Extended Sexy Snippet Chapters One-Four - Daddy Esquire! Olivia Fox's New Release February 28, 2021
Updated: 7 days ago
Sneak peek of Daddy Esquire. First three Chapters. Older Man, Younger Woman, Age-Gap Billionaire Romance XO
CHAPTER ONE, BELINDA:
“Oh my stars, that thing’s ginormous!” I put my hand over my mouth and blinked at the screen. “I could never fit it inside.”
Archie cocked his tiny head in question, blinking his green eyes and put a single, grey paw on my chest. I scratched him under the chin and his motor got louder.
“Seriously, why does this guy think I’m going to respond to him if the first thing he does is send me a dick pic? It’s a hell of an opening line.”
I took a small swig of Chardonnay and deleted the message from my FetLife account, pondering whether I should take down my profile on the website for people interested in BDSM, fetishism, and kink.
In a small town like Briarville, anonymity didn’t come easy, and I was looking to meet someone special without ever having to cross paths with bunch of fuck boys or creepers, nor tell the entire world that I was a sub.
Luckily, most of my interactions on the site so far made the weeding out process easy. Men sent shots of their nether bits, standing stiff at attention, or more brazen still, was one shot from a guy who had clearly just finished in his hand.
Who was I kidding? I remained on the site for one reason and one reason alone. I was desperate to meet a daddy.
I wasn’t interested in becoming an upstanding member of the kink community or meeting like-minded friends in the “lifestyle”.
And I didn’t consider my feelings unnatural as the word kink implied.
What could be more instinctive than the desire to be doted on — and yes — given a firm hand when I disobeyed the rules. Disciplined in any way Daddy desired…
Just the thought made my panties wet.
I’m just going to look at him one more time before I go to bed.
Archie meowed as if to say, “That’s what you said the last time and you ended up scrolling through his pics until 1:30 a.m.; almost slept through your alarm the next day.” He had a point.
The one man who commanded my attention on FetLife had me so fixated that it had taken me forever to make the first move and private message him a picture of me.
There he was. My daddy.
Okay, I knew it was whackadoo. At the ripe old age of twenty-eight I had no business obsessing over pictures of some dude whose face I couldn’t see.
Was it the way he wore his black suit, a white pocket hanky neatly folded in the pocket; the powerful way he crossed his arms over the tie resting on his chest?
Maybe the small section of his hair against his collar, streaked in silver, at the top of the photo was responsible for my fascination. Clearly he was much older than me. Just what I was looking for since any experience with men my age had been so disappointing thus far.
I had dated my fair share of local cowboys and dairymen my age, but never found anyone that left me gasping, with my heart pounding in my chest.
I clicked on the next photo. It left me breathless: the prominent veins on the back of his hands told me that passion pulsed through his blood.
Spank me, Daddy, I’ve been a naughty girl.
“You make up stories in your head, Belinda. You always have. But now that you’re grown up, you’ll have to face the fact that real life isn’t like a fairy tale.” My mama loved me and her words still lingered.
She had worried about me and didn’t want to see me getting hurt like the infamous catfishing fiasco. I had woven a pretty web out of my fantasies, believing that Burt, the virtual love of my life, was going to make my dreams come true after meeting “him” on Facebook.
He was sophisticated, worldly, and well read. So unlike the farm boy locals I had frolicked with so far.
As it turned out, Burt happened to be a 45-year-old lesbian from Ohio. Not that I had anything against the fairer sex, I just didn’t swing that way. And Burt and I were planning our wedding as a heterosexual couple before I even met “him” in person.
Of course, I did have my suspicions when he would never talk on the phone or FaceTime, but when he said he was coming to meet me in person; I suspended disbelief for the hopes of finally meeting someone I honestly believed to be my soul mate.
Burt told me every day what a good girl I was.
