Chapter 12
twelve
. . .
Judy
I ache deliciously. My body feels different now—awakened, sensitized, alive in ways I never knew possible.
It's been two days since Wayne's fingers inside me in the tack room, four days since his mouth between my thighs under the oak tree.
Each time he touches me, each orgasm he gives me, I change a little more.
Become a little bolder, a little hungrier, a little more his.
I catch myself watching his hands constantly—those large, calloused hands that can be so gentle yet so commanding—imagining them on my body, in my body.
I dream about him at night and wake up wet, aching, ready.
The girl who arrived on his doorstep two weeks ago wouldn't recognize me now. I barely recognize myself.
We've moved into a new routine. I sleep in his bed every night now, tucked against his solid warmth.
He kisses me breathless, touches me until I'm crying out his name, but he hasn't taken me completely.
Not yet. "When you're ready," he keeps saying, though I'm starting to think I've been ready since the first moment I saw him.
Tonight, we're in his bedroom—our bedroom now, I guess.
The lamp on the nightstand casts a warm glow over the space, making everything feel intimate, secret.
I'm wearing just an oversized t-shirt that belongs to Wayne, the hem hitting mid-thigh.
He's shirtless, wearing only low-slung pajama pants that do nothing to hide his arousal.
He sits in the armchair in the corner of the room, beckoning me over with a crooked finger. "Come here, angel."
I go to him without hesitation, drawn by the command in his voice, the heat in his eyes. When I reach him, he pulls me down onto his lap, positioning me so I'm straddling his thighs, facing him. His hands settle on my waist, warm and solid through the thin cotton of the shirt.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, gaze traveling slowly over my face, down my neck, to where my nipples have hardened beneath the fabric. "Do you know what I want tonight?"
I shake my head, heart already beating faster in anticipation.
"Want to watch you," he says, voice dropping lower. "Want you to touch yourself for me. Show me how you pleasure yourself when you're thinking of me."
Heat floods my cheeks, but a matching heat pools between my legs at his words. The thought of touching myself while he watches should be embarrassing, but instead, it's thrilling.
"I don't…I'm not sure how," I admit. It's not entirely true—I've touched myself before—but never with such deliberate intention, never with an audience.
His lips curve into a knowing smile. "I'll teach you. Show you how to touch yourself the way Daddy likes."
That word—Daddy—sends a jolt of electricity straight to my core. He's used it before, in heated moments when we're both close to the edge, and each time it affects me more deeply. Makes me feel both protected and possessed in a way that nothing else does.
"Okay," I whisper, nodding.
His hands move from my waist to the hem of my shirt, slowly drawing it upward. "Arms up," he instructs.
I comply, allowing him to pull the shirt over my head, leaving me completely naked on his lap. The air feels cool against my heated skin, making my nipples tighten further. I resist the urge to cover myself, instead letting his gaze roam over me, reveling in the hunger I see there.
"Perfect," he growls. "Now put your hands on your breasts. Show me how you touch them when you're alone."
My hands shake slightly as I raise them to cup my breasts. They're small enough to fit easily in my palms, nipples pressing against my skin. I squeeze gently, watching his face for reaction.
"That's it," he encourages. "Play with your nipples. Show me how you like it."
I roll my nipples between my fingers, gasping at the sensation that travels straight to my core. His eyes darken, pupils expanding as he watches.
"Does that feel good?" he asks, voice rough.
"Yes," I breathe.
"Good girl. Now slide one hand down. Slowly."
I obey, trailing my right hand down over my stomach, hesitating at the junction of my thighs. His gaze follows the movement, intense and approving.
"Spread your legs wider," he commands. "Let me see all of you."
I shift on his lap, widening my stance, exposing myself completely to his view. I should feel vulnerable, exposed, but instead I feel powerful. The way he looks at me—like I'm the most beautiful thing he's ever seen—makes me bold.
"Touch yourself," he says. "Show me how wet you are for me."
My fingers slide between my folds, finding myself slick and ready. I gasp at the contact, at the jolt of pleasure that shoots through me.
