Shay tosses her keys into her bag and pauses by the door.
"Try not to destroy the sheets," she grins. "I just did laundry."
Daddy raises an eyebrow. Doesn't respond.
Just reaches for Babygirl's waist and pulls her close.
"We'll lock up," he murmurs.
Shay winks at Babygirl and slips out, closing the door behind her.
The house exhales.
No jazz. No dishes. No voices.
Just quiet.
Daddy turns to her. Eyes slow, steady, loaded.
"Come with me."
She follows without question--bare feet on hardwood, still in his dress shirt from the night before.
The one that smells like him.
Still slick between her thighs.
Still full.
He leads her down the hall to the spare room.
The bed is made. Sunlight stretches across the duvet.
It smells like clean linen and what's left of last night.
He closes the door behind them.
Locks it.
"Lie back," he says.
"Don't move."
She's waiting on the bed when he walks in.
The hallway light spills behind him, framing his broad shoulders like a warning.
Or a promise.
She's in his dress shirt.
Nothing underneath.
Laid out like a gift.
Daddy pauses in the doorway, watching her like he's deciding which part to unwrap first.
She wriggles a little under his stare--nervous, aching, ready.
"You been good?" he asks, voice low and thick.
"Uh huh, yes Daddy" she says. "I tried to be..."
His eyes darken.
"Let me see."
She parts her legs, slow and sweet. Like she knows this is part of the ritual.
Her inner thighs are sticky.
Her pussy's glistening--hot, swollen, begging.
"Fuck, sweetheart," he growls. "You dripped for me."
He drops to his knees.
His hands are warm and rough on her thighs as he leans in and licks a single, deliberate stripe up her slit.
She gasps.
Then he dives in.
Tongue circling, flicking, sucking, feasting.
He drinks her down like she's his favourite fucking flavour.
And she can't stop moving--rocking her hips, grabbing fistfuls of the sheets, moaning his name on every exhale.
"Oh my god, Daddy--oh--right there--"
He growls against her clit, palms pressing her thighs open as he locks in.
Her first orgasm hits like lightning.
Her back arches, her thighs squeeze, her voice goes high and desperate.
It's not gentle--it's shattering.
And he stays with her through it, licking her through the quake until her legs start to tremble.
"Sensitive--can't--" she whimpers.
He lifts his mouth just enough to murmur:
"Yes you fucking can."
Then slips two fingers inside her.
She gasps--deep, needy, already pulsing again.
He curls them.
Finds her spot.
Rubs circles on her clit with his thumb.
She thrashes when it hits--this one even harder.
A gush of slick pours down his hand.
"That's it, Babygirl," he whispers.
"So wet for me. So fucking good."
She's panting now, hips twitching.
He strips slowly.
Lets her watch.
His cock is heavy and flushed, veins thick, tip already glistening.
She reaches for it instinctively--mouth open, eyes wide.
"Not yet," he says, wrapping a hand around her wrist.
"Turn over. On your knees."
She scrambles to obey--obedient, flushed, dripping.
He slides behind her and runs his cock through her folds, groaning at the feel of her.
"This pussy's soaked. You ready to be fucked, sweetheart?"
