You Want Me to Call You, What?
Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Heterosexual, DomSub, MaleDom, Spanking, Oral Sex,
Desc: BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 1 - A couple's journey into ageplay. By the time this story is finished, I hope to have adequately described the 'what, where and why' of ageplay, at least for one couple. I thought this would be a good challenge. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, then look at this like a documentary. This is NOT an incest story. Please note the final chapter contains no sex. It is somewhat of an explanation, but you might have to fill in the blanks yourselves.
So, I was shallow. By twenty I'd tried just about everything sexual a college girl could try, and with a few exceptions I'd loved it all. From being fingered in the back of a taxi to sucking off a virtual stranger with an audience, I'd done a hell of a lot for a girl who wasn't considered to be a slut.
But I didn't suffer fools well. I could be callous and dismissive, a prize bitch if the circumstances dictated. We had such fun ganging up on guys who 'didn't stack up' in our immature, college girl opinions. When they asked to buy us drinks or asked for dances, we always had something practiced, something that would not just reject, but humiliate.
We did that.
We even rehearsed responses and planned what to say if a conversation took a particular course. You don't really think we concocted that stuff on the spot, do you?
And yet, somewhere deep inside, I felt like I was being naughty... that I shouldn't really be that way.
I was a fraud.
I didn't fit the profile of 'well-heeled bitch'. I didn't have the passion or the ambition. I certainly didn't have the virtually unlimited funds. Being good-looking and aloof was enough to get me in with the 'beautiful people' for at least a semester or two, and I took full advantage. But in the back of my mind, I always knew.
There were bits hanging out. Bits I tried not to think about. Bits that if my friends knew, they'd think I'd lost my marbles. Ugh... It's not even as serious as all that. I mean, it seems like it, but the difference between them and me was so small... so minute. It was ludicrous to even bring it up. It didn't happen all the time. Only sometimes... And only with certain guys...
Only with certain types of guys.
The difference was, I had buttons, and if you knew how to push them, I'd turn into a kitten in a blink of an eye.
The white knight fantasy never appealed to me. I had the 'gentleman/tiger' fantasy. A gentleman till he got me in the sack, and a tiger till I was satisfied. At the time it seemed like sound feminist ideology. 'It's about time we turned the tables on this 'lady in public, whore in the bedroom' bullshit.' We even laughed about it.
Even before that, I was pretty bent I guess. Back in high school I submerged myself in the shapeless, androgenous Goth culture. Dying my hair and doing my best to ignore everyone who wasn't wearing black made high school bearable. Besides, that way I could ignore the curvy young woman I was becoming. My parents freaked when they discovered my tattoos, but they never cottoned on to the tongue stud. Thank God. I couldn't have explained it truthfully. "Well, Mom, I actually fancy myself as a good cocksucker, and thought the guys would really like it."
I don't think so. As weird as my parents were, they were 'straight-weird', and not 'bend-weird'.
By the time high school graduation rolled around, I was due for a change. My turd of a boyfriend broke up with me and I spent summer vacation getting a makeover, thanks to Mom. When I arrived at college, I'd shed everything but the aloof attitude, becoming suddenly and insanely popular, partying with the 'in' crowd of cheerleaders, football players and the faculty themselves.
I don't know if it was the partying or what, but my grades suffered and within a year and a half I'd decided college wasn't really for me. I dropped out, taking a job in a company where a girlfriend worked. By this time, apart from the barbed wire tattoo on my upper arm, the Celtic tattoo across the top of my ass, and my pierced tongue, I was like any other office girl. I worked from nine to five, kept my eye out for a rich partner and partied on the weekends with my buds.
It was the best of both worlds, really. I still partied on campus with my college friends and I also bar hopped with the girls from work. They were good times. I enjoyed quite a few guys over those couple of years, progressively pushing the ones I liked into treating me more and more firmly. It was entirely unsatisfactory of course. Dominating men in order to be dominated simply attracted the wrong type, and on more than one occasion I had to throw a guy out. I was just glad I was strong enough to do it.
