The praise poured over me like honey.
"So beautiful when you ask for what you need." He thrust deeper, punctuating his words with his body. "So brave. My little bird, learning to sing."
I was crying again. Or still. The tears were constant now, leaking from the corners of my eyes, but they weren't sad tears. They were something else—release, maybe. Relief. The particular catharsis of finally being met exactly where I was.
"There," I gasped. "Right there—don't stop—Daddy, please—"
The words kept coming. I couldn't have stopped them if I'd tried—they poured out of me in a desperate stream, demand and plea tangled together. "Harder—yes—right there—please don't stop—"
And he kept answering.
Not just with his body—though his body was answering too, driving into me with increasing force—but with his voice. Praise flowing from him in a constant stream, wrapping around me like armor, filling the places that had always felt empty.
"Perfect. Gorgeous. Mine."
Each word landed somewhere deep. Somewhere that had never been touched before, never been named before.
"You're doing so well, Ptichka. Telling me everything. Giving me your voice."
I'd never felt so seen.
The thought surfaced through the haze of pleasure—clear and sharp and devastating. I'd spent my whole life hiding. Masking. Performing versions of myself that other people could handle. And here, now, pinned beneath him with his cock inside me and his praise in my ears, I wasn't hiding anything.
I was just me.
Overwhelmed. Desperate. Speaking through the fog because he'd asked me to, because he'd made it safe to try.
"More," I heard myself say. "I need more. All of you. Everything."
He groaned—deep, broken, the sound of someone losing control. His pace increased. His thrusts went harder, deeper, and I wrapped my legs around his hips to take more of him, to pull him closer, to blur the line between his body and mine.
Our voices tangled together.
His praise—"so good, so perfect, mine, mine, mine"—and my demands—"there, harder, please, don't stop"—weaving into something that wasn't quite conversation and wasn't quite sound, just the particular language of two people speaking to each other through pleasure.
I could feel the edge approaching again.
Different this time. Not the sharp, edged cruelty of before, but something fuller. Deeper. The particular building of an orgasm that was going to shatter me completely.
"Close," I gasped. "I'm so close—Daddy, please—"
"I know." His voice was ragged. His thrusts were losing their rhythm, becoming desperate. "I know, little bird. I've got you."
The pleasure coiled tighter. My walls clenched around him. Everything was narrowing to this moment—his body inside mine, his voice in my ears, the collar pressing against my throat with every swallow.
"Don't stop telling me," he groaned. "Keep talking. I need to hear you."
"Love you." The words came out without thought. Without planning. Just truth, spilling from my lips like everything else had. "Love you, Daddy. Love how you feel inside me. Love when you praise me. Love—"
"Auralia."
My name in his mouth. Broken and reverent and absolutely wrecked.
"My Auralia. My little bird. My perfect, brave, beautiful girl. I love you."
I shattered.
The orgasm crashed through me, and I screamed—actually screamed his name, my voice finally let loose after hours of careful speaking. My walls clenched around him, pulsing, and I felt him follow—
