Page 108 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection
She takes a moment to set her phone on a stand and get her vibrator, which is a plain, plastic bullet. I offered to get her a rabbit, but she said she only wanted me inside her, which made my chest explode with emotions I still don’t have names for. Daddyness is the closest I can come.
While she’s getting situated, I pull off my shirt and make sure she’s got a good view of my torso. She’s been adorably shy about watching me masturbate while we’ve been apart. I know she’s turned on by it; she turns the sweetest golden-pink. Even her little ears flush. But she’s so embarrassed she has to peek through her fingers to watch. She’s seen my body many, many times. She’s not shy about sex. But something about being apart and doing it on camera turns her into a blushing rose. It makes my blood rage.
To enhance her discomfiture, I open the fly on the black trousers I wore to interview Tilly Mitchell but don’t take them off. I adjust myself so my boxers are peeking through the fly, a spot of moisture darkening the fabric as I watch her shyly unbutton the shirt she’s wearing—is that one of my white dress shirts? I think it is—and take off the camisole and bra she’s wearing underneath.
Her breasts are just fucking pretty. I never thought of myself as a breast-man until I saw Cynnie’s. Round and a creamier gold than the rest of her skin, as soon as I see them my palms ache with the desire to cup them, squeeze them. I want to see her skin stain pink with the pressure of my fingers and lips. I want to turn those pinky-brown nipples red.
“Cup your breasts for me, baby.”
She bites her lip and shakes her head. “Can’t.”
“You can. Be my good girl and show Oppa those pretty titties.”
Slowly, she runs her hands over her breasts, cups them, and with her shoulders drawn up almost to her ears, offers them to me.
I flick my tongue over my lower lip, imagining those sweet, brown berries in my mouth. “Mmm. I know they taste delicious. Pinch them for me.”
Her shyness fading as she gets into our game, she does, squeaking when I tell her to pinch them hard. Panting when she releases them. We watch them flush red.
I peel my boxers over the head of my dick so it peeks out, a pearl of pre-cum beading in the crease. “I’m going to fuck those sweet titties when I get back, baby. I’m going to make you squeeze them together while I push my cock between them. Can you imagine the tip of my cock peeping through again and again until I come all over your throat?”
She shivers and whimpers. “Oppa.”
“Pull up your skirt and let me see what you have there for me.”
She claps her hands over her face and shakes her head, but then pulls her skirt up. She’s bare underneath, round thighs pressed together, her triangle of sparse, silky black hair disappearing between them.
“Spread your legs. Show me what’s mine.”
She bares her teeth at me. “Mine.”
Then she hides behind her hands again.
I let a growl build in my chest. “Mine.”
She shakes her head, the midnight curtain of her hair swishing around her bare shoulders. “Show you nothing.”
“Spread those legs,” I growl, fisting the leaking head of my cock and letting it poke through the circle of my fingers.
“No,” she hisses, even as she spreads them, letting me see the sheen on her inner thighs.
“You are such a naughty bumble. Touch yourself. Tease yourself open.”
She growls her little growl at me even while her fingers, nails painted with yellow polka-dots today, slip between her legs and rub. My mouth drops open, saliva pools, as I watch her part the slick petals. Her fingertips gleam. The entrance to her body flushes a deep rose that I want to plunder.
I wipe my mouth before I drool into my beard.
“Taste yourself.” She turns a brilliant crimson, but obeys, lifting her fingers to her mouth and taking a furtive lick. “What do you taste like?”
“Cinnamon bun.”
I chuckle. No, she doesn’t. I love her taste, but it’s nothing like a cinnamon bun. “Rub,” I tell her as I push my boxers down further and begin to jack my dick.
She drops her hand back to her pussy, parting her lips with her index and ring fingers, rubbing her opening with her middle finger. She raises her other hand to her face, covers her eyes, and peeks through her fingers.
“Dirty, Oppa.”
“Why’s it dirty, baby?”
