2. Lachlan #2
“More everywhere,” I say. “That’s not specific enough, baby girl. Tell Daddy what you need.”
She makes a sound of pure frustration. Her hands tighten in my hair. “Lower,” she says. “I need your mouth lower. Please, Daddy.”
“Good girl.” I move. “That’s how this works.”
I settle between her thighs and she’s already wet—not a question, not a maybe. Soaking, dripping, her pussy warm and slick, perfect. When I put my mouth on her she makes a sound loud enough that both of us pause.
“The neighbors,” she manages.
“Let them listen,” I say. And I go back to work.
She stops trying to moderate her sounds after the second minute.
I take my time. This isn’t a task, it’s an education. I find her clit and stay there, circling, deliberate, reading every response—find what makes her grip tighter and give her more of it.
“Daddy’s pussy,” I say, against her. “Look how wet you are for me. Dripping and soaking.”
She makes a choked sound. I stay exactly where I am—mouth on her clit, two fingers inside her, feeling how tight she gets. I make her come with my mouth alone, working her through every pulse until she’s boneless and still trying to close her thighs around my head.
Her hands grip my hair. “Daddy.” Wrecked. Soft. The voice she only uses here.
“Still here,” I say.
“I—that was.” She exhales. “What are you doing to me?”
“Taking care of you.” I move up her body. “That’s my job.”
She laughs—surprised, the laugh of relief and want wrapped together. “I thought your job was protecting me.”
“Same thing,” I say.
I hold her gaze when I push my cock inside her.
She’s tight and takes me slowly and she says Daddy when I’m all the way home—not deliberate, just what falls out of her mouth at the exact moment her body figures out what this is.
I stay still. Let her adjust. Her hands grip my arms. Her dark hair is spread across my couch, freckles flushed pink, those sea glass eyes wide on mine.
“Move,” she says. “Please, Daddy. Move.”
I do. I thrust into her slowly, reading every response, and she makes a sound that bypasses every professional instinct I have left.
No autopilot. No formula. This woman, this body, what is working for her right now.
Her pale thighs locked around my hips. Her full chest flushed deep, freckles standing out against the pink. The way she takes every thrust, every inch of my cock, like she was made for it—like her pussy was made to fit me and she’s just figured that out.
She tells me. Not always in words—in the way she moves, the way she tightens, the way her breath hitches at a certain angle. But also in words, because she’s a general’s daughter and she knows how to communicate under pressure.
“Deeper,” she says. “Please?—“
“Good girl for asking.” I shift the angle and thrust deeper and she makes the sound—the one I’m going to think about for a long time.
“This pussy belongs to Daddy now,” I say, low against her ear.
“You understand that? Every time you’re dripping wet like this, soaking for me, this pussy is mine. Every time.”
“Yours,” she says, voice wrecked. “Daddy?—“
I get my hand between us, my thumb circling her clit while my cock stays deep—thrusting slow, staying right at the angle she needs, her pussy soaking wet around me.
She’s saying please and Daddy and more and please again, one word bleeding into the next. Her pussy gets tighter around me as she climbs—every clench against my cock, her body giving me everything.
“Come for Daddy,” I say. Low. Against her ear. “Let me feel you.”
She comes. Her whole body locking, her pussy clenching hard around my cock, her nails in my arms. I follow—my cock buried deep, her clenching tight.
Both hands gripping her hips, filling her with my cum—every pulse, deep and complete—she takes all of it and her name is in my mouth.
Her name and good girl and Daddy’s got you, all the things that are true.
After, she doesn’t move for a while.
I lie beside her and put one hand on her back and feel her breathe. The apartment is quiet. The lamp light is warm. She’s boneless, flushed, completely undone, and I take stock of her the way I take stock of everything I’m responsible for: present, accounted for, safe.
Mine.
The word is not protocol. It’s not professional. It arrived somewhere around day one and has been getting louder since.
She’s not asleep. I can tell—her breathing is deliberate, too even, the rhythm of someone consciously choosing stillness.
She’s been performing since she was eleven years old: performing ease, performing capability, performing the general’s daughter who doesn’t need managing.
Right now she isn’t performing anything.
Her hand is open against my ribs. Weight, no grip. Like she’s finally set something down.
I put my mouth against her hair.
She makes a sound. Small, satisfied. Not a question—acknowledgment. Like she was waiting to see if I’d do it and has now decided to allow herself to be pleased that I did.
I’m going to be patient with this woman.
Patience is a discipline and I have it in every context: waiting, watching, not moving until the situation reveals itself.
I’ve been patient with her since the first morning.
With what she is, what she needs, what it means to have her.
I know what it means. I’ve known for a while now.
The lamp light is warm. The city outside her windows is going on without us. None of it is relevant.
“Daddy,” she says.
“Yes.”
“I need water.”
“What’s the rule.”
A pause. She’s working it out. “Ask Daddy nicely,” she says. “Please. May I have water, Daddy.”
“Good girl.” I get up. I bring her water, a full glass, and hold it while she drinks. She watches me over the rim with those sea glass eyes and the lamp light does things to her collarbone that I’m going to think about tomorrow and the day after.
She lowers the glass before it’s empty.
“Finish it,” I say.
She looks at me over the rim. Then she finishes it. Hands the glass over with a sound—quiet, satisfied, a sound I haven’t heard from her anywhere outside of here—and I put it on the end table.
She lies back. I lie beside her.
The apartment is quiet in the way apartments are quiet after: the charged energy settled, replaced by something that isn’t silence, more like presence. The presence of someone who belongs in the room.
She belongs here. I haven’t examined that conclusion. It arrived and I’m not going to argue with it.
“The rules,” she says eventually.
“Yes.”
“Can I have my own? One.”
I consider it. “Ask.”
She turns her head to look at me. Sea glass eyes, satisfied. “You have to tell me when you’re leaving the apartment,” she says. “Even if it’s just to the lobby. A note. Anything. I don’t want to wake up and not know where you are.”
It’s not the rule I expected. It’s not about freedom or access or pushing against the controls I’ve put in place. It’s about knowing he’s there. Present. Accounted for.
“Yes,” I say. “That’s a reasonable rule.”
She nods. Puts her face back against my chest. “Good,” she says. “Daddy.”
“Yes.”
“I was just checking,” she says. “That it still works.”
I press my mouth to her hair. She can’t see me not-quite-smile.
It still works. It will keep working. I don’t know how to turn it off.
I stopped wanting to somewhere around the cracked coffee cup.