Chapter 11: Baptism by Touch
Grant beckoned them closer, his blue eyes holding them in place. “Come here, both of you. Let me check my work.” April moved first, her muscular frame a study in surrendered pride as he gently pressed his face against the juncture of her thigh, breathing in deeply. “My Queen carries my scent perfectly,” he murmured, his tongue tracing a slow, deliberate line that made her knees buckle. He turned to Becky, who trembled as he hooked a finger under her chin, guiding her to present herself. “My sweet Princess is soaked with us,” he said, tasting her with a low hum of approval. “I love this on you both—sweat, sex, me. But it’s been days. Time to clean my canvas.”
Becky clapped her hands softly, reaching for a bottle of pearlescent body wash. “Can we use the suds, Sir? The one that smells like vanilla?” April, her green eyes sultry, held up a vial of amber oil. “This would nourish our skin after, make it soft for you.” Grant nodded. “Suds first, then the oil. My good girls know how to prepare.”
They began in the bathtub, a detachable showerhead within reach, ready for they desired a freash flow of water. Becky’s innocent giggle melting into a sigh as April poured the vanilla foam into her palms. April’s strong, soap-slicked hands moved over Becky’s generous curves with a reverence that was both worship and claim, gliding over the heavy swell of her breasts, circling each nipple until it peaked. Becky reciprocated with a gentle, exploring touch, her smaller fingers working the lather into the hard cords of April’s abdomen, over the branded ‘G’ on her breast. They turned, arched, and bent, displaying the slick landscape of their bodies to Grant’s watchful gaze—a conscious, seductive performance. “Such perfect fuck-dolls,” he said, his voice a low rumble of possession.
From the bathroom counter, he retrieved the cordless shaver, its low hum breaking the silence as he tested it against his thumb. “You know the pattern. A landing strip, pencil-width, precise.” He placed the shaver in Becky’s palm, closing her fingers around it. “You start on April. Be careful with my Queen.”
Becky’s breath hitched, her tanned skin flushing as she guided April to stand still as she prepared to go to work. April, her powerful thighs parting in a slow, deliberate show of trust, her green eyes fixed on Grant. The shaver buzzed to life, and Becky’s free hand first steadied April’s mound, then her mouth descended, her tongue painting a slow, wet path through the red curls. April arched with a sharp gasp, her hands fisting the sheets as Becky’s soft lips and relentless tongue worked her into a soft, shuddering state before the blade ever touched skin.
Only then did Becky begin, her nursing precision evident as she guided the shaver with tender care, clearing everything except that narrow central line. April’s head thrashed, her muscular abdomen clenching, not from pain but from the overwhelming duality of sensation—the clinical vibration alongside Becky’s devoted, sucking kisses on her inner thigh. “Switch,” Grant commanded, his voice leaving no room for delay.
April rose, her movements fluid with ownership, and pushed Becky gently to her feet in the bathtub. She worshipped Becky’s plump, tanned flesh with a conqueror’s hunger, her tongue spearing deep, drawing choked sobs from the smaller woman. The shaver’s buzz returned as April, with athletic control, swiftly sculpted the same narrow path through blonde, her thumb rubbing firm, distracting circles on Becky’s clit throughout. Becky’s back bowed, a broken cry of “April!” tearing from her throat as she climaxed under the combined assault.
Grant watched, a sculptor observing his mediums prepare themselves. He dropped his robe. Stepping into the sunken bath, he beckoned them. “Now. Your skin needs sealing.” The warm water embracing them as he poured the amber oil into his palms. He started with April, his strong hands moving over her deltoids and biceps with a deep, almost punishing knead, claiming the muscle he’d made her build. She groaned, her head falling back, every bit of her rebellious strength melting under his possessive pressure.
Then his touch softened, becoming a whisper as his oil-slick thumbs traced the sensitive underside of her heavy breasts, circling the branded ‘G’ with a tenderness that made her eyes well up. For Becky, he reversed the order, beginning with feather-light trails along her collarbones and the staggering softness of her belly, making her whimper with anticipatory need. He followed with a sudden, firm grip on her hips, pulling her against him, his fingers pressing emphatic promises into her lush flesh.
