Anything and Everything

She waits for him, with the lights dimmed and her bedroom warm. She slips off her clothes but doesn't look at her reflection. She knows he will join her soon, so she hurries, shivering as the last of her clothes slide to the floor. It is warm enough in the bedroom; the shiver is anticipation, desire.

Excitement builds in her belly as he enters the bedroom, eyes moving over her. She holds her breath as she returns the look from the bed where she now lies waiting as he's told her to, studying his expression as he closes the door, sealing them from the world. His dark eyes remain on her as she gazes at him shedding his own clothes, a layer of material he doesn't need. His movements are slow and relaxed as he meets her look, teasing her, already knowing what she wants.

His naked body, once exposed, is far more beautiful than hers, every muscle toned as if he is a living bronzed statue. Dark hair curls on his chest and she knows how it will feel against her soft breasts. She shivers again, anticipating the textures of him under her hands -- skin so hot and smooth beneath hard muscle, callused hands rough on her body. She revels in the rasp of his rough, large hands on her, like sand, like warm, tingling sand all over her. The stroking of those large hands can make her shiver and shake, make her wet, make her want.

He is still looking at her as he tosses his clothes on the chair, and her eyes move from his broad chest to his flat belly, down to the part of him that excites her most. Her mouth dries instantly as she sees how ready his cock is, how large and proud. She wants so badly to touch him, to run her own soft palm up and down his hot smooth shaft, to wrap her fingers around it, kiss the tip and lick the pearl of pre-cum.

But, as always, he makes her wait. He stands beside the bed, eyes ranging over her body. When one hand hovers over her breasts to cover them he stops her with a word.

"No," he commands, and though she is still shy when he insists she lies like this, exposed and naked for him, she drops her arm, staring back up at him.

"No," he says again. "Don't move."

Lying still she watches him come slowly forward, one knee resting on the bed beside her. She is naked as he wanted her and the thought stains her cheeks with heat. He has told her before she must never hide from him, must do as he says. But sometimes she hesitates, as much as she wants him, knowing she is young and not beautiful like the other women before her. And he has all his years of experience -- a man almost old enough to be her father -- almost. A man who has made love to countless beautiful women -- it is no secret. He doesn't boast, but she knows about his women -- all those before her.

She is aware that she is not like them -- beautiful and sleek. She is all curves, rounded hips and soft thighs. There are no planes to her. His women were experienced, like him. She is young and cannot pretend indifference or composure. And, her eagerness, her wanting of him is plain for to see. She wishes she could hide it but she cannot -- just as she cannot refuse him anything, everything he wants from her.

"Don't move," he says again, lower this time and her eyes, for a second downcast, move to his face. He is watching her. As she meets his dark gaze he lifts one large, callused hand; letting it fall to her shoulder, sliding it slowly down her arm, her hip, her thigh then up over her bare sex, across her belly. She shudders at the friction of rough skin on soft, the heat that transmits from him to her, instantly warming her wherever he explores. She trembles inside as she feels her body's response, a rush of warmth between her thighs, a tightening in her belly. Everything inside her melts for him.

She is still as a marble statue, he thinks as his hand runs up her body, pausing again at her shoulder, all except her eyes, so full of excitement and desire. She is so much more than lifeless marble, always ready, hot and wantonly wet; so eager for him. Her eagerness makes him harder than he ever thought possible though he doesn't tell her this. Her skin is so pale and soft that sometimes, without intention he leaves faint bruises on her skin. He kisses them away afterward but they remain a reminder of how delicate and soft she is, and how wild she can make him.

He understands what she wants; his movements exquisitely slow as he taunts her, aware she will be wet already, hot for him. He cups her face, looking down into eyes as dark as chocolate, skin as pale as cream. There is a faint flush of pink along her cheekbones and her red full lips glisten with invitation.

His large fingers radiate warmth, the scent of his skin is so familiar and overpowering that another rush of desire wets her thighs. She wants him in every way, to do whatever he wishes, anything and everything. His rough tipped fingers rub her cheek. She longs to close her eyes as she imagines him sliding them, hard and rough inside her body until they are soaked in her liquid, in the scent of her. She almost closes her eyes as she pictures him. He stops her.

