Page 58 of Filthy Mouth
I clenched around his cock, gripping his damp back. His dick twitched inside me, as if it agreed with every word.
“Say it again,” I whispered against his mouth, needy, breathless.
“I love you, Poppy Sarah Blythe. My filthy, perfect Princess. The only woman I’ll ever say these words to.”
The sincerity hit harder than his thrusts, and I felt my chest tighten, my eyes sting. God help me, I believed him. Even when he talked about fucking my arsehole after knocking me up. Even when he promised to make me choke on his cock before breakfast. I believed him because under all that dirt, he gave me what no one else ever had—love that matched my filth.
He would love our child, unlike my weak father. Benedict had heart and soul.
“I love you too, Daddy,” I choked out.
“I know, Princess,” he whispered.“I know.”
Of course he did. I sniffed, and Daddy pulled back to kiss my tears. His tongue slipped out, and his eyes lit up. When he began to lick my tears away, I couldn’t help but laugh and smack his back. We were fucked up compared to others, but I loved our filthy world.
A sudden thought occurred to me, but I’d circle back to it and run it past Daddy. I wanted my arse fucking before breakfast. Priorities were crucial.
??????
Four weeks later, I sat at my desk cackling as I flicked through the glossy magazine. The photographers had done a fantastic job. Every single picture portrayed us as a couple deeply in love. They’d made sure my ruby and diamond engagement ring was on full display.
Much to my surprise, Daddy hadn’t complained once about the endless outfit changes and countless poses in every corner of our home. He did love himself, though, but he’d had a long-standing relationship with himself long before I showed up pretending to be his hooker.
Benedict had loved my plan, even adding extra announcements in all the major national newspapers. I traced my finger over his face in one of the photos, soft and smiling as I sat on his lap in the library. Bad Daddy—he’d had the poor photographer blushing at one point.
Was I being a petty bitch, rubbing my happiness in my family’s faces? Hell, yes. And I fucking loved it. Their barrage of calls, messages, and voicemails was hilarious. It didn’t erase the years of damage, but as I looked toward the future, I realised they didn’t matter. I would never allow them near our child.
My phone rang—a video call from Daddy.
“Blythe escort services, how may I help you this afternoon, sir?”
Daddy chuckled, and I wondered how he’d feel about roleplaying.
“If I wasn't due to go visit a site, I’d take you up on your offer.”
“Don't be late for the grand opening tonight.”
Our room was ready and waiting to be broken in.
He scowled.
“You kept me locked out for over a month; of course, I won’t be late.”
“Uff. Grumpy much. Have a coffee or download that meditation app.”
Someone knocked on his door, and he gave me a sad little wave before we said our goodbyes. Our calls and messages helped us through the day until we were together again.
I still found myself wondering if it was real, or if I’d wake one morning to find it had all been a crazy dream. But my dreams could never conjure up someone as nasty as Daddy.
I checked the time and shut my laptop. Work could come home with me. The grand launch of the top floor was waiting—messy, filthy, and ours.
??????
The curtains were drawn tight, the main light switched off, leaving only the soft glow of the wall sconces. The crimson and gold wallpaper gleamed like sin itself. Every inch of the room was ready—the S-shaped sex sofa beneath me, the black swing swaying gently from the ceiling, the kneel stocks, the cross, the gleaming chains waiting in their niches. The bed, wide and waiting, draped in a black canopy and a mattress I’d had made waterproof. Even the floor beneath my ass gleamed, dark wood polished to perfection. All of it screamed one thing: mine and Daddy’s playground.
My pulse thudded as I lay back against the curve of the crimson leather, naked, skin marked with the words I’d scrawled in red across my breasts and ass. The scent of polish, leather, and something darker clung to the air. My eyes flicked to the paddles and canes lined up like weapons, the posh drinks cabinet gleaming with glass and crystal—decadence married to degradation.
And then I heard him. Heavy, deliberate footsteps striking the wooden floor outside. My stomach flipped, nerves tangling with pure filthy thrill. He was coming. He had no idea what I’d done for him, what I’d built for us.
