“Will you… bathe me?” I ask. “Like a Daddy…”
His brows lift, just a fraction.
I rush to explain before the embarrassment can swallow me whole. “I just want to relax.Completely. And I think… I think I’d feel safer if you were there. Helping. Washing me. Like… like before, but gentle. No ropes. No punishment. Just… care.”
For a long moment he doesn’t move.
Then Ivan stands, slow and deliberate, and crosses the small space between us.
“I can do that,” he says quietly. “Of course.”
Relief floods me so fast my knees nearly buckle.
He steps past me into the bathroom, turns off the tap when the water is deep enough, then tests the temperature with his hand. Satisfied, he looks back at me.
“Undress,” he says. It’s not an order this time, more a gentle invitation.
I pull the T-shirt over my head and let it fall to the floor. Naked again, but this time there is no fear, no vulnerability laced with dread. Just trust, fragile and new.
Ivan offers his hand. I take it. He helps me step into the tub.
The heat envelopes me instantly—almost too hot, but exactly what I need. I sink down until the water laps at my collarbones, sighing as the ache in my muscles begins to loosen.
Ivan kneels beside the tub on the worn bathmat. He rolls up his sleeves, dips a washcloth into the water, squeezes it out, and begins.
He starts with my shoulders—slow circles, firm but careful, working the knots out one by one. The cloth glides over my skin, warm and slick. Then down my arms, lifting each one gently to wash the inside of my elbows, the tender undersides of my wrists where the ropes left faint pink marks that are already fading.
I close my eyes and let my head tip back against the tub rim.
He moves to my chest next—careful, reverent almost. The cloth traces the upper slopes of my pecs, circles my nipples without lingering too long, then down my stomach.Lower. Between my thighs as my cock bobs in the water, free and easy. He washes me there with the same patient attention, no teasing, no demand—just thorough, gentle care.
I feel my Daddy’s eyes on me the whole time.
When I open my own eyes again, he is watching—not predatory, not hungry in the way he sometimes is. Worshipful. Like I’m something precious he’s afraid he might break.
I reach up, cup his jaw.
“Get in with me,” I whisper. “Please.”
He exhales—a rough, shaky sound.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
I watch as Ivan stands. He pulls his shirt over his head, unbuttons his jeans, steps out of them. No underwear. Just him—broad shoulders, scarred chest dotted with tattoos, powerful thighs, and his cock already half-hard, thickening as he looks at me.
I feel a fresh rush of heat between my legs that has nothing to do with the bathwater.
He steps in behind me. The tub is barely big enough, but we make it work. I slide forward; he settles behind me, legs bracketing mine. His chest presses to my back. His erection nestles against the cleft of my ass—hot, insistent, but not demanding.
I lean back against him, sighing as his arms come around me.
For a long minute we just sit like that—skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat, water lapping gently.
Then I rock my hips. Just a little. Enough to slide along his length.
“Boy,” Ivan growls, a low groan in his throat.
