"Keep talking, or I stop." His voice was rough. Strained. The voice of a man holding himself in check with visible effort.
I nodded. Tried to swallow. My throat was dry, my heart was pounding, and every nerve in my body was screaming for contact.
The first touch of his tongue whited out my brain.
Just—nothing. Static. The particular oblivion of sensation so intense that thought became impossible. His tongue was hot and wet and perfect, dragging through my folds, finding my clit with devastating accuracy.
I gasped. Arched. And went completely, utterly silent.
He pulled back immediately.
"No—" The word tore out of me, desperate, broken. "Please, I need—"
"Need what?" Patient. Impossibly patient. His breath ghosted over my swollen flesh, so close I could feel the heat but not the contact. "Use your words."
I was crying.
I hadn't realized it until I felt the tears sliding down my temples, disappearing into my hair. Not from pain. Not from sadness. Just overwhelm—the particular kind that came when too much input flooded my system and the only release was through tears.
But I could do this. I had to do this.
I forced the words past the fog. Past the static. Past the part of my brain that wanted to dissolve into sensation and never speak again.
"Your tongue on my clit." My voice cracked. Broke. Rebuilt itself. "Licking. Please, Daddy, please don't stop."
He rewarded me.
His mouth found me again, and this time I was ready—or as ready as anyone could be for the particular devastation of his tongue. He licked me slow and deliberate, circling my clit with maddening precision, and I kept talking.
I had to keep talking.
"There—yes, right there, don't—please don't—"
The words came fragmented. Desperate. My brain was splitting in two, one half drowning in pleasure and the other half scrambling for language, any language, anything that would keep his mouth on me.
"Harder." The word surprised me. More demanding than I'd ever been. "I need it harder."
He pressed his tongue flat against me. Applied pressure that made my hips buck off the bed. I cried out, sound and words tangling together.
"Yes—that's—Daddy, please—"
"So good." He pulled back just enough to speak, his breath hot against my slick skin. "So brave. My perfect girl, telling me exactly what she needs." His voice vibrated against my clit. "Keep talking, little bird. Tell me everything."
I told him everything.
The words poured out of me in a rush—half-coherent, explicit in ways I'd never imagined being. "Curl your fingers—yes, there, right there—don't stop, please don't stop licking me—I need it harder, faster—"
He gave me harder. Faster. His fingers pumped inside me while his tongue worked my clit, and I felt the orgasm building, felt my body tightening, climbing toward something shattering.
"I'm going to—please, can I—I need—"
He pulled back.
The orgasm retreated. I sobbed—actually sobbed, the frustration and the want and the overwhelm crashing together into something I couldn't contain.
"Not yet." His voice was strained. Rough. He was affected too—I could hear it, could see the particular tension in his jaw when I looked down at him. "Keep talking. Tell me more."
"Please, Daddy." The words were barely coherent now. "I need to come. Please let me come. Your tongue—please—I'll do anything—"
