Sayla
His home gym was very manly. All mirrors, blue and that faint smell of sweat. Or that could be me since I was dying on this treadmill. Apparently this was good for me now that my fractured rib had fully healed.
But my god, what a view of Daddy’s arse.
He squatted down again with the free weights held in both hands.
Those thighs. Thick and hard and completely unreasonable.
Mine wobbled like jelly at the best of times and I could now see exactly why his didn’t.
He powered up from his heels, drove through those thighs and buttocks with a controlled snap of his hips that I felt in places the treadmill had absolutely no business knowing about.
There was a fine layer of sweat all over his body.
The white vest was doing very little to help matters.
A dark line ran down the centre of his chest where the fabric clung.
The neckline had gone slightly transparent and I found myself wondering what that skin would taste like if I ran my tongue along it.
Salt, probably. Warm. I’d find out later if it killed me.
I stabbed the button to slow down before I tripped and smashed my front teeth.
My eyes dropped to the front of his shorts.
No briefs. No boxers.
Just cock and balls left completely free.
I gave up pretending to walk and pressed the stop button.
The farce of health was over. I walked every single day.
Sometimes at night if I needed a snack or the bathroom.
That counted. I stepped off and gripped the handrail, carrying out a series of entirely legitimate stretches while positioning myself for an unobstructed view of those tidy little white shorts.
All he needed was a bit more grey at his temples and he’d be a full silver fox thirst trap. The dark hair was doing plenty already.
He moved on to arms and chest.
I stared at his forearm. The muscle flexed beneath the sparse dark hair as he curled the weight upward. Held it. Brought it down slowly—the controlled kind of slow that suggested he could do this indefinitely and wasn’t remotely bothered. Substantial biceps. Muscular. Large. Throbbing.
The last one might have been me.
“Did you need something, Princess?”
He wasn’t looking at me. I glanced at the mirrors surrounding us and found his eyes in the reflection.
I considered my options.
The safety of my vagina.
“Did you know penguins mate for life?” I asked, moving away from the treadmill. An awful contraption and whoever invented it should be ashamed of themselves.
“Yes,” he said, raising the weight above his head.
Muscles straining. A droplet of sweat trickled down his temple and ran downward.
“And both penguins look after their egg and feed the chick.”
His lips curled at the edges.
“I’d look after your belly and bring you both food.”
Of course he would. He was the reason I was on the stupid treadmill.
I raised the black material to bare my abdomen.
“I’m probably ovulating right now.”
Any sign of amusement vanished in the blink of an eye. The weights came down. Then he dropped them away from his body. The heavy thud of metal hitting the floor echoed between us.
I felt as though I should run. You see it in movies where you’re shouting at the screen—run you stupid mare, run.
Here I was rooted to the spot. All because I wanted to watch him lose control at the detriment of my cervix.
Which was a terrible thing to want from a man who already fucked deep enough to make me feel him long after he’d stopped.
“Come over here, sweetheart,” he rasped.
Daddy was always so composed and in control.
Not today, sir. Not today.
I turned and ran.
It turned out that I wasn’t a penguin. I was a chicken.
I almost made it to the door.
His arms wrapped around me and he lifted me off the floor. He carried me to the padded bench—the only piece of equipment held down by a multitude of weights that wouldn’t budge while he fucked me into oblivion.
A wise choice.
Just as he set me on the ground he pushed my shorts down my hips. He tugged my vest up, uncaring that the built-in support caught beneath my breasts. He tugged harder until my breasts spilled free. Next were my knickers. I stared at them as they hit my feet.
“Straddle the bench,” he growled.
He held my elbow as I stepped out of my shorts and underwear. I didn’t know whether it was to steady me or stop me from running. Probably both. A sudden tug at the tie in my hair freed my ponytail and my hair brushed against my lower back.
“Something for me to hold onto while I ride you,” he murmured.
I bit my lip to stop a groan at the image that raced through my mind. My inner thighs were damp and it had nothing to do with the treadmill.
The new brilliant white trainers seemed to be mocking me as I straddled the bench. The cold padded leather brushed against my legs. I crouched down along the length of it and placed my hands over the edges. My breasts pressed into the soft padding and I listened to the rustle of clothing behind me.
“My dirty girl. I love it when you need me,” he said as his fingers moved between my thighs.
There was no hiding. There never was.
My body always told him how much I needed him.
His fingers began to move in small, precise circles.
“I love how wet you become. Ready to take whatever I give you.”
I pressed my cheek against the bench.
Society’s moral standards could take a flying fuck to themselves.
Asher Kersey was mine.
My Daddy.