Page 132 of Dark King Daddy

She buried her face against my chest. Her hand rested over my heart. I could feel her pulse through her fingertips, still fast, still racing.

I laid her on the bed. She looked up at me with eyes that were dark and wet and completely unguarded.

“Daddy,” she said. “I want more.”

I did not fuck her.

She was lying on the bed, still flushed, still wet, her body still carrying the aftershocks of the orgasm that had torn through her over my knee. Her t-shirt was bunched at her ribs. Her underwear was gone—I had pulled it off when I laid her down. She was open to me, her legs slightly parted, the evidence of her arousal visible in the lamplight.

She expected me to undress. To mount her. To take her the way I had taken her before—hard, deep, the kind of fucking that left us both breathless and sore.

Instead, I gripped her hips and lifted.

“Daniil—what—”

I moved her up the bed. Turned her. Positioned her so that she straddled my face, her knees on either side of my head, her thighs bracketing my jaw. She was above me, her weight on her hands against the headboard, looking down at me with wide, startled eyes.

“Hold the headboard,” I said. “Don’t move.”

She gripped the iron bar. Her knuckles went white. I could see the tendons in her wrists, the tension in her arms, the way her body was suspended above mine—uncertain, waiting, already trembling again.

I pulled her down.

I knew there was more for her, somewhere further we could go. I wanted to take her there.

My mouth found her. Not gently—I opened her with my tongue, pressed deep, and tasted her. She was soaked. The arousal from the spanking had not subsided; it had pooled inside her, thick and hot, and when my tongue pushed into her she made a sound that was half gasp and half sob.

I held her hips. My fingers dug into the flesh at the top of her thighs, holding her in place, keeping her from pulling away or grinding too hard. I controlled the pressure. I controlled the depth. I controlled everything.

My tongue worked inside her. In and out, then up—finding the swollen ridge of her clit, pressing flat against it, holding there while her thighs clenched around my head. She was shaking. Her grip on the headboard tightened. I could hear her breathing—fast, shallow, broken by small sounds that escaped her mouth each time I moved.

I pulled her clit between my lips. Sucked. Released. Sucked again. The rhythm was relentless. She tried to move her hips—to increase the pressure, to chase the orgasm that was surely building—and I held her still. My fingers pressed into her thighs hard enough to leave marks.

“Daddy—please—I’m—”

She came. Fast, sharp, her body clenching above me. Her thighs squeezed my head. Her back arched. She said my name, spoken in a voice that had lost every other word.

I did not stop.

She was still shaking when my tongue found her again. Slower this time. Deeper. I pushed inside her—not her clit, inside her, my tongue pressing into the wet heat of her, and I felt her whole body react. A full-length shudder that started in her core and radiated outward through her stomach, her chest, her arms.

“Daniil—I can’t—”

“You can.”

I held her hips. I held her in place. I fucked her with my tongue—slow, deliberate, each thrust of my mouth into her body a statement of intent. She was dripping. The wetness was on my chin, my jaw, running down my neck. I wanted all of it. I wanted to be inside her in every way I could manage, and my tongue inside her while she trembled and begged and gripped the headboard hard enough to bend the iron was enough.

The second orgasm built slowly. Not the sharp spike of the first—a wave. Deep, rolling, gathering force from somewhere in the base of her body and climbing through her in a long, slow surge that I could feel in the muscles of her thighs, in the tightening of her stomach, in the way her breathing changed from fast to deep to something slow and thick and effortful.

She came. And the sound she made—

I had heard her moan. I had heard her cry out, beg, whisper, break. I had never heard this. It came from deep in her chest, low and sustained, a sound that vibrated through her entire body and traveled through her thighs into my jaw. Not a scream. Not a cry. A moan so deep and so long that it seemed to come from somewhere beneath language, beneath thought, from the place where pleasure and surrender were born.

She collapsed. Her hands released the headboard. Her body folded forward, her forehead against the wall above me, her hair falling around my face. She was shaking. Not trembling—shaking. Full-body, uncontrollable.

I eased her down. Lifted her from my face, turned her, laid her beside me on the pillow. She curled into my chest. Her hand found my shirt and her fingers twisted in the fabric.

“That,” she said. Her voice was wrecked. Barely a whisper. “That was the deepest orgasm I’ve ever had. In my life. I didn’t know my body could do that.”