The air grew thick with the scent of almonds and their shared heat. “Daddy,” April breathed, sliding her oiled body along his back, her hard nipples scraping his skin. Becky pressed against his chest, her tears and vanilla scent mingling as she nuzzled into his neck. “Thank you, Daddy,” she whispered, her voice soaked in devotion. They moved against him in a slick, desperate rhythm, their chants of “Daddy” becoming a mantra, each syllable a surrender that cemented his place in the center of their world.
They moved against him in a slick, desperate rhythm, their chants of “Daddy” becoming a mantra, each syllable a surrender that cemented his place in the center of their world. His hands, still gleaming with oil, slid from their skin. “Enough,” he said, his voice a quiet command that halted their movements instantly. “Into the bath. Now.”
He guided April first, his large hands turning her in the steaming water until her shoulder blades pressed against the tiles and her arms floated outstretched. Her heavy breasts broke the surface, the pink crowns of her nipples beading in the humid air. Grant hooked his hands beneath her thighs, lifting her pelvis until she was fully exposed, the carefully trimmed strip of red hair glistening just above the waterline. He held her there, a captured offering, and leaned close, inhaling the intimate scent of her skin, vanilla, and their shared musk with a deep, appreciative growl.
His mouth found her then, not with tentative exploration but with immediate, devastating knowledge. He began with slow, flat strokes of his tongue along her outer lips, tasting the heat of her, before concentrating on the hooded nub of her clit, sucking it with a rhythmic pressure that made her cry out. Becky, beside him, pressed her slick body against his arm, her hand moving frantically between her own thighs as she watched. “God, the way you know exactly— oh— how to use your mouth on her,” she breathed, her words catching.
Grant plunged his tongue deep inside April, a firm, penetrating thrust that mimicked a more final possession, and April’s back arched, lifting her clear of the water’s support. A sharp, broken keen ripped from her throat as her first climax seized her, a violent tremor racing through her suspended form. Her hand flew down, fingers tangling in his hair to pull him away from the overwhelming sensitivity, but he pinned her wrist against her own thigh and didn’t stop. He redoubled his efforts, his tongue a relentless, precise instrument on her swollen flesh, and she shattered again, a raw, sobbing wail of surrender echoing off the bathroom walls as she completely lost control.
He redoubled his efforts, his tongue a relentless, precise instrument on her swollen flesh, and she shattered again, a raw, sobbing wail of surrender echoing off the bathroom walls as she completely lost control. “Oh God! Oh fuck!” she chanted, her powerful legs shaking violently against his shoulders as she writhed. Grant held her pelvis firmly in place, a steady anchor in her storm, until her green eyes finally fluttered open and found his blue gaze, dazed and swimming with ownership.
He placed one final, solitary kiss directly on her overstimulated clit, making her entire body flinch with a sharp gasp. Then he eased her down, the water embracing her limp form, and pressed a tender kiss to her forehead where damp red hair clung to her skin. “Good Queen,” he murmured, his thumb stroking her cheek as she panted, utterly spent inside the warm water..
Becky was already moving, her earlier patience evaporating in the steam. She stood up in the bath, water cascading down her tanned curves, and presented herself with an eager, almost demanding spread of her thighs. “This is your pussy too,” she said, her soft voice threaded with a brazenness that surprised even her. A flicker of uncertainty crossed her face as she realized the declaration had edged toward assumption, not request.
“It is,” Grant agreed, his tone deceptively calm as he rose from the water. In one fluid motion, he stood and gripped the side of her neck, his thumb pressing into the hollow of her throat. His other hand swung in a sharp, open-palmed slap against her soft, exposed mound—a stinging, possessive crack that made her gasp. He then gripped her entire sex tightly, his fingers sinking into the plump flesh, claiming it in a vise of pressure that forced a shocked silence from her.
He didn’t play with her. He leaned down and went to work on her breasts with a vigorous, consuming hunger. He took one heavy weight entirely into his mouth, sucking the nipple deep, his tongue lashing the stiff peak while his hand maintained that intermittent, squeezing possession of her pussy—a rhythmic pulse of tightness and release that offered no relief, only a reminder of his control. He switched to her other breast, biting the nipple gently before soothing it with broad, wet strokes, his free hand occasionally delivering another sharp, clarifying slap to her inner thigh.
Finally, he guided her downonto the rumpled bed, positioning her as April had been but with a decisive twist. He folded her legs back at the hip, pinning them there with the weight of his elbows, and gripped her shoulders, his fingers digging into her collarbones and trapezius muscles. Becky was now in a profoundly more submissive and open position, utterly vulnerable and unable to sway an inch.
