"Ruined? Nothing could be further from the truth, boy,” Olivier chuckles warmly. “Watching you rest, peaceful like that... it wasperfect. You needed it after your day." His eyes crinkle at the corners, full of that stern warmth I've come to crave. "Besides, the night is young…"
Relief floods me, mixing with that inner glow.
Olivier’s not mad, not even close. He's understanding. A Daddy through and through.
I sit up a bit, Lexi tumbling into my lap.
I'm still deep in Little space—floaty, needy, the world soft around the edges. The nap helped, but I'm not fully awake yet.
"Ummm... Daddy? Could Lexi and me have some warm milk? To help wakie-uppie time?"
I hold up my stuffie, giving him a little shake, my voice small and hopeful.
Olivier's lips twitch in amusement, but his gaze is fond.
"Warm milk to wake up? That'll just make you sleepier, darling boy." He pauses, then nods. "But no problem.Anythingfor you." He stands, stretching with a grace that is full of Daddy power too, and heads to the kitchen. "Stay put."
I prop myself up on pillows, watching him move.
The kitchen is a chef's dream—gleaming appliances, organized like a pro station. He patrols it with ease, pulling milk from the fridge, a saucepan from the rack.
Olivier pours the milk, heats it on the stove, stirs it methodically. He adds a dash of something—vanilla or honey maybe—testing the temperature with a pinky dip.
He’s so good.
So stylish.
So… hot.
It's mesmerizing, his focus, the way his sleeves roll up to reveal strong forearms. My mind wanders, unbidden, to that fantasy I've been harboring: Olivier in nothing but his chef's hat, body on display, commanding the space. Those muscles flexing as he moves, that authoritative vibe turned seriously intimate.
Heat pools low in my belly, imagination running wilder—him turning to me, hat tilted, a wicked smile as he approaches with a bouncing, thick, hard as iron cock pointed directly toward me.
By the time Olivier returns with two mugs—one sippy for me, one regular for him—there's no hiding it. My jeans tent obviously, the outline of my dick straining against the denim.
I shift, embarrassed, but it's too late.
Olivier sets the mugs down, eyes flicking down, then back up with a raised brow.
"Well, well," he says, voice dropping to that commanding tone. "What's this? Explain, boy. What got you soworked up?"
I blush furiously, face burning as I fidget with Lexi's tail.
"I... um... was watching you in the kitchen. And it reminded me of this fantasy I had. Aboutyou... wearing nothing but a chef's hat. Cooking, or... something." The words stumble out, my voice small, eyes on the floor. "Sorry, Daddy. I couldn't help it."
Olivier sits closer, a low chuckle rumbling.
"Fantasy, hmm? Tell me more…" His hand lands on my thigh, firm, teasing the edge of the bulge. "Every detail."
I swallow, heat intensifying.
"Okay... in the dream, you're in the kitchen, hat on, nothing else. Your muscles are shining, moving like you own the place. You call me over, and...thingshappen." I glance up, mortified but aroused. "It's silly, but hot."
"Not silly," Olivier murmurs, leaning in. "Flattering. And now? We'll make it real."
Before I know what’s happening, Olivier is standing and stripping. I can see immediately that even my talk of the fantasy was enough to get him hard. The sight of his big Daddy dick springing up to attention is as spectacular as I could ever hope for.
“Strip boy,” Olivier commands. “I want you naked and on all fours in sixty-seconds flat. Got it?”