By the time I turned twenty-two all I was interested in was shopping, wearing the latest styles, and whether my next fuck would be rich enough to keep me interested. Back then, if they weren't up to standard or they didn't have the right attitude, I started looking elsewhere.
One night on my way home after working late, I decided on a whim to stop at a cocktail bar for a nightcap. It looked like a really nice place, and while I almost never went anywhere alone, something told me to stop and get a cocktail. As soon as I'd walked in the door, the handsome, well-dressed older guy talking to the barman caught my attention. I sauntered up and slid a barstool under my ass, ordering a daiquiri and wondering why I hadn't dropped in sooner.
He was both sober and funny which was great. Before long I was getting horny and wanted to fuck him, but something told me just to let it play out. We talked and joked and God I had fun. Three drinks later I couldn't drive my car, but I only lived around the corner. Like a gentleman he didn't pressure me at all, offering to walk me home. I slipped my arm through his and we walked quietly until we approached the front entrance to my apartment building, where he told me how much he'd enjoyed the last couple of hours, kissed my forehead, then turned to leave. Oh, my God! I thought. He's not even going to get my number!
I took a risk and told him the truth. I said I liked him and wanted to get to know him better. He turned on the pavement with his hands in his pockets and looked into my eyes. I swallowed as five seconds of silence ticked by.
"All right," he said, the corners of his mouth curving into a smile.
I remember fumbling with the key in the lock and looking up at him. He seemed so much taller when I was close to him. It was weird. Yet here I was, falling over my words and trying to keep my hands from shaking. He took my keys from me and opened the door for us. Inside I made coffee and we sat on either end of my couch, talking all night, and I couldn't help but smile when the sun finally came up.
We spent almost all the next day together. Around mid-morning we decided to go to the zoo where we had a scream naming the animals after famous people. Ugh... maybe you had to be there... Anyway, we met up with a couple of my girlfriends for coffee at about three in the afternoon, and it was clear they didn't like him. I became defensive more quickly than I ever had, wondering why they couldn't see what I saw. We left after twenty minutes of uncomfortable banter, walking back to the cocktail bar to find our cars, swapping numbers then heading our separate ways.
But like I said, I was shallow back then, and after a week of shit from my friends about Stephen's wrinkles and receding hairline, I'd started to wonder myself. I mean, don't get me wrong. He was a good-looking guy. The premature grey over his temples gave him a very distinguished look, particularly in a suit, and though he was ten years my senior, he was definitely fit enough to keep up with me. I doubted there was much more than a few ounces of fat on him. Oh, I don't know what was wrong with me. I just didn't think it would work out, even though the lump in his pants intrigued me.
Little did I know I was playing with fire. Stephen had a budding interest in kink of his own, having investigated the BDSM lifestyle for an article he wrote and finding himself progressively more involved in it. He had pretty firm ideas about the woman he wanted, and while I had caught his eye, he hadn't really considered me seriously, particularly after I started putting off meeting him again. My friends hadn't helped either.
I wished I knew what it was about him. When I was talking to him on the phone, it was like we'd known each other for years. But as soon as I got off the phone, I was able to fortify myself for his next call, committed to defying him again. Eventually I fucked up with my 'previous engagements', and found myself agreeing to a meal at his place.
Ugh... fuck. Okay, 'shallow alert' again.
I was impressed. He had a top floor apartment that was huge and amazing and hired help and God knows what else. I wondered how a journalist could afford such a place until he chuckled at my slack jaw and explained, "The books paid for it". When he pointed out a couple of large, hardcover books in his bookcase, I still had no idea. I picked one up and was wondering what I was looking at when it finally dawned on me. "You are the Stephen Cavanaugh? The photo-journalist?"
He chuckled and said, "One and the same."
