6. Chapter 6
Idon't sleep. Because every time I close my eyes, I feel him there — that stretch, that impossible fullness, the way he ground into me and stayed. Twice.
By morning, my phone has eleven texts from my boyfriend. I read them all twice and feel nothing, which scares me a little, and then I type: we're done. Then block the number and delete the texts.
A week I last. Seven days of my own fingers, three of them, and it's nothing; it's a joke; it's a finger compared to a fist. I can't come.
I lie in my bed at night, and I can't come because my body keeps waiting for the weight of him, the hand on my belly, the voice.
Good girl. Take it. Keep it. By Thursday I've stopped pretending I'm going anywhere else.
I don't knock. I walk straight past the front desk while the receptionist is on the phone and down the hall to exam room three, and I open the door, and he's there at the counter with a chart in his hand and his sleeves rolled, and he looks up like he's been expecting me all along, which he probably has.
"Delilah."
I don't answer. I close the door, cross the room, and I take the chart out of his hands. I put both palms flat on his chest and shove him backward into the chair behind him, and he lets me; he goes down easy, and I climb over his knees, and I pull his belt open, and I don't look at his face at all.
"I broke up with him," I say, working his zipper. "I broke up with him because of your cock. Because nothing fits me anymore but you."
He gets hard in my hand so fast it's almost an answer on its own — that thick weight filling my palm, the head already wet when I drag my thumb over it.
I spit on it. I take him in my mouth, and I don't tease; I go down until he's in my throat and my eyes water, and I hear him exhale through his nose, slow, controlled, like he's taking my pulse.
"Look at you," he says. "You came in here furious, and you couldn't even wait to get your mouth on it."
I pull off him, and my voice comes out wrecked. "I hate you. You ruined me. I can't — I can't feel anything else, I can't come, I can't sleep, you ruined me, and I hate you—"
"I know," he says, and his hand comes down on the back of my head, not pushing, just holding, warm and heavy, and I stop talking. "I know what I did to you. Now get up here."
I straddle him in the chair, my knees on either side of his hips, his cock standing up between us slick from my mouth, and I'm so wet it's already running down the inside of my thigh onto his trousers, and he sees it; of course he sees it.
His hands close around my waist — both of them, spanning me, thumbs nearly meeting at my navel, the way they always do, because I'm small and he is enormous and he never lets me forget it.
"You hate me," he says, quiet, and lifts me like I'm a cup of water and sets the head of his cock against my cunt. "Then show me."
I sink down on him, and the stretch is everything, the ring of fire, my body fighting him for one breath and then giving, giving, opening, and I take him all the way to the root, and my forehead drops against his, and I make a sound I've never made in my life.
He doesn't move. He lets me feel every inch of what I asked for, and then he says it, low against my mouth:
"You don't want a boyfriend, Delilah. You want a Daddy."
My whole body clenches around him, and he feels it and laughs — one short breath through his nose, mean and pleased. "There it is. Say it, and I'll give you everything."
"Daddy," I whisper, and it comes out of me like it was waiting, like it's the only word I've ever wanted, and then his hands go under my ass, and he stands up out of the chair with me speared on him and carries me across the room, and my back hits the cabinet, and the bottles rattle, and he fucks me against it, hard, deep, one hand fisted in my hair and the other spread flat on the cabinet behind my head, and I take every stroke with my heels locked at his back.
"This is mine now," he says into my ear, hips slamming, the whole room shaking. "You're mine. Say it—"
"Mine," I say, and my voice doesn't sound like mine. "I'm yours, I'm—"
We come together, and I feel his hot come pumping into me in warm jets while I squirt over our thighs.
I can’t even catch my breath before he’s carrying me like I weigh nothing across the tile to the exam table. My back meets the vinyl. My heels find the stirrups without being told — a month of this, my body knows the shape of this table better than my own bed.
"Look at you," he says, dragging me down the table by my hips until my ass hangs just off the edge, until I'm spread open and dripping on the paper. "Still open. Still hungry. I stretched this pussy for four weeks, and you think you can just stop coming to me."
He lines up and pushes back in, and the wet sound of it fills the room — obscene, loud, the squelch of his own cum still inside me being pushed deeper with every inch. "Hear that? That's what I left in you. That's you taking it back."
"Yes—" My hands scramble for the edge of the table. "Yes, Daddy—"
"Good girl." His hips snap, and I feel it in my teeth. "You don't get to have a boyfriend. This pussy is mine. I trained it. I opened it. Nobody else gets a turn but Daddy."
He fucks me hard and slow at the same time, each stroke bottoming out and grinding, and I can feel him in my belly, that impossible pressure, the one that used to be pain and isn't anymore. My whole body is one long yes. T
“Daddy, please, don't stop, don't ever stop,” I babble as he thrusts into me. He laughs that short, mean laugh against my throat.
"Please what?" He pulls out to the tip and holds there, just the head, and I actually sob. "Say the whole thing. Tell me what you want me to do to you."
"Breed me," I say, and I don't recognize the voice. "Breed me, Daddy, I want it, I want you to—"
"That's my girl." He slams back in, and I scream into the crook of my own elbow. "Been waiting to hear that. You want Daddy's cum in you? Want me to pump you so full of it you're walking around leaking for a week?"
He drags me up off the table — my back off the vinyl, his hands under my ass, holding me in the air with my legs wrapped around his waist — and he fucks me standing, my spine against his chest, his mouth at my ear.
"I'm going to do whatever I want with you," he says, low and even, like a diagnosis.
"Whenever I want. You come when I say. You keep it inside you until I tell you to clean up.
That's the arrangement now. You understand me? "
"Yes, Daddy," I gasp, and I mean it with every part of me.
He lays me back down and spreads me wider with his thumbs, watching his own cock disappear into me, watching the mess of us.
"Look how good you take it. My little cunt.
Made for me." His thumb finds my clit and presses, circles, and my whole body arches off the table.
"Come for me. Now. Show Daddy what he made. "
I come so hard my vision goes white at the edges, my cunt clenching around him in waves, and I feel him swell, and then he's coming too, buried to the root, his hips stuttering, and he groans — an actual sound out of him, low and torn — and it's the first time I've heard him lose control of his voice and it's the best thing I've ever heard.
He stays in me after, both of us shaking, his forehead down against mine. His cum is already slipping out around him, hot and wet between my thighs, and he doesn't let me move.
"Good girl," he says, quiet now. "That's my good girl."
And I lie there on the torn paper, and I realize I'm the happiest I’ve ever been. My pussy full of my Daddy’s come and the future stretching long and wonderful ahead of us, just like my Daddy’s dick.