“But I’m being punished?” Basil stated it like a question. “For calling you a bastard?”
“You are.” I squeezed his ass and leaned in to whisper in his ear, “but that will come after your orgasm.”
Basil’s body quivered under mine, his breathing erratic. I returned to circling his hole, teasing at what I might do. He moaned and moved like he wanted more, but I still wasn’t sure If I’d let him come, despite my promise.
“So, do you want me in your ass?”
“Yes, anything, just let me come. Please, Daddy?”
His final words decided it for me. I grabbed the teak footstool from a corner and sat it between his legs. “Spread. Good. Now hold on to the handle and lean back. Just like that.”
Basil followed my instructions without hesitation, and my view when he was in position had me ready to go myself. Peachy globes with only a little pink left from his morning spanking, balls tight against the steel ring, and his dick hung straight below. My attention was more focused on the tight hole I needed to explore. I wouldn’t fuck his ass yet, but I could play.
Even before I questioned my sexuality, I enjoyed anal sex. Everyone had an asshole, and the forbidden aspect made it hot. It was also a good way to help mitigate the risk of getting some gold digger pregnant. One woman I’d fucked on a trip to New York had stuck her finger in without asking, and I’d tried it out myself. I only had a few toys, but prostate orgasms were something else.
With Basil, I had to guess he never went near his sexuality, let alone his p-spot. This would be a treat for him as well as me.
Spreading his cheeks, I thumbed at his hole, and it tightened more, making me want to spend time opening him up. First, I lapped at his taint, the sensitive skin over his prostate, working my way up, before licking around his hole. He tasted like my soap, a general cleanliness, but a bit of his own musk was there as well.
“Mmm, you are a delicious alternative to our dinner, boy,” I praised, nipping his ass before diving in. It took a minute or two of licking and sucking, but he finally relaxed and let go.
“Oh God, yes, fuck! Make me come, Daddy,” Basil moaned and shook, pushing back until I speared his hole with my tongue. “Mmm, yes, more?”
When he let go, Basil became a wanton whore, and I paused to tell him so, taking his dick in one hand. “There’s my good little slut. Are you ready to come?”
“Yes,” Basil cried out once, then again when I slipped my middle finger in to the second knuckle. “You’re inside me.”
His voice was full of wonderment, and I chuckled, “My dick and tongue have already been in you, but yes. I’m touching your deepest, most untouched place. Do you still want to come?”
Basil pushed back experimentally and groaned, “Yes! Please stop asking, Daddy.”
Stroking him faster, I rubbed his insides until I found the right spot. It was down and my fingertip curved perfectly to hit his prostate.
“You can come now,” I commanded in a growl, stroking him inside and out as Basil shook. His orgasm overtook his whole body, and I had to let go of his spurting dick to catch him. I uncuffed him—they were quick release, but I made a show of hiding the key on a shelf—and took him to the bench seat with me. “That felt good, didn’t it?”
“So good,” Basil mumbled into my chest as I rocked him in my arms. Whether it was a holdover from raising twins alone, or I just felt he needed comfort, it seemed to soothe him. “Thank you, Daddy.”
In all my years, I’d tortured real and false confessions out of numerous people, but always with physical violence or mental suffering. Tormenting my victim through sexual edging and release was far more fun.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
BASIL
After lettingGeorge feed me an Italian seafood stew that had gone cold but was no less delicious, he secured me to the bed with only one arm and leg tied down. In my post-orgasm haze, I wasn’t sure how I felt about being naked under his covers, but George said he wouldn’t stick anything in me without my asking. Somehow, I believed him.
After removing our place settings and brushing my teeth, all with the handcuffs removed, George had tucked me in and curled around me. It had been a long day of sexual denial, punishment, and finally, a mind-numbing, body-quaking climax. I needed sleep, but my mind was racing.
I’d asked him to do those dirty things to me in the shower. I’d begged for his tongue and fingers to fill me, to go deeper. Was this Stockholm Syndrome? That was the only explanation I could accept and not feel shame.
Calling him Daddy was a head trip. IlikedGeorge taking care of me, and I knew why deep down.
My dad was only everOtets, Father. Even then, he told me to stop calling him that when I was sent to America. He’d certainly never washed me or rocked me to sleep. I had a nanny after my first few months, so I didn’t even have memories of my mother being nurturing. Ivanna and Igor certainly didn’t fill the gap either.
George did the things I wanted a parent to do at the age I was shipped off to family I’d never met. The title rolled off my tongue whenever he was giving me pleasure. But then, when I was feeling sullen and petulant, I resented him for making me feel that way.
“Why did you ask me to call you Daddy?” I asked in the darkness, knowing from the rise and fall of his chest against my back that he was awake like me.
“Hmm,” George kissed the back of my neck with a hum. “I think it was to humiliate you at first, but then I liked it.”