All I could do was shake my head. Stephen Cavanaugh was cooking me dinner. The Stephen Cavanaugh. Wait till I tell my girlfriends! I thought. NOW they'll be impressed. God. I was so clueless. Here I was, wondering how Cavanaugh sounded as a last name, while he was planning to shock the crap out of me, and if necessary, kick me out with a few choice words ringing in my ears. He was having fun with me!
He turned on the charm and I teased him mercilessly. It was like two prizefighters dancing and sparring, snapping jabs and taking a couple to the body. Only he was a heavyweight, and I was cannon fodder. With the benefit of hindsight I now know he felt like there was nothing to lose. Quite frankly, I was thinking the same way, especially as the magic of our first night together seemed to rush back at us. I saw it in his eyes too. Something changed. Years later, when he clued me in on what he'd been thinking, he said he saw something in my eyes that was 'worth the gamble'.
After a bottle of fine wine, good food and music, we danced right there in his apartment. I was pretty excited feeling his big prick pushing against my tummy. I hadn't had a decent reaming in months, and the way he was taking charge was exciting and strangely liberating. Swaying slow and close, he was telling me what he was going to do to me as he danced me into his bedroom. I had no idea whether he was trying to shock me or not, but he was certainly 'pushing my buttons'.
Suddenly I was eager, but oh how he teased me, pinching my nipples and blindfolding me, then tying my hands behind my back with a scarf before fucking me into oblivion with his baseball bat of a cock.
From that night forward I knew Stephen was more than I could handle. Here was a man I could look up to, who wouldn't take my shit and who knew way more than I did about truth and honesty. The following year was a tough one for me and I stumbled and took plenty of spankings before I learned to control my temper and be the way I wanted to be. Plus my friendships took a beating. They just weren't fun any more and only a few of them survived.
After a year of intense fucking, and I mean 'better than I've ever had' intense, I figured I couldn't be blamed for saying 'yes' when he asked me to marry him. What I can say is, I changed a lot during our engagement.
Less than twenty-four hours after proposing, he dropped the bombshell. He was into D/s and S and M and BDSM and God knows what else. My head spun and I wondered what the hell I was getting into, not to mention the supposed need for honesty this 'Lifestyle' apparently required... something he had conveniently forgotten during our courting.
Amazingly and quite calmly, he explained that he wouldn't be upset if I called it off. Taking away my first defence left me, well, defenceless, and I had to deal with it head-on instead of skirting around it and blaming him for lying to me. Seeing as there was no pressure, and that he was willing to let me go if I couldn't handle it, really hit me out of the park. On the one hand it irked me that he could just give me up like that. Like I didn't mean anything to him. Like he didn't love me. He said he wanted me to choose with full knowledge. I couldn't argue with that, even though I was a bit frightened. But he didn't seem like a sadist or anything.
Somehow he convinced me to 'just try it'. Damn, I don't know why I didn't run a mile. But I was so thankful I didn't. That 'something in my eyes that was worth a gamble', turned into so much more.
I was no fool. I knew I showed my blondeness on occasions, which may or may not have been 'really me', depending on my mood, but hey, I kind of liked being allowed to be silly. I liked having an excuse if I 'just didn't get it'. I liked being able to say, 'I'm sorry but I really don't understand what you mean, even if I thought I did.'
There was something about me that liked exactness. I LIKED knowing exactly what to do to turn him on. I liked being told what to do. When he said, 'Show me your cunt.' I knew lifting my skirt and spreading my legs pleased him. It was written all over his face! He was getting exactly what he wanted, and he was getting it from me! And that turned me on!
Okay. Okay. So, what happened to the girl who was more concerned with what she got than what she gave? Okay, well, she got fucked. There was no way I was going anywhere. I was 'cock-whipped'.
The day after I said I'd give it a try, he told me I could only wake him with kisses. No words. Ever. I didn't even think about it. Well, that's not true. I thought, if I had to be woken up, that's how I'd like it too, so to me, it wasn't illogical in the least.