I had to hand it to her though, at least when the time came, she had the ovaries to show up in Briarville and admit to what she had done. I about peed on the bench seat of the Pinup Paradise Diner when the woman with nicely drawn, arching brows, a pixie cut with platinum bangs swooped over one eye, and a leopard print scarf tied around her neck, sat down, reached her delicate hand across the table and said, “Hi Belinda, I’m Burt.”
That’s why it took me so long to muster the courage to finally message this daddy obsession of mine on FetLife.
One single private pic had been sent. Now let the chips fall where they may. I didn’t want the object of my desire to prove fake again. First of all, he was such a dream come true in my mind; I never wanted to wake up. And secondly, I wasn’t sure my heart would survive it if I did.
My inner hussy perked up.
Heart? Who are you kidding. It’s your hootie hole that’s involved here, missy. Plain and simple.
Okay, she had a point.
I took Archie into the kitchen, grabbed him a can of tuna from the cupboard, and shut my bedroom door so as not to insult his refined sensibilities when I played with my favorite toy.
Lying back against the stack of pillows propped against my velvet-tufted headboard, I clicked on my favorite photo of daddy so that I could enter fantasyland. The one where he sat on the bed, fully clothed in a white button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal the tattoo of a barely clad girl sitting on a book stack.
His black tie, black suit vest, and slacks matched the mood in the photo. He was the epitome of my sexual dream come true.
Although his face wasn’t showing, I knew this much older gentleman was waiting for me to strip down to my Knitty Kitty bra and shorts. He would pat his knee as an indication I should drape myself across his knee. I could hear him say, “Come, lay across my lap, kitten.”
The tale I told myself, ended with him commanding, “Ask daddy before you come. I want to hear you plead with me.”
I switched my vibrator onto the strongest speed and bowed to the sensation as I screamed, “Yes, Daddy! I’m coming for you.”
Turning out the light and hugging my pillow, I imagined myself settling into his embrace.
Far better to keep things virtual like this.
Tucked far away from here, off in the dreamt up fantasies of my imagination or on the distant retreat of a digital screen.
Trusting people in person was another matter altogether, and one I had about as much chance of achieving as a wax cat surviving in Hell.
CHAPTER 2, ARTHUR:
Two thoughts. I didn’t plan on chasing after her like a crazed schoolboy, and I was way too old to be consumed with thoughts of fucking.
Nevertheless, the more mature I got, the more I realized that the expectations about how life should go rarely came to fruition.
Case in point, here I sat in my private office, my heavy desk chair creaked as I rocked backward thinking about having more money than I knew what to do with, and no one to spend it on. No wife. No children. No pet. Consumed with lust for a stranger I’d seen once at a wedding.
Women were not on short supply for an eligible, affluent bachelor, and I enjoyed funding a wardrobe, a piece of jewelry, or even paying rent for a current conquest.
But that’s all it ever was. Subjugation on my part, acquiescence on hers. A game of servitude and reward that left me constantly searching for more than just a transaction.
I was old enough to know better, but still I longed for someone who was my whole world. Someone I could devote my heart to.
The sun spilled over my leather topped desk, and I rose to close the blinds on its intrusion. This was peak work time; no trials today, and I preferred to review and compile legal proceedings when I was still fresh in the morning. A handful of hours is all I put in each day, for a very select few clients.
I wasn’t in this for the money at this stage of my career.
The view out my window jolted me from my thoughts. Her stride was completely foreign, yet oddly familiar. Walking toward me on the opposite side of the street, her jaw angled skyward as she looked up at the green birds, wings flickering in the trees as they greedily hopped from branch to branch, gorging on dried berries.
The second thing I saw was her unapologetic adornment of color, and the stylish corduroy skirt, her hands shoved jauntily in the pockets, juxtaposed in an intriguing way with the auburn ponytails fastened behind her ears and the nerdy black plastic glasses she wore.
Shoving the drapes to the side, I was frozen in place, not knowing whether to race down and catch her, or stay where I was so she didn’t leave my sight.
Her lipstick was tangerine pink — I could see it from my stalker-post way above. Her woman-soft body, all curves and candy to my male mind, had me pinned in place as she strolled down the sidewalk.