Grant went to work with his mouth more intensely and rougher than with April. He bypassed all gentle teasing, his tongue spearheading straight inside her with firm, penetrating thrusts that mimicked the pace he knew she craved. He then focused on her clit, sucking the sensitive nub hard between his lips while flicking it rapidly with his tongue, a brutal, efficient rhythm that denied her any chance to acclimatize.
Becky came hard the first time with a strangled scream, her back bowing, but she couldn’t bring her hand down to stop him as April had. Grant just kept going, riding the relentless waves of her contractions, his mouth unyielding. He brought her to a second, louder climax, her cries dissolving into sobs of overwhelmed sensation. A third catastrophic peak ripped through her, and she could only gasp and scream at her powerless state, the intense orgasms rippling through her soft body in endless, shocking succession.
A third catastrophic peak ripped through her, and she could only gasp and scream at her powerless state, the intense orgasms rippling through her soft body in endless, shocking succession. Grant finally relented, lifting his head from her throbbing flesh to study the ruined, beautiful spectacle of her. Her vision swam, the world a blur of ceiling and his silhouette, until another shape resolved in the doorway.
April was in the doorway now. She had fetched Becky’s tiara, the delicate silver band glinting in her palm. Grant noticed and smiled, a slow expression of profound approval that carved lines beside his mouth. He motioned her over with a slight tilt of his head.
Becky opened her eyes, her breathing still ragged, and saw the tiara. A weak, wet sound of joy escaped her lips. Grant placed the tiara on her head, settling it carefully into her damp blonde hair. "My Princess," he said, the words a solid, warm weight in the quiet room.
Becky was giddy now, eager to return to the role of Grant's Princess, the title softening the raw aftermath of her body’s surrender. April knelt beside them and stroked Becky’s cheek, her green eyes soft with a shared understanding. Grant, more gently now, lifted her legs over his shoulders and leaned in, angling Becky’s pelvis up and opening her entrance with a quiet, certain pressure.
Becky felt vulnerable again, thinking her tight pussy was in for more punishment after the ruthless attention from his mouth. Grant was more tender with her though; he placed his throbbing cock at her entrance but paused, his body a tense question above hers. He held himself there, a blunt, insistent pressure, and asked her, "Who does this belong to, sweetheart? Who is my Princess?"
She meekly answered, "I am, Daddy." The title was a whispered vow. April kissed her forehead, a seal of approval.
Grant eased his way into Becky now, savoring her tightness, allowing her insides to stretch out to accommodate him with a patient, burning slowness. Becky bit her lip, a sharp inhale catching in her throat, but was appreciative of his gentler entrance after the relentless storm. April laid down beside Becky, curving her athletic body against Becky’s side, and told her, "You’re a beautiful Princess."
Becky smiled, tears welling in her eyes, and felt the sensation of her insides being filled with a deep but warm pleasure, a solid presence that soothed the over-sensitized nerves. "Are you going to fuck me, Daddy?" she asked meekly, her voice thin with need and wonder. Grant, nodding, began thrusting into her with deliberate, deep strokes, savoring her exquisite tightness as she clenched around him with each gradual withdrawal.
His movements were a slow, rolling tide, each thrust a full and measured possession that sank him to the hilt within her yielding heat. "That's it," he murmured, his voice a rough caress against her temple as his hips maintained their timeless rhythm. She felt utterly open, her legs anchored over his shoulders, yet the vulnerability was wrapped in a profound safety, his body a sheltering cage.
Her breath came in soft hitches, matching his pace, her hands finding the solid plane of his back. "You feel so deep," she whispered, the words dissolving into a moan as he angled himself, brushing a spot that made her toes curl. He watched her face, studying the flutter of her eyelids, the part of her lips, his thrusts never hastening, never faltering—a relentless, tender conquest.
The tension built not in a frantic scramble, but as a deep, gathering heat in her belly, spreading through her limbs like warmed honey. "Let it happen, Princess," he instructed softly, his breath hot on her neck. Her climax unfolded in a series of prolonged, pulsing waves, a quiet surrendering sob tearing from her throat as her body hugged his length, milking him in rhythmic gratitude.