Lo and behold, I haven't been woken any other way since. Whenever he's been up first, and had to wake me, I've had the delightful and repeated experience of being woken by someone softly kissing me.
Then I got spanked. And that changed everything.
About a month into our engagement we had an argument. It was stupid and I flew off the handle over nothing, like forgetting cream for my coffee or something pathetic. I actually think I was hormonal, but I didn't want to admit that.
Why did simply getting into position across his lap make me wet? Why did the anticipation of correction affect me sexually? Maybe it was turning my back on everything my family and society expected of me... I don't know. I mean, today's women were not expected to be in this position.
And yet, I was more excited than I'd ever been, which scared me. For about sixty seconds. Yep, sixty seconds was all it took. One minute. One whole minute of biting my lip and worrying needlessly.
Of course he was going to make it good. One slap every five seconds, and not too hard, is good. I recommend it!
So, that was it. That was why I was here. Almost nine years later. A gamble taken over 'something in my eyes', a startling confession, and a realisation that I enjoyed structured domination. Simple as that.
My hair was back to the dirty blonde I was born with and though I slept with it out, I usually had it in a braided ponytail until the lights went off. I really liked having my hair held when I was getting it from behind, but it tugged too painfully for me with just a handful. In a ponytail the pain was spread more evenly over my scalp and it hardly even hurt, even when it was yanked, which I also kind of liked sometimes.
I also liked low-cut blouses or loose t-shirts with no bra so my nipples bounced like mice under a sheet. Being a great big tease, I loved seeing the leering looks guys gave me, and the red faces on the ones I caught doing it. I loved putting them in their place too, asking if they needed a flashlight or something. I wasn't really a full-blown exhibitionist. I just got a charge out of showing a little skin. I've always liked the admiring looks I got from women too, and funnily enough, even looks of disapproval revved me up for some reason. I was pretty competitive and I knew I looked good in just about anything. Maybe I just liked having a reputation, even if it was unjustified. Anyway, it was a free country and I could wear what I liked.
Well, as long as Stephen approved. And he approved of just about everything. He didn't have an insecure bone in his body. Which was great.
And of course, he also turned out to be the kind of guy who would have sex almost anywhere, anytime. At home, I mean. We wouldn't do it out in the open, I don't think. But he certainly didn't feel the need to take me to bed if he wanted to fuck me, which was why I'd taken to wearing the ponytail most of the time.
So, I knew I looked good, even if I looked my age. If you could get me into pigtails and makeup, I'd be lucky to pass for twenty-five. I have a little tummy despite my workouts. I call her KIM, short for 'keep in mind'. It doesn't really bother me, as long as my tits stay nice for a few more years. The point is, I'm a mature woman in my prime, and I'm proud of it. I don't wish I were younger.
There's something else I should explain. Unfortunately, as we found out a few years ago, God passed me by when he handed out the functioning ovaries. When it became clear I couldn't have kids, Stephen was so supportive and reassuring. Of course, I was devastated and thought myself less of a woman for a couple of months, but Stephen's consistent love and care soon brought me out of it. He has been a pillar for me, and has helped me open up and more honestly express what's on my mind. We've spent countless hours discussing needs and wants and I really couldn't be happier.
Even so, in all our discussions and all the reading we'd done, there was just one thing that had caught my eye that I hadn't confessed to him.
I didn't really know how I'd go about telling him, either. I knew I should. And I knew he had some knowledge of it. I'd seen a couple of dog-eared pages in chapters of books dealing with the subject. But I didn't know what he'd think of me if I confessed, and I'd given it a lot of thought.
I'd convinced myself he would think it was some kind of bizarre fulfilment of an incest fantasy revolving around my dear old Dad. Which was preposterous. I don't have an incestuous bone in my body. No one in my family has ever turned my eye that way. So I knew it wasn't that, even if Stephen suspected it.
So, either that, or I figured he'd think I'd developed into some kind of weirdo, filling in the blanks left by not being able to have children, by playing the role of a child myself. But it was only three years ago that I found out I couldn't conceive. And I've had these fantasies for about five years now. But would he believe me?