She walked in fits of stops and starts, as if having an internal conversation with herself that challenged her progress down the sidewalk.
I held my breath and she startled me by jerking her head up toward my window and locking her eyes on mine, whether real…or just the imaginings of an undersexed male mind, there was slim chance she could make out my silhouette from her vantage point.
My response to her bordered on ridiculous. Fifty-six years old was far too mature for love — or even lust — at first sight. Regardless, ever since seeing her for the first and only time at the Rossetti and Garcia wedding, she was all I thought about.
I even shut down any in-person encounters from FetLife. In the deprived, sexual state I had lived in these past couple months, I was taken over by an animal hunger.
Like a teenager. I feared that if I ever did see her in person, my overwhelming need to make her obey would blot out all reason and scare her off.
I decided to take a chance. This was a sign, seeing her again. The heat settled in my groin, imagining her body warm and soft against mine. I needed to find out if her reality lived up to the fantasies I had about her.
She ducked into the Daily Grind coffee shop and I quickly threw on my blazer.
Who knew if she shared or would even consider my very particular proclivities. One thing was certain; I had to find out.
I felt the rightness of it in my gut as I flew down the stairs to street level, the smell of Murphy’s oil soap and ancient wood rising underfoot.
The disadvantage of being way older than her was an obstacle enough, let alone the impediment of walking around with a thick brick in my trousers just because she made me a slave to biological need.
I had one chance to introduce myself and hope to heaven she didn’t notice that just looking at her made me rock hard and ready.
CHAPTER THREE, BELINDA:
The smells in the Daily Grind overwhelmed my nostrils: cinnamon, coffee, chocolate. So much so that the strong aroma of vanilla directly behind me caught me off guard.
I snapped my head around and found myself face to face with a distinguished looking dude in a suit.
My honey pot sat up and paid attention.
“You’re friends with Ariella, aren’t you?” His voice was naturally hoarse, as if there were something caught in his throat. It made the spot between my legs overheat.
“I am, how did you know that?” My voice spoke in a lowered tone that was unrecognizable, and I raised my fingers to my lips as if to ensure it was still my mouth on my face.
“You don’t remember, do you?” He leaned forward, and I could see that beneath the business attire, his body was thick with muscle. My pulse quickened.
He said, “You were at her wedding and so was I. Her husband Eric is a client of mine.”
“Ohh, Sullivan Consulting.”
“So you have heard of me.”
“Of course, everyone in town has. The ‘Great White’ they call you. What a nickname.”
“I suppose.” He picked his coffee up off the counter and we walked to the condiments section on the side table. “Do you take cream?” He held up the porcelain pitcher of fresh cream and arched a brow. Was he flirting with me?
“You can fill my cup with cream, but only if it’s hot.”
I clapped a hand over my mouth. What was wrong with me today? I was usually shy around men, not some kind of forward floozy like the one who had taken over my mouth.
I didn’t even know how to flirt, let alone have the guts to come on to a complete stranger. A businessman and pillar in our tiny town and here I was acting like Ms. Skeevy McSkeevy.
What was wrong with me? I needed to reach out to my online daddy once and for all, and take the exit off the road to horniness and desperation.
“I’m so sorry. I’m just…”
“Refreshing and charming is what you are. I thought so at the wedding, and should have asked you out then. It would have saved me several months of frustration.”
Damnit. Could I for once come off as self-composed instead of awkward with a guy? Especially a guy as elegant as Sullivan.
“Do you have a moment to sit, Belinda?” His voice husked my name and had a direct correlation with the heat level in my hoo hah. She was suddenly on a tropical oasis and ready to sunbathe naked.
“I’m in no real hurry.”
He gestured toward a table by the window and actually pulled my chair out for me. A girl could get used to this.
I tilted my head at him and pursed my lips and noticed his gaze locked onto them.
“What do you say? Have dinner with me?”
