Page 32 of Daddy's Christmas Obsession
As her movements grow more urgent on screen, my hand establishes a matching rhythm. I've imagined this scenario countless times over the years—Kyra in my home, in my bed, giving herself pleasure while thinking of me. Reality surpasses every fantasy.
I stroke myself harder, faster, watching her body respond through the camera. My grip tightens, pressure building. I imagine how tight she'd be around me, how she'd gasp when I pushed inside her for the first time. How those intelligent green eyes would widen with the realization that all her previous experiences were merely preparation for me.
There's something unexpectedly intimate about watching her private moment while experiencing my own. A connection she doesn't know exists, yet another thread binding her to me.
When her body suddenly tenses, when her lips form what can only be a name, I increase my pace. Is she thinking of me? Is my name on her lips as pleasure overtakes her? The thought makes my balls tighten, my release hovering just out of reach.
But then I hear it. Faint through the audio feed, but unmistakable.
"Victor."
My name, whispered from her lips at the moment of release.
The sound triggers my own climax, powerful and sudden. I grip the edge of the desk with my free hand as hot ropes of cum shoot over my fist, my cock pulsing with each wave of pleasure. My jaw clenches to keep silent, the intensity nearly unbearable as I continue stroking through the aftershocks.
On screen, Kyra looks mortified, covering her mouth as if she could take back my name. The shame on her face is exquisite—the perfect foundation for what comes next.
I've studied psychology as carefully as I've studied business. I understand how to use shame, how to offer absolution as a gift that creates dependence. How to transform embarrassment into gratitude with the right words, the right touch.
She believes she's the inappropriate one. That her attraction is unprofessional, a betrayal of the mentorship I'm offering. This misunderstanding is my most powerful weapon.
When she makes a small sound, something between a sob and a sigh, I make my decision. Time to advance the game. Time to move another piece across the board.
I tuck myself away and straighten my clothing, check my appearance in the reflection of the darkened window. Perfect control restored, not a hint of what just transpired visible in my demeanor. Then I exit the study and walk the short distance to her room.
Outside her door, I pause, considering my approach. I knock softly. "Kyra?" I infuse my voice with just the right amount of concern. "Are you alright? I thought I heard you call out."
The silence from within tells me everything I need to know about her panic. She's wondering if I heard my name on her lips, if I somehow know what she's been doing.
I wait the perfect amount of time—long enough for her anxiety to peak—then open the door slightly.
"I thought you might be having a nightmare," I say, my voice gentle with false concern.
The sight that greets me is everything I could have hoped for. Kyra clutching sheets to her chest, face flushed with residual pleasure and fresh embarrassment, eyes wide with mortification and lingering desire. Her gaze drops for a moment, catching on the visible outline of my cock through my sweatpants before darting back up to my face, her cheeks flushing darker.
I step into the room, closing the door behind me with a soft click. My cock stirs again at the sight of her in bed, knowing what she was just doing, knowing she was thinking of me while she did it.The room still smells of her sex.
"Victor," she whispers, and hearing my name again, this time directly from her lips, sends blood rushing to my groin.
"I heard you call out," I repeat, moving closer to the bed. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," she says quickly. Too quickly. "Just a dream."
"Must have been quite intense." I sit on the edge of the bed, invading her space with calculated precision. The proximity makes her pulse visibly quicken at her throat. The tattoo snaking up my forearm is fully visible now, dark ink against my tanned skin. Her eyes dart to it, then quickly away, as if the evidence of my rougher side both frightens and excites her. Her scent hits me—vanilla body wash mixed with the unmistakable musk of arousal. "You're trembling."
She looks away, unable to meet my eyes. "It was nothing. Just... stress, I suppose."
"Kyra." I use her name like an incantation, letting it hang between us until she's forced to look at me. "You don't need to be embarrassed. Dreams are the mind's way of processing what we can't acknowledge when we're awake."
My hand moves to brush hair from her face, fingertips grazing her flushed cheek. The touch is innocent enough to maintain mymentor facade, intimate enough to accelerate her confusion. I let my thumb linger near the corner of her mouth, close enough to feel her quickened breathing against my skin.
"What were you dreaming about?" I ask, though I already know. I want to hear her lie, want to deepen her shame with each evasion.
"I don't... I don't remember," she stammers, the brilliant scientist reduced to incoherence by my proximity.
"I think you do." My voice drops lower, the tone I've noticed affects her most dramatically. I shift slightly closer, making sure she feels the dip of the mattress, the heat radiating from my body. "Sometimes our minds show us what we truly want, even when we're afraid to admit it to ourselves."
Her eyes widen, fear and arousal battling for dominance. Her pulse pounds visibly in her throat, breathing shallow and quick. "Victor, I—"
