Page 30 of Daddy's Christmas Obsession
"You've never had this before, have you?" he asks, though he clearly knows the answer. "Never had someone who understands exactly what you need."
I shake my head, unable to form words as his fingers work their magic, building a pressure I've never experienced with Aaron's fumbling attempts. Victor slides one long finger inside me, then another.
"That's because you've been with boys," Victor says, his voice hypnotic in my ear. "But now you have a man who appreciates every aspect of you—your mind, your ambition, your body."
His movements become more deliberate, more focused, and I'm coming undone beneath his hands. The pressure builds as his fingers pump in and out of me, his thumb circling my clit with relentless precision, his other hand still teasing my nipple through lace.
"You belong to me now," he growls against my neck. "Your mind, your research, your body—all mine to nurture, to develop, to pleasure."
I'm close, so close, my body trembling on the edge of something monumental. Victor presses harder, moves faster, his experience evident in every calculated touch.
"Come for me, brilliant girl," he commands. "Let go and trust me to catch you."
I shatter at his words, at his touch, at the power of his control over my body—
And wake with a sharp intake of breath, my heart pounding, my body throbbing with unfulfilled need.
For a moment, I'm disoriented, the dream so vivid I can almost feel Victor's hands still on me. Then reality crashes in—I'm alone in the guest bedroom of his cabin, tangled in silk sheets, my nightgown twisted around my thighs. And I've just had an explicit sexual dream about my ex-boyfriend's father.
"What is wrong with me?" I whisper into the darkness, mortified by my subconscious betrayal.
I press my thighs together, noticing the wetness between them, the hardened nipples pushing against silk, the flushI can feel spreading across my chest and neck. My body hasn't gotten the message that this attraction is inappropriate, unprofessional, utterly wrong.
I lie perfectly still, listening for any sound in the cabin. Is Victor awake? Could he have heard me? Did I make noise during the dream? The thought sends a fresh wave of embarrassment through me.
I consider getting up for a cold shower, but I know from experience it won't help. This isn't just physical discomfort; it's a psychological itch that needs scratching before I can think clearly again.
I try to conjure thoughts of Aaron—his boyish smile, his easy laugh, the familiar comfort of his arms. But his image immediately morphs into Victor's more commanding presence, the intensity in his gray eyes when he looks at me, the controlled power in his movements.
A treacherous voice in my head whispers that this is just biology—a stress response to isolation and emotional upheaval. Nothing more than my body seeking comfort in fantasy.
But I know it's more than that. I've been cataloging my reactions to Victor with scientific precision, and the evidence is damning:
The way I gasp when his fingers brush mine passing a coffee cup. How I watch his hands preparing breakfast, imagining those hands elsewhere. The subtle cologne that clings to his skin, making me want to breathe deeper when he's near. The authority in his voice when discussing research, making me wonder how that voice would sound commanding me in bed.
I press my palms against my eyes, frustrated by my body's betrayal of my professional intentions. I'm here for academic mentorship, for career opportunities, for a chance to achieve my research goals. Not to develop some schoolgirl crush on a sophisticated older man who's only trying to help my career.
"One time," I whisper to the darkness. "Just to clear my head. Then I can focus on the academic opportunity."
I slide my hand beneath the silk nightgown, telling myself this is necessary for mental clarity. If I release this tension, I can approach tomorrow with professional composure.
My fingers are tentative at first. I slide them through the slick folds of my pussy, finding myself embarrassingly wet, my clit swollen and sensitive to the slightest touch. I try to maintain focus on a professional scenario—Victor reviewing my research, offering connections to prestigious programs, guiding my academic future.
But within moments, the fantasy evolves. His hands on my research papers become hands on my body, cupping my breasts, squeezing my nipples, spreading my thighs. His academic guidance becomes physical guidance: "Let me show you what you need."
My movements grow bolder as the fantasy deepens. I slip two fingers inside myself, imagining they're Victor's—longer, thicker, more knowing. I picture his experienced touch replacing my own—knowing exactly how to curve forward to hit that spot that makes my toes curl, exactly how to circle my clit with his thumb while his fingers pump in and out. So different from Aaron's fumbling inexperience.
In my mind, Victor's voice drops to that intimate register that makes my core clench around my fingers: "Such a brilliant mind," he murmurs, "in such a perfect body made for my hands."
My fingers circle faster, my back arching slightly off the mattress, my free hand moving to pinch my nipple through the silk. The forbidden elements of this fantasy only heighten my arousal—the age gap, the taboo of wanting my ex's father, the power imbalance between mentor and mentee.
But what excites me most is the intellectual connection—the fantasy of someone who values my mind while wanting my body. Victor understands my research, my ambitions, my drive in ways Aaron never did. And in my fantasy, that understanding extends to my physical needs as well.
"You've never had this before, have you?" fantasy Victor asks, though he clearly knows the answer. "Never had someone who understands exactly what you need."
My movements become more urgent as the fantasy builds. I picture Victor above me, his weight pressing me into the mattress, his cock pushing into me, stretching me. I imagine him claiming me, his voice in my ear: "You belong to me now—your mind, your research, your core."
I bite my lip to stay silent as the pressure builds, my hips bucking against my hand, my fingers pumping faster, my thumb circling my clit with frantic need. Fantasy and reality blur as I imagine Victor above me, his silver hair falling forward, his eyes dark with lust, his cock driving into me with relentless precision.