I didn’t know how to respond. Had I ever been asked out on a proper date? Do guys my own age even take girls out to dinner anymore?
He noticed my silence. “Unless you’d prefer texting back and forth until we decide whether or not to hook up. I suppose that would be more de rigueur for your age demographic.”
“Dinner sounds awesome. I’m free tonight.” Great, Belinda. Way to sound like Desperate Debbie.
“Can I pick you up?”
My mama’s dating lectures came to mind: “Don’t meet at your house, and you tell me or a friend all the details of where you are going and check in after you get home, so we know you’re okay.”
“It would be better if I met you there. Where do you want to go?”
He stroked his square jaw beneath his high cheekbones and said, “Good girl. Safety first.”
There was a hint of fire in his eyes, and I could feel my cheeks blaze. “Let’s meet at the Tiger Lilly Inn for dinner at seven.”
He kept looking at me as if I was the last cookie on the plate and he was trying to be polite, all the more flattering given he had undoubtedly had his fair share of women.
“So tell me, how do you spend your time? Your occupation sure, but I’m more interested in your passions.” That gruff voice. Yeah. I couldn’t remember the last time a guy my age asked about me.
“Who’s to say they’re not one and the same?” I flipped my auburn hair over my shoulder.
“I really like what I do, working as a personal assistant for indie authors. I get to help writers achieve their dreams, and I love to read, so in a way, it’s like I help the books come to life.”
“Did you ever think of writing your own novel?”
I shuffled my Mary Janes under the table, evading the question. How could he hone in on my secret wish without any clues? I guess as a lawyer, it paid to be insightful. Observant.
“I don’t know…”
“That’s work. What about after hours? How do you spend your time?”
I thought about last night, kicking Archie out of my room and getting my jollies with a guy whose face I’d never seen, nor spoken a word to. My neck and ears felt impossibly hot.
He placed a big warm hand on top of mine and said, “Don’t worry, we have plenty of time to get to know each other. For some reason, I find myself extraordinarily fascinated with you so forgive my line of questioning. You never have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable when you’re with me, okay?”
Besides having his heated gaze on me again?
“Consider it an occupational hazard.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Pursuing a line of questioning. Ultimately, it’s the best way to succeed in trial, the holy grail to achieve client satisfaction.”
“But I’m not your client.”
“No, you’re not.” His palm trailed up the back of my hand and circled my wrist, giving it a little squeeze.
“But I’m very concerned with your satisfaction.” It was a forward and confident move, causing me to slide my hand away and put it on my lap.
“I don’t even know your first name. Or do you prefer me to address you as Sullivan Esq.?” I smiled up at him. The look on his face made me realize that for the first time in my life, I felt alluring.
“My name is Arthur.”
“Like the knight?” I looked at him wide-eyed. “Honorable and brave?”
“I aspire to be exactly like that.” He continued to look at me intently, and I saw something like a trace of regret pass over his features, “I’m afraid I have a ten o’clock, Belinda, much as I’d like to spend the day with you. I’m looking forward to tonight.”
He stood up, and I realized I didn’t want our mini date to be over.
It was going to be hard to wait until 7 p.m. Arthur Sullivan was probably the most well-respected attorney on the Lost Coast.
He was sophisticated and way older than me.
But it was me he was asking me out to dinner.
The alarm bells started ringing. He seemed sincere about his attraction to me, but I had learned the hard way people were rarely honest about the things that counted.
And up to now, my instincts in matters pertaining to love and lust tended to suck balls.
Chapter Four, Arthur:
The tumbler of single malt scotch caught the reflection of my silver cufflinks from the amber lights overhead, as I twisted it back and forth in my hands. I hadn’t had time to change after work and sat waiting for her in the bar.
The Lost Coast was behind the Redwood Curtain, an undeveloped area of the California North Coast in Humboldt and Mendocino Counties.
Men in suits were as rare as spotted owls in this stretch of rugged, rural land. Would Belinda find my suit attractive or fussy? Why was this young, unassuming woman making me care?