"Look at me." And, she does. She always obeys, always surrenders. She opens her eyes wide.

"Kiss me."

She knows what he wants, reads it in the shifting of his eyes from her to his own body. Slowly she moves until her mouth is a breath from his shaft. She can feel the heat from him, smell him and she is overwhelmed with need and desire. Pleasure, she wants to give him so much pleasure that perhaps, for an instant, she can make him forget the other women he's lain with and think her beautiful. It is just an illusion of course, a wild hope. He will never tell her she is beautiful, because she is not compared with the others. Yet each night she lives this fantasy -- that he will own her, want her, desire her more than anything else. That she will be enough.

Her lips quiver as she kisses the tip of his heavy shaft then laps like a cat licking up cream from a dish. Slowly, slowly she takes him into her mouth. She loves to suckle him, to feel the weight of him against her tongue and lips. She caresses his satin smooth, steel hard shaft with her soft hands as her tongue plays and licks and seeks, as she laps up the tiny salty drops of his seed. Her slender fingers glide down to capture his heavy sacs, caressing them tenderly. He twines his fingers in her dark hair as he bites back the moan that rises to his throat, of pleasure and agony. Everything she does makes him want her, urges him to open her soft thighs now and plunge into her waiting cunt, to bury his cock deep in her womb. Her mouth does that to him. It is exquisite torture.

"Stop."

She wants to continue but she takes her lips from him as his fingers leave her hair. She is afraid suddenly to look at him. What if he has had enough? What if he no longer wants her? It is her greatest fear.

He leaves the bed, walking away while her eyes drink in the tantalising arch of his bronzed back, the defined line of his spine that she loves to kiss, her mind whirling with questions unanswered. Why did he stop? Will he leave now? Is he not pleased? She is aching for him. The need is stronger than she had ever thought possible; it overrides anything else, everything. She wants to cry, never meaning to love him or crave what he gives her so much. She had, mistakenly, thought that she could hide a part of herself from him after he took her that first time on his desk, so fiercely demanding that she came again and again. It wasn't possible of course to remain aloof. He was not the kind of man to allow it.

Now she is his prisoner, waiting for release. He is her gaoler. He holds the key. It is in his experience, the sheer beauty of his body, the touch of his large, callused hands, the scent of him, his mouth, and his dark eyes.

When he turns with a rose the colour of blood in his large hand she holds her breath, stares as he returns to the bed, kneels again beside her. Holding the long stem he brings the flower down until it rests on her skin, against her white shoulder. He drifts it along her body, up and over her round breasts, the petals' tips brushing her already hardened pink nipples until they are tight and hot. His eyes remain on her breasts as her breathing catches then quickens against the silken petals. He kisses her nipples where the rose has touched, sucking first one then the other into his warm, wet mouth. Beneath him she moans and whimpers as he worships her with swollen flesh.

He recalls the times he has forced himself not to suck the beautiful orbs, to refrain from tearing her shirt off to expose them, mouth them. He'd pretended not to notice the round fullness of them or the hard pointed nipples for weeks after she came to work for him. Only when he was buried deep in her womb that first time, taking her wildly on his desk, did he finally allow himself to taste them. Cock aching he remembers the thrill of suckling and biting them as he filled her again and again with his seed, his hand covering her mouth so they weren't heard.

His mouth has her arching and moaning, the scent of rose rising to meet him as his hands stroke her round breasts, as he feasts on her. He slides the rose to her lips then follows its sweet trail, devouring her full pouting mouth with his. She is lost in the kiss even as the rose is traced lower, lower until it lies against the apex of her soft thighs. The rose leaves its scent on the bare lips of her sex as he kisses her mouth, presses his tongue into her, offering her a teasing glimpse of what will come. When he lifts his mouth she almost moans, no, but she cannot say no. She cannot deny him what he must have, what she most wants. She never has, and never will.

"Are you wet for me little girl?"

He touches the rose petals to her sex, so hot, so wet for him. Without warning he is moving down her body to inhale the mixed scent of woman and arousal, sex and sweet summer rose. Her already slick entrance is covered only by the blood red flower. She is aching and wanting, and she cannot answer him.

"You are, aren't you little girl?" His eyes on her are hot with lust, demanding an answer.