The odds seemed stacked against me, even though Stephen was a really good listener. Hell, it took me all this time to finally bring it up. What set me on the trail of confession was something Stephen always said. 'I'd take that gamble.' It was a phrase he used regularly, which sweetly harked back to our beginning days. I don't know why it hadn't occurred to me before, and I can't even remember what it was used in reference to, but it got me thinking that telling him was 'a gamble I should take'. After all, I was pretty sure I could show him it wasn't about my Dad or about filling some void in my life.
One lazy Sunday morning, while sharing the paper in bed, for some reason I put down the television magazine and blurted it out in the least cohesive manner possible. "Can you call me 'baby girl'?"
"Hmmm?" he asked, putting down the sport pages. "You want me to call you what?"
"Um, 'baby girl'," I replied, biting a nail and trying to look as cute as I could on the outside, while preparing to back-pedal a mile-a-minute on the inside. Before I knew it I was talking again. "And um, I want to call you, 'Daddy'." God, I thought, I've fucked this up so bad. I held my breath, wondering what he might say.
He stared into space, scratching the stubble on his chin for what seemed like minutes. "Well, yeah. I guess I can call you that," he said finally. "I've called you worse." He chuckled and I blushed. "But I'm not so sure about you calling me, 'Daddy'."
"Ohhh... " I whined, pouting. "Please let me, it'll be fun!" I don't know what I was thinking. Sometimes Stephen was much too quick witted for me. I was trying to recall all my thoughts on the subject while watching him in case he was making fun of me. My original plan was to make it a game, but I got derailed as soon as I opened my mouth. I'd hoped to somehow avoid talking about 'why'. It's just... Oh, I don't know. It's complicated!
He looked me in the eyes. "I don't know about that. What would your father think if he overheard you calling me, 'Daddy'?"
"I wouldn't call you 'Daddy' when he was here."
"I imagine that would be hard to explain."
"How about you try."
Ohhh! This wasn't going how I wanted. I hardly had time to think! "Um... I'm not sure if I know what you mean."
"Why don't you pretend I am your father and I just overheard you? Now, explain it."
"Oh. Sorry. Okay." I got comfortable, kneeling on the bed beside him and cleared my throat. "Um, Daddy?" Oh, my God. My jaw dropped as soon as I realised he had just turned the whole thing into his idea. A huge smile busted out on my face and I just sat back on my heels, shaking my head and blushing madly. I whispered, "That was very clever."
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, winking. "Go on. I haven't got all day."
"Yes, D... Daddy," I said, blushing even harder, looking down at my hands and tingling all over. I couldn't believe it was actually happening. "Well, I um, I don't want to replace you, Daddy. And I don't want to... Um, you know... Do it with you."
"I should hope not. The poor guy is what, sixty-five?" Stephen's laugh didn't last long when he realised I didn't think his joke was very funny.
"I can't do this if you don't take it seriously."
"You're right, baby. Sorry. C'mon, tell your Daddy what it's all about."
"Oh... It's not about you and me at all, Daddy. It's about an ideal. About bringing something ideal to what is already a special relationship. It's about a relationship I never had, with you or anyone... Where, um..."
"Where what, baby girl?"
Oh, man. It was like all the air got sucked out of my lungs. I gasped just hearing it. "W... Where it's the total. It's the everything. Everything I need or want. Without guilt. I can think in straight lines and I don't have to be clever... I... I can be innocent... Oh... I don't know how to explain it!" I looked into his kind brown eyes, realising with surprise that my own were brimming with tears. God, where did tears come from? "Please, this isn't about me and my father. I could never talk to him about this!"
Stephen nodded slowly, then turned toward me and crossed his legs. Resting his elbows on his knees, he clasped his hands together, and in a soft voice said, "So it's not about incest."
His nose was inches from mine. "No," I whispered.