I looked at my watch. 7:05 p.m. She was five minutes late.
I tried to quiet my mind, thinking about how ours was a cow town. Plenty of money in ranching — and it used to be the same for logging — until the largest operations were forced to shut down.
Many of those suddenly unemployed loggers turned to cannabis for their cash crop. Thanks to local investments, and a damn near perfect trade record in the S&P 500 Index, I found myself with more money than I knew what to do with. And no one to pamper.
I wanted to spoil her.
The rugged mountains and pastoral valleys around Briarville provided a livelihood for the majority of the population to this day. I invested in Eel River grass fed organic beef, shipped thousands of miles through the Whole Foods distribution channel. In a sense, this little known piece of paradise helped feed the nation.
The land was plentiful, fecund, bountiful…
In contrast, I had felt empty for years.
Corny as it sounds, the vacuum suction on my emotions lasted until I saw Belinda that day at the wedding and my heart slammed at the sight of her. Watching her laugh and twirl carefree on the dance floor with her friends. Girlfriends, thankfully.
I think even the first night ever seeing her, if a man asked her to dance I wouldn’t have allowed it.
Even then, she felt like mine.
And I wanted to lick and explore only her.
I knew it was illogical.
This was the 21st century, not some distant era when it was acceptable to sling a female over one’s shoulder and carry her off to bed.
But that’s exactly what I wanted to do to Belinda from the first moment I saw her.
Capture her and keep her.
It would be hard work being a gentleman tonight. Her mouth was made for ravishing. I’d like to slide into it with my bulging cock, the one currently shoved against my zipper.
Even now, after fisting it to completion in between appointments with clients this afternoon, remembering how she blew across the surface of her hot coffee at the Daily Grind before taking a sip. My pulsing dick raced to climax in the private bathroom in my office, recalling her pink tongue cleaning her upper lip of frothy cream.
Another sip of scotch warmed my belly nicely but paled in comparison to the vision that walked tentatively through the lobby door and into the bar.
At first glance, I wasn’t sure how I’d survive this night without wedging open her thighs to discover if she was wet and ready for me.
This was a fine fucking predicament.
That’s the second thought that crossed my mind as the metal bands around my chest were conjured up, restricting my breathing. I whispered to myself, “It can’t be".
She wore the long, tortoise shell chain necklace. Did she wear it on purpose for me? Was she giving me a signal?
Belinda was the girl in the photo.
Or was she? The necklace was a unique piece, certainly, but it could be one that was factory made.
It didn’t mean she was one and the same as the most intriguing girl I’d seen on FetLife, the girl whose face I’d never seen.
I had admired her stunning body on the site, but was compelled, after seeing Belinda at the wedding, to restrict my interaction with women on the social networking platform for people interested in BDSM until it was non-existent.
I was simply no longer interested in anyone but the girl I saw once at a friend’s wedding.
I was becoming a foolish old man.
One of the best things that ever happened to me was when I ran into my friend, Eric, who said Belinda was a local. And so she stood before me now, her hair swooped up in a messy ponytail, the end strands licked her collar bone, long strands of it kissing her face where it fell on either side of her eyes, and her huge glasses matched the black dress she wore, reminding me of an Audrey Hepburn number.
An Audrey with killer curves.
“Good evening.” I moved close to erase the distance between us and helped remove her coat.
The host led us into the main dining room, and I walked in the wake of Belinda’s scent, bergamot and caramel.
Suddenly, my pulse quickened, not only due to the forbidden longing associated with our May - December age difference, but also because the way she wriggled out of her coat shoved the image of her doing so when ropes held her in place, naked and vulnerable in my playroom, and I needed to know if she tasted like bergamot and caramel everywhere.
She sat across from me in the private room, an overhead antique gas and electric globe chandelier with iridescent candles, redwood paneling all around, and an Arts and Crafts vine and trellis wool rug underfoot made for sophisticated surroundings.
Drake, the owner of the inn, charged plenty more for the private rooms, and the look on Belinda’s face made it worth every penny.