"Yes," she whispers as he replaces the rose with his large, rough fingers, running them along her slit, coating them in her moist desire, her need for him.

"What a naughty girl you are getting wet for Daddy so quickly," he croons as he suddenly, unexpectedly slides one large finger inside her. She gasps with pleasure, at the sensation and the words. Tonight he is her Daddy, her protector, her everything. He is inside her, his finger playing, probing; fucking her.

"How wet will you get for Daddy?" he asks as he slides another digit into her and she moans again, unable to answer, her liquid gushing over him. Instinctively her hand wraps around his shaft. She wants so desperately...

"You can't have me yet."

He moves back so she is forced to roll to her side if she wants to keep touching him -- and she does, she must. As he slides a third finger into her she cannot hold herself back. She is over him, encasing his cock in her mouth, needing the taste and weight of him in some part of her body. She rocks on his fingers as she imagines they are his hard, demanding cock, that he is filling the the way he did that first time on his desk, calling her in -- just a favour, his young assistant helping him. She moans as she remembers kneeling before him, the taste and feel of his cock between her lips, the fierce penetration of him inside the slick folds of her cunt, his hand over her mouth to stop her screams. She had wanted him inside her from the moment she walked into the office. She thought she was too young, not pretty enough, not his kind of woman until he took her that day, pushing aside her white panties, thrusting into her so hard and fast and frenzied that she was instantly aroused, instantly his.

Now he fucks her with his large, callused fingers as he watches her swallowing him, devouring him greedily between her full red lips. Those lips had driven him crazy for weeks. He fantasised about them, stroked his shaft as he imagined them wrapped around his cock as they were now, milking him, the white of his cum on her rosy mouth. It was her lips that tempted him take her on his desk only weeks after she'd begun as his assistant. Her lips tempted him to take her in forbidden, wild pleasure. And now he wants to cum so badly that sweat breaks out along his body. For long moments she consumes him, twirling her tongue, suckling, drawing him in and out forgetting that she is not like the other women he's had. She is here, he is here -- and she will give him everything. As he pleasures her, fucking her with his fingers, drenching her thighs she closes her eyes. It is too much and yet not enough. The scents of sex and rose fill the air and she is suddenly wild with need.

"Please," she begs as she lifts her head from his cock to find he has the faint flush of desire on his own skin, his eyes smoke dark. Her heart skips. Could he, for just moment, want her as much as she does him? Hope fills her. As the rose, abandoned now, sheds its blood coloured petals on the white satin sheet she recalls the smear of blood on her virgin's panties after he took her that first day. The memory triggers an even fiercer yearning for him to ride her, take her, fuck her hard and fast.

"Please what little girl, Daddy's sweet little baby?" He is teasing her, withdrawing his body, his fingers, leaving her abandoned, and wet and wild at what he calls her, what she wants. She is desperate as she watches him retreat to the end of the bed, his body displayed and glorious, unavailable. He looks back at her as he kneels inches away, his proud shaft, wet from her mouth, a tease to her eyes. He knows what she wants, but he is in control, he sets the pace.

She opens her soft white thighs displaying her cunt as he has his cock, a heady temptation. She is hot and wet for him. "Please," she begs.

"Do you want Daddy to -- fuck you little girl?" She shudders as he stares with lust at her glistening pussy. The way he says the word "fuck" is so thrilling. He never uses it outside these moments, never without the intent of entering her body, of taking her.

"Yes yes, yes," she moans, already arching, rolling her round hips, biting her lip to stop herself from begging again and again. Her craving for him is excruciating and thrilling. She was wet for him before he entered the room, the anticipation of him had her hot and ready. She was wet long before he gave her a signal that should she go and undress. He could have had her on the floor a second after he closed the door -- or before closing it. She would have welcomed him either way, any way; the hard thrust of his body, his penetration of hers. She is aching, her body drenched with her need.

"What will you do for Daddy if he fucks you?" he asks as he slides his own hand down his cock then up, down and up, stroking as he watches her watching him. It is his secret thrill that she is so much younger, so untried till he took her, and so incredibly eager for him. He knows he could have her anywhere, anytime. He thinks of cumming on her swollen breasts with their pointed nipples, or on her full red lips, or her drenched cunt as he strokes himself rhythmically for her. Her wide dark eyes are riveted by his movements, the inside of her mouth moistening at the tang of his taste, the remembered weight of him in her mouth. She watches him, warm liquid pooling between her soft thighs. She moans, opening her thighs wider, imagining him thrusting inside her, filling her so she is complete -- for just a few minutes -- complete.

