He really is putting me in a diaper.
This has to be a dream. Some incredibly bizarre, hyper-realistic dream. I know you can’t feel pain in a dream, but really, it’s the only explanation that makes any damnsense.
I retreat behind that theory, allowing myself to be moved as if in a trance while he strips my shirt from me, leaving me clad in nothing but a diaper in front of these people I once called family. Soft, silky rope wraps around my wrists, binding my hands together in some horrific mimicry of the handfasting ceremonies I witnessed some of my friends performing together back in New York.
And then I’m on my knees, a not-so-virgin sacrifice worshiping at the feet of this hedonistic god I’m about to be given over to. Daddy grips my chin, tilting my head back, his thumb brushing over my trembling bottom lip.
“My pretty little Josie. Finally back where she belongs.”
Something in his tone wraps around my heart, squeezing tight. Reminding me of why I was so devastated to lose him all those years ago.
Nobody has ever seen me the way he has. Nobody before or since has ever peered into the darkest parts of my soul and loved me anyway.
Another confirmation this is some fucked-up dream. My subconscious working through my loss. I must have seen someone who looked enough like him to trigger those old memories, and this is what I get.
Since it’s a dream, I don’t bother to fight when he gently pries my mouth open. Or when he unzips his jeans, revealing a cock far larger than I remember.
Perks of sex in the dream world, I guess.
Even in my dreams, I don’t want to miss a second with him. So as I take him deep into my mouth, the salty taste of his cock coating my tongue, I peer up at him through my lashes, determined to watch as I take him like the good fucking girl I am.
Likehisgood fucking girl.
The tip of his cock bumps against the back of my throat and I choke. Horror wells inside me as I struggle to breathe through my nose. Everyone’s heard that if you die in a dream, you die in the real world, and I’m not really looking to test that hypothesis.
But my hands are bound tight so I can’t push him away. And his hand is in my hair, holding me in place, so I can’t pull back.
I’m stuck.
Right where he wants me.
Fuck.
“Relax, bug. The more you fight me, the more it’s going to hurt.”
There’s a hint of amusement in his tone that tells me he wouldn’t mind at all if it hurts. That it won’t bother him in the least to have me gagging and choking on his cock.
Great. My subconscious is a fucking sadist.
But I still have no desire to test the “die in your dreams, die in real life” theory, so I listen to my inner sadist. I relax my throatas much as I can and I drag in what air I’m able to through my nose as he fucks my mouth with deep, slow thrusts.
“That’s it, baby,” he croons, and even in my dreams I preen at his praise. “You’re so goddamn perfect like this, on your knees with Daddy’s cock down your pretty throat. It’s been torture without you, bug, but now that I have you back I’m never letting you go again.”
Is that a threat or a promise? Maybe both, which makes sense because itfeelslike both. Perhaps if I wasn’t, you know, on my knees choking on his cock it would feel more like a promise, but all things considered…
Yeah. It definitely feels like both.
The hand in my hair tightens as he lets out a low groan, his hips snapping against my face as I continue to gag around the length of him. Drool slides down my cheeks—because even in this dream world I’m not to be sparedthathumiliation, it seems—and tears pool in my eyes with every increasingly forceful thrust.
Until, at long, long last, he stills, and the hot, salty taste of him pours down my throat. When he pulls away with a satisfied hum, he cups my chin once more, this time rubbing my drool and tears into my skin.
“Are you going to use your mouth like a good girl from now on, Josephine? Or is Daddy going to need to remind you every morning what the difference between a good Little girl and a naughty Little girl is?”
“I-I’ll be good, Daddy.” My voice is rough from his abuse, my throat raw and aching, but even as he’s threatening to face-fuck me every day, there’s a tenderness to his words that claws at my heart.
Just a dream. He sounds tender because that’s what you would want from him if he came back.
An approving smile curves his lips. “Sweet little bug. Your Auntie Gray has a couple more accessories for you and then you’ll be ready for our wedding.”