“Do you like oysters?”
“I’ve never had them before.” Her beauty was intoxicating, a balm to my aged and wounded soul.
Sitting across from her, my heart accelerated, and I realized I felt more alive than I had in years.
Belinda reminded me of who I used to be, carefree, optimistic — before my former partner at the law firm and my ex ever sullied my illusions of love and loyalty.
The young woman before me was voluptuous beyond belief.
And though I had no business pursuing a young woman half my age, at a stage in life when she needed nothing but love and acceptance, my knee jerk sense of obligation abandoned me when I was with her.
I knew I should treat her to a night on the town, make her feel pretty, and then leave her be. Forever.
Instead, like a twenty-year-old male, I found myself making decisions with my dick.
And admittedly, the newfound lack of good judgement was a prospect I found rather refreshing.
* * *
The waiter set the platter of Kumamoto oysters with champagne-vinegar mignonette on the table between us. “May I?” I asked her.
“Please,” she answered. “I wouldn’t know what to do.” She softly blew air through her lips, as she had done with her coffee.
It had a Pavlovian effect on my cock, who wanted to make her beg for it. I actually heard it out loud in my head, “You’re cock is so delicious, Daddy. Will you please put it in my pussy?”
I shook my head and responded to her earlier statement about dinner. We were having appetizers for God’s sake. “The main thing is to toss it back like so.”
“These Kumies are popular near and far because they have a fruity flavor and a light brininess. See what you think.”
She spooned some of the mignonette over the top of the oyster and copied my moves, closing her eyes while the delicacy slid down her throat.
“How is it?” I asked.
“Wow. Not like anything I’ve had before. I’ll need another to see what I really think.” She closed her eyes again and I took advantage of the opportunity, gaping at her hard nipples, as they strained against the fabric of her dress, begging to be free.
It was a sin to keep lush breasts like hers covered. I wondered how they would sway to be released of the constrictive undergarments she wore.
It was time to pursue my line of questioning. “That is a very distinctive necklace you’re wearing, Belinda. Wherever did you find it?”
Bright eyes glittered from that pale and lovely face, the freckles sprinkled across her cheeks were flushed brighter by the champagne, and I hoped, my company.
She lifted the loop of jewelry off her chest, one chain was as large as half her hand. “I bought it on Etsy, it’s a unique piece from the sixties I believe.”
I shifted on my seat as my erection grew uncomfortable in my pants. Clearing my throat, I said, “I thought I recognized it. From a photo someone sent me recently on FetLife.”
The sequence of events within our exchange was too conclusive to be a coincidence.
“Oh!” She exhaled.
I leaned across the table, slipping my dress shoes toward her under the table, placing them between her feet, and sliding them apart so that she was open to me.
Belinda’s eyes were wide and she had pushed herself back from the table, mouth slightly open.
She opened her fingers from their grasp around the necklace and traced them up to her neck.
She whispered, “Arthur.” My cock felt her say my name like a gentle stroke. “Are you saying you’re my daddy?” She spoke in a soft, halting voice and leaned toward me, her statement was all the evidence I needed to rest my case.
I set my jaw and formed my hands into a steeple, staring at her intently before removing my cufflinks and handing them to her. “That depends.” I deliberately rolled up my sleeves.
“On what?” Her breath came in soft pants when her eyes latched on my unmistakable forearm tattoo now on display. It was the same one revealed in my FetLife profile pics, an auburn-haired, curvaceous beauty, wearing only a shirt, sitting on a stack of books.
“On whether you’ve been a good girl, Belinda. Or have you been touching yourself without my permission?”
Her breath hitched and sped up. Moments passed and I waited patiently for her reply.
She was a natural. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I couldn’t help it.” Her eyes were latched on the platter holding the oysters.
“Not to worry, sweet girl. It took so very long for you to find me. Now that daddy’s here, you won’t have to resort to such desperate measures. But for now, I want you to spread your legs, remove your underwear, and touch yourself under the table. And remember, you never have to do anything you don’t want to do.”