He held himself deep, letting her ride out the last tremors against his stationary flesh. When her muscles finally relaxed into a boneless heap, he withdrew with that same deliberate care. "You're going to suck my cock," he told her, his thumb wiping a tear from her cheek, "because you're my little Princess, but only after I've seeded April." Becky nodded, her eyes drowsy with satisfaction, already imagining the taste of him and them mingled on her tongue. From the doorway, April watched, her hand resting on her own abdomen, a fierce, adoring determination solidifying within her.
From the doorway, April watched, her hand resting on her own abdomen, a fierce, adoring determination solidifying within her. Grant rose from the bed, his gaze settling on her with singular focus. “My turn for inspection,” he said, his voice low as he crossed the room.
He stood before her, his eyes tracing every line of her muscular frame, from the slope of her shoulders down to her powerful thighs. His hands began at her jaw, a tender hold that tilted her face up before sliding down her neck. They moved over her collarbones, his thumbs pressing into the hollows there, then cupped the full, heavy weight of her breasts, his palms abrading her nipples.
“This body,” he murmured, leaning in to brush his lips over the branded ‘G’. He squeezed her flesh, a hard, possessive grip that made her gasp, then soothed the spot with a slow, open-mouthed kiss. His hands slid down her ribs, tracing each defined muscle of her abdomen, and he landed a sharp, playful smack on the curve of her hip. “Perfect,” he stated, his voice thick. “My beautiful, good girl.”
April beamed, her green eyes liquid with pride. She turned, presenting the tight arches of her shoulders, then bent forward slowly, placing her hands on the doorframe to accentuate the powerful sweep of her back and the roundness of her ass. Inside, she felt a soaring elation, a profound rightness that quieted every restless doubt she’d ever carried.
“A luscious fuck-doll,” he growled, kneading the firm globes of her ass with both hands, his fingers digging in. He pulled her upright and against his chest, his mouth at her ear. “My Queen. I can’t wait to see this belly round with my baby.” He kissed her shoulder, his voice dropping to a raw whisper. “I love the thought of making one with you right now.”
A shiver of pure, electric longing shot through her. “I’ll be everything you want me to be,” she breathed, turning in his arms to face him. “I love being your fuck-doll. Your good girl.” She took his face in her hands, her gaze unwavering. “You know what’s best for me better than I ever did.”
Holding each other, the space between them vanished. She spoke directly into the quiet of his soul. “Fuck me, Daddy.”
Grant’s breath hitched, a sharp intake that signaled a shift. His passion ignited, transforming the tender inspection into a demanding claim. His mouth crashed onto hers, his hands everywhere at once—gripping her throat, palming her breast to squeeze the nipple hard, then sliding between her legs to stroke her with rough, knowing circles.
He spun her around, his arm banding across her torso to lock her against him. With his other hand, he guided himself, the broad head of his cock pressing insistently against her entrance. He pushed into her with one relentless, steady thrust, filling her stretched tight in a single, breathtaking moment. A guttural groan escaped him, his forehead dropping against her shoulder blade as he began to move, each powerful drive a calculated promise of what was to come.
His hands came up and gripped her breasts hard, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as his thrusts gained a brutal, lifting force. Each drive was so powerful it raised her onto her toes, then lifted her clean off the ground for a suspended moment before she slammed back down onto him. My God, she thought, the air driven from her lungs, how forceful he feels.
He didn’t stop. He lifted her entirely, his arms hooked under her thighs, and he carried her the few steps to the bed while staying buried to the hilt inside her. The seamless strength of it, the total possession, made her whimper into his neck. He laid her down on the edge of the mattress and she immediately scrambled forward, walking her hands up the rumpled linen until she was on all fours, her back arched deep, presenting herself perfectly.
He followed, his body covering hers, and entered her again with a single, devastating push. Then he began in earnest, driving into her over and over with focused precision. His grunts were raw, unfamiliar things, shredded by effort, each one synced with a stroke that jolted her whole frame forward.
The mechanics were visceral: the slap of his pelvis against her ass, the burn of her inner muscles stretching, the perfect angle that sent shockwaves through her with every retreat and advance. Her athletic body, usually a source of control, was now a conduit for his will, each powerful muscle responding to the impact. Emotion flooded her—a fierce, dizzying pride that she could take this, that she was chosen for this profound and brutal claiming.