She tasted like salt and honey. Like wanting. Like mine.
I didn't rush.
I learned her instead. Long, slow licks from her entrance to the swollen bundle of nerves at the top. Exploring the particular geography of her—the folds, the textures, the spots that made her whimper versus the spots that made her moan. Every response catalogued. Every reaction memorized.
She was so wet. Slick against my tongue, against my chin, her body weeping with need.
I found a rhythm. Slow circles around her clit, never quite touching it directly. Dipping lower to taste her entrance, then back up. Building the pressure gradually, methodically, the way I built surveillance patterns—patient, thorough, leaving nothing to chance.
Her breathing changed.
I felt it—the particular tension that meant she was close. The way her thighs trembled against my shoulders, the way her stomach muscles contracted, the pitch of her moans climbing higher.
I pulled back.
"No—" The word was almost a scream. "No, Daddy, please, I was so close—"
"I know." I pressed a kiss to her inner thigh. Let her feel my smile against her skin. "But I'm not done with you yet."
Her head fell back against the pillows. A sob worked its way up her throat—frustration and desperation and that particular edge of something that looked like it might break.
I let her cool down.
Counted the seconds while her breathing slowed, while the flush on her chest faded slightly, while the tension in her bound arms relaxed. Just enough. Just enough to bring her back from the edge.
Then I started again.
This time I was less gentle. My tongue found her clit directly, circling with firm pressure, and she keened—a high, broken sound that went straight to my cock. I was painfully hard now, straining against my jeans, but I ignored it. This was about her. About taking her apart piece by piece until she forgot her own name.
I added my fingers.
Two of them, sliding inside her easily—she was so wet, so open, her body clenching around me like it was desperate to hold onto anything it could get. I curled them forward, found the spot that made her whole body jolt.
"Oh God—Daddy—please—I can't—"
Her words were losing coherence. Fragmenting into sounds and pleas and half-formed syllables that might have been my name.
I brought her to the edge again.
Felt the clench of her walls around my fingers, the tremble of her thighs, the particular catch in her breath that said now, right now—
And stopped.
She screamed this time. Actually screamed, the sound raw and desperate, her body writhing against the restraints. Her hips chased my mouth as I pulled away, seeking contact, seeking relief, seeking anything.
"Please." She was crying now. Tears tracking down her temples, disappearing into her hairline. "Please, Daddy, please let me come, I'll be so good, I promise, please—"
The begging broke something in me.
Not my resolve—that held, barely. But something else. Some wall I'd built around the part of me that wanted to worship her, that wanted to give her everything, that wanted to spend the rest of my life making her cry from pleasure instead of pain.
"One more time, Ptichka." My voice came out rough. Destroyed. "One more, and then I'll give you everything."
She sobbed.
But she nodded.
I lowered my mouth again. Found her clit with my tongue, her g-spot with my fingers, and set a rhythm designed to shatter her. Hard and fast now, no teasing, no building—just relentless pressure that pushed her toward the edge like a wave crashing toward shore.
