unzipped his trousers, freeing his cock. It was semi-hard, thick and imposing. He guided her head closer. “Show me.”
The first touch of her lips to his skin was reverent. She tasted salt, clean skin, the faint, musky remnant of their morning. She opened her mouth, taking him in. He was too big. She gagged immediately, pulling back, a string of saliva connecting her lip to him.
“Shhh,” he soothed, his hand firm on the back of her head. “Relax your throat. You can take it. You were made to take it.”
He pushed forward again. She focused on breathing through her nose, on going slack. He slid deeper, the head bumping the back of her throat. Tears sprang to her eyes. He held her there, his grip gentle but absolute.
“Good girl. Such a good, choking little slut.” He began to move, shallow thrusts at first, then deeper, longer strokes. He fucked her mouth with the same deliberate ownership with which he fucked her cunt. Her nose pressed into the crisp hair at his base. Drool dripped from her chin onto her new dress.
She surrendered to the rhythm, to the primal, gagging fullness. The sounds were obscene—wet, choking gulps, his low groans of approval. He looked down at her, watching her face contort in desperate submission, her hazel eyes glazed and tearful, fixed on his.
“You look so pretty like this,” he murmured, his hips pumping faster. “An art historian on her knees, using her mouth like a common whore. This is what you are now. My cocksucking girl.”
His pace grew ragged. He pulled her head closer, holding her still as he drove into her throat one final, brutal time. He came with a sharp groan, his release flooding her mouth, hot and bitter. He held her there, making her swallow every drop, her throat working convulsively.
When he finally released her, she collapsed forward, coughing, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. He tucked himself away, zipped his trousers. He leaned down and kissed her damp forehead.
“Perfect. You learned so quickly.” He stood, straightening his sweater. “I have some calls to make. Be a good girl and sit right here. Think about how good you made Daddy feel.”
He walked towards his study, leaving her on the floor. She curled her legs under her, the taste of him still on her tongue. She stared at the sunlight patterning the floor, her mind a clean, white screen. The city below was silent, far away. There was only the lingering ache in her jaw, the soreness between her legs, and the hollow, echoing certainty that she had, at last, found her purpose.