She batted her eyelashes, thinking it over.
“I don’t have all day, little girl. Hand me your panties.” I reached across the table, and she wriggled out of her undies, placing them on my palm.
Warm and wet, I bent to smell them and was rewarded with her distinct bergamot scent.
Her slender fingers wove into her ponytail at first — stalling — and my dick grew hard as stone realizing she had never done anything like this with anyone.
She slid her hand beneath the table, rubbing herself, and her knee squeezed inward against mine, tensing and quivering. Her breath shuddered, and the sounds she made — damn!
My dick oozed pre-cum from its throbbing tip and wet my boxers, hopefully not my suit pants. “Are your fingers inside yet, Belinda? Tell me, I can’t see what you’re doing.”
Her leg was starting to slam lightly against me, and I wanted her to come.
“Arthur. Oh my god — Arthur.” I adored the sound of my name on her lips, especially with that desperate tremble to her voice.
Her head was slammed up against the back of the booth now, her mouth wide open, gasping for air.
She stopped suddenly. “Do you like watching me touch myself?” she asked.
“So much. Too much. You look so fucking good, I want to take you home right now,” I said and gave her body a bold, sweeping gaze.
“You want to take me home and be my daddy?”
From the motion of her arm, I could tell she was rubbing her clit faster, and the smell of caramel and bergamot was flooding our private room. “Do you want to punish me, and lay your big hand across my behind?”
“Very much so, until you become passionate from my discipline.”
She was lost to me now, her chin thrust toward the ceiling, and a song of satisfaction leaking past her lips.
Belinda pleaded with me, as if I would be doing her a favor instead of the other way around, and I gripped my cock to ease its relentless pulsing.
“Are you going to use me like your little fuck toy, Daddy?”
“If it will make you happy, princess. That’s exactly what I’ll do. Let me have a taste.”
Confusion flitted across her face. “Taste? We finished the oysters.”
“Give me your hand,” I ordered.
The moment I shoved her fingers in my mouth, she emitted a strangled cry.
Delectable. “Come here now, kitten, and sit on your daddy’s lap for just a moment. Let me help you.”
Rubbing three of my large fingers in circles over and around her clit, with my other hand I first pinched one nipple and the next beneath her refined little dress. Across the room, in a gold-framed mirror, the sight of her was sheer perfection.
Legs splayed outward over mine, skirt shoved up to her waist, one of my hands rubbing her swollen bud and the other shoved up inside of her.
“Daddy was right. You are such a bad, bad girl, letting him please you like this in a restaurant. You’ve never done anything like this before, have you? I can tell by your response. You’re not used to serving a master as you’ve always longed to do.”
I crooked my longest digit into her, massaging her g-spot and finger-fucking her until she came — like an earthquake. Her hands clawed my dress slacks.
“Daddy!” Her voice was heavy with sexual heat, and I pumped my cock into the sweet cleft of her ass while pinching her slick nub between my fingers. I wanted to slide to the floor to bite it.
“Oh my God!”
She came, her hips snapping forward on my lap, her tight pussy clenching my fingers as she moaned and gasped out her release.
This was the greatest thing that had happened to me since I could remember. I slowed my thrusting fingers, petting her inner wall, until she sagged back against me, a sweet floppy little mess.
Sliding my fingers out of her, I sucked them as I looked down at her neck, bent over limp and relaxed, her cheek resting on my shoulder.
Her glasses were twisted, and her hair was tousled and tangled with a higher bump than when we started this meal.
She hopped up and I straightened her skirt for her, ensuring the fabric lay smooth. A quick trip to the restroom, and she returned, her hair was no longer mussed.
She touched my lower lip with a playful finger before sitting down, and I bit it lightly.
Her eyes fluttered shut after I said, “You’re delightful and intriguing when you’re a good girl, Belinda. But I am very much looking forward to becoming acquainted with your bad girl on a permanent basis.”
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