He took my right foot in his hand and kissed the instep.
He said, “I am going to name every part of you. You will not interrupt. You will not deflect. You will not, sweetheart, call yourself anything but beautiful for the rest of the night, and if you forget I will start over from the beginning.”
The bond hummed. It hummed in both arms now, and the well’s light grew thicker, brighter, the gold reflecting off the pale skin of my thighs and casting up into the hollow of my stomach.
He kissed the inside of my knee. The thigh. The inner thigh.
He drew in a breath. He looked up at me.
He waited.
I felt, acutely, the wetness between my legs. I felt the color in the well catch it, light it, paint it as a feature and not a flaw.
“Daddy—” I said.
“Yes, baby?”
“Will you—” I could not finish.
He finished it for me.
“Yes. I will worship you.”
He opened my thighs with his hands.
Rather than go straight for the place, he mapped. He set his hands at the curve of my hips, the outside first, then the inside, the thumbs at the crease where the thigh meets the body. He kneaded, gentle but insistent, working the muscle as if it was a thing he had to teach to open before it could relax into the work.
He praised every inch.
“The strength in this leg. The muscle here. The power in this quad, baby, do you know what it did to me to watch you skate?”
He kissed the upper thigh. Once, then again, then higher, until the kisses found the place where the wetness had gathered. He paused, mouth so close I could feel the breath of him on the skin.
“This is the most beautiful pussy in the seven realms,” he said.
The word shocked me. I flinched.
He stopped.
He looked up.
He put one hand at my breastbone.
“Repeat it.”
The blood went hot in my face. I could not.
He said, “It’s a contract, sweetheart. You wrote it. Touched without apology. Praised without flinching. You will do it for me. You will say it for me, once, and after that I will put my mouth on it, and after that you may flinch if you need to, but not until then. Do you understand.”
The will to please him, the old coach’s instinct, rose in me. It broke over the top of the shame.
“It’s the most beautiful pussy in the seven realms,” I said.
He smiled. He pressed his lips softly to my clit, a priest kissing a relic.
“Good girl.”
The praise came with a surge up my arm, through my chest, into the apex of me.