"So wet already," he murmurs appreciatively. "Spread it around. Get your pretty pussy nice and wet for me."
I do as he says, circling my entrance, gathering moisture, bringing it up to the sensitive bundle of nerves at the top. My breathing quickens as pleasure builds.
"That's it," he praises. "Now circle your clit. Slow circles, the way Daddy likes."
I follow his instruction, moving my fingers in slow, deliberate circles around my clit. The pleasure is immediate and intense, making my hips rock forward, seeking more.
"Look at me," he demands. When I meet his gaze, he continues, "Want to see your face when you make yourself come for me."
I maintain eye contact as I continue to touch myself, the dual sensation of physical pleasure and the intensity of his gaze making my heart race. His hands rest on my thighs now, thumbs stroking small circles on my skin, encouraging without taking over.
"Add a finger," he instructs. "Push it inside. Feel how tight you are."
I slide one finger into my entrance, moaning at the feeling. It's not the same as when he does it—his fingers are thicker, longer—but it's still good. My inner walls clench around the intrusion, hungry for more.
"Another," he growls. "Stretch yourself for me."
I add a second finger, feeling the slight burn of the stretch. My palm presses against my clit as I pump my fingers in and out, building a rhythm that makes my thighs start to tremble.
"Fuck," Wayne breathes, watching my fingers disappear inside myself. "Look at you. So fucking perfect."
His praise washes over me, making me bolder, hungrier. I increase my pace, chasing the pleasure building at my core. My free hand continues to play with my nipple, pinching and rolling it the way I've learned I like.
"That's it, angel," he encourages, his own breathing becoming heavier. "Show Daddy how good you can be. How well you can pleasure yourself."
His words push me higher. I'm close now, that familiar tension coiling tight in my belly, my inner walls clenching rhythmically around my fingers.
"Wayne," I pant, hips rocking against my hand. "I'm getting close."
"I know you are," he says, voice dark with desire. "I can see it in your face. In the way your pussy grips your fingers." His hands tighten on my thighs. "Are you going to come for me? Show me how pretty you are when you fall apart?"
"Yes," I gasp, rhythm faltering as the pleasure builds to an almost unbearable level. "Yes, please."
"Do it," he commands. "Come for me now. Let me hear you."
The order pushes me over the edge. I cry out, back arching as the orgasm tears through me, more intense than when I'm alone, heightened by his eyes on me, his words in my ears. My body contracts around my fingers, wetness flooding my hand as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over me.
"That's it," Wayne praises, his voice a low rumble that extends my pleasure. "Such a good girl. My good girl."
When the last aftershock subsides, I slump forward, forehead resting on his shoulder as I struggle to catch my breath. His arms come around me, holding me close, one large hand stroking soothingly up and down my naked back.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my temple. "So beautiful when you come."
I feel boneless, satisfied, yet somehow still hungry for more. For him. I can feel his hardness pressing against me through his pajama pants, a reminder that he's still unsatisfied.
"What about you?" I ask, voice muffled against his skin.
"Tonight was about you," he says, echoing his words from that first night under the oak tree. "About showing you how to please yourself the way I like to watch."
I pull back to look at him, surprised by my own boldness as I say, "I want to please you too. Want to learn how."
Something flares in his eyes—hunger and possession and something deeper that makes my heart stutter. "You will, angel. All in good time."
He shifts, lifting me easily as he stands. I wrap my legs around his waist instinctively, arms looping around his neck as he carries me to the bed. He lays me down gently, following me down to cover my body with his. The weight of him is delicious—grounding, secure.
His mouth finds mine in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly deepens, becomes hungrier, more demanding. I can feel the hard length of him pressing against my thigh, and I shift restlessly, wanting to feel him closer, inside me.
But he pulls back, as he always does, restraint evident in the tight clench of his jaw, the careful way he puts a few inches between our bodies.
"Soon," he promises, reading the question in my eyes. "Very soon."
I believe him. And as he gathers me against his chest, as I drift toward sleep wrapped in his arms, I know that when it happens—when he finally claims me completely—it will change everything. Will make what I feel now seem like just a prelude to something far more powerful.
And I can't wait.