"Anything," she promises only to see is gaze focus with sudden intensity, as if he has only now seen what's on offer. Anything, he knows she will keep her promise.

"And everything for your Daddy," he tells her, dictates, as he covers her. She is suddenly, roughly captured beneath him, splayed and open and vulnerable. He enters her with one brutal thrust, and she cries out in relief, gratitude. At last he is filling her, possessing her. She is consumed by his body's heat and the rhythm of his movements, filling her overtaking her. She follows him, fast or slow, whatever pace he sets for them. She is ready to do it all, anything, everything he wants and demands.

As the momentum takes him over, he makes promises -- how he will make love to her, fuck her, pleasure her. And, as every word spills over her skin the need burns hotter, grows stronger. Behind her eyes she sees every promise fulfilled, feels the intensity of the pleasure he will gain and give her. The road to fulfilment is so easy, he gives it with a few words, promises, or even more shocking and intoxicating, the names he calls her -- his little girl, his slut, his whore. Yes, she cries. She wants to hear the words he says and will be all those things for him -- his slut, his whore, his little girl.

"Daddy's cock is so hard for his little girl," he growls, and her orgasm is quick and blinding at the words, at the other promises that fall from his lips into her ear. His warm breath touches her burning skin as her body captures him, holds him inside, as her soft wet walls embrace his shaft. He tells her that he loves the way she is such a slut for him, so wet for him and what a naughty little girl she is for being so hot, so ready to take his cock. When she feels the heat of him burn inside her, his satin coated shaft so hard, she cums again. She cums with a cry of "Daddy" as she drenches him, and all control is lost.

"Sweet baby, Daddy's going to fuck you little girl, fuck you so hard. I'm going to fill you baby," at the harsh promise he lifts her legs to his shoulders so he can hammer into her. She flops like a doll at his wild onslaught, thrilling as he thrusts and thrusts harder and harder, faster and faster. He fucks her deep and long, fulfilling his promise as he floods her with his seed again and again; roaring his completion, and she cums once more breathlessly, silently.

For a few seconds they are fused; one being, one body, two hearts. When he rolls from her she is empty, like a shell left on a beach. She wants to ask him to hold her, stroke her body but she doesn't ask. He will only do those things if he wishes.

Tonight it seems he does, returning to lie with her, encircling her lush body with one arm, clasping her against his sweat moistened skin. She inhales the musk of sex and man and is once again aroused, ready. He senses her need, sliding his large, rough fingers into her again, fucking her with them; one, two, three, four as he kisses her full red lips. The fingers fill her; so large and brutal in her tight, drenched pussy, and she moans with pleasure and pain.

"Such a good little baby," he growls into her ear as he fists her, fucks her with one hand, the other rubbing and pinching her hard tingling nipple. When his mouth covers the breast, sucking her hard she is almost there, almost...

"Cum for me little girl, oh you sweet slut, cum for me now," he demands and she obeys, surrenders, convulsing around him aching and wet, her cries caught in his mouth as he kisses her deeply

He wants her too much, more than any other woman he has cum over or in. He wants her more than he expected, and because of it, when her body is sated and she lies quiet, he moves away. She closes her eyes against his now distant gaze as they lie side by side, inches of white satin sheet between them. His mind has already shifted direction. She was an interlude, a pleasurable distraction. But, now he is caught up in other things. It's a man's way she supposes though she's too young to be sure. He is, after all, her first and only lover.

Sometimes she wishes she could follow his thoughts as easily as her body follows his in the dance of sex. Instead she remains silent, contemplating his face while he is elsewhere. She memorises every groove and line. She seals the images in her mind's eye for another time. She carries them with her and takes them out when she is alone, tasting them like bitter sweet fruit. He loves her only for a few moments -- loves that her body craves his and she will do whatever he wishes, loves that she will be whatever he wants, slut, whore, his little girl. She will do anything, for him. And, she loves him -- he is everything.