"You have absolutely no desire to sleep with your father."
"None at all."
"And you never did."
"N... No, Sir."
"You hesitated. Are you sure?"
"Um. Well I certainly can't recall ever wanting to do anything more than see his dick. But I wanted to see everyone's dick, so I don't think that counts." My cheeks were burning. Where the hell did that come from? It was true of course, but I'd forgotten about it. "Um, but..."
"Well, I... it's... Ohhh..." I squeezed my knees together as hard as I could. My pussy was so itchy it was unbearable.
"Knees apart, hands on top and lean on them."
"Y... Yes, Sir." He knew me so well. When I leaned forward, the cut-off football shirt I was wearing fell forward, revealing a deep cleavage. And my damned shorts cut into me.
"Come on, tell me why you like the idea."
Oh, no. This was exactly why I shouldn't have brought this up. "I... I..." I was practically hyperventilating! It's not right to want this. He's going to think you are sick! "I... I like it because it's so nasty and nice at the same time!"
"What do you mean, 'nasty'?"
"I... I like being your nasty girl. Y... You know that."
"Hmmm. All right. I can see this has a physical effect on you," he said, his eyes drifting to my chest. I didn't need to look down to know my nipples were hard. They'd been aching for a few minutes and felt like they could cut glass.
"Oh, yes," I said, biting my lip and trying to hold his gaze.
"You really want to do this?" he asked. I nodded in agreement, wiping away a tear. "Okay. Well, I'm open-minded enough to indulge you a little, baby girl," he said, grinning.
"Really?" He nodded. "Oh! Thank you!"
"You can call me, Daddy, but just for today. We'll talk about this after dinner, and go from there. The jury is still out."
"Oh, wow!" I cried, jumping into his arms and wrapping mine around his waist. "Thank you so much!"
Tugging my ponytail gently, he said, "Yeah, okay. But any funny business and I call a halt, all right?" He let go of my hair and caressed my cheek.
I gulped and nodded quickly, whispering, "Yes, Daddy."
"Why do you suddenly seem cuter?"
I giggled and batted my eyelashes. I was still so nervous. "I don't know, Daddy. Maybe because it's all I know?"
Stephen just shook his head. "This is very weird."
"It's not going to work if you keep going in and out of character, Daddy."
"What if I have questions?"
"Oh. Well, in that case you should probably just ask them." He withdrew his hand from my hot cheek and I sensed the importance of what he was about to say. I kneeled up again, leaning back on my heels, sighing and watching his eyes.
"I don't want you to be 'my daughter'," he said. "You can be my 'baby' or my 'baby girl', or something similar, but I don't think I can do this, thinking about you as my actual daughter."
"I don't want to be your daughter. I want to be your baby girl, your innocent, nasty little plaything, Daddy. It makes my vagina all hot and wet, see?" The skin on my scalp prickled as I pulled down the front of my shorts. "See, Daddy?" My nipples were throbbing like mad.
Stephen tut-tutted before saying, "Daddy's little girl sure is excited. Now pull those pants back up, you naughty thing."
I shuddered, squishing my thighs together again. "Sorry, Daddy. That was bad, wasn't it?"
"Yes, it was. It wasn't the kind of behaviour I expect from my good little girl. And I do expect you to be my good little girl. Now pinch your nipples before I take you over my knee..."
Thoughts of how wrong this was had been pushed aside by the inexplicable joy I felt as I slid deeper and deeper into this bizarre subspace. Blood pounded in my nipples as I squeezed them and closed my eyes. My tummy was fluttering almost uncontrollably. I couldn't believe Stephen didn't think I'd gone stark raving mad. And yet here I was, making one of my most outrageous dreams come true! "Oh, God," I moaned, my head lolling on my shoulders. "Thank you, Daddy!"
Taking on a juvenile role was effortless, like it was made for me. My lurid fantasies burst into life and I wallowed in how depraved I felt. Fragments of memories seemed to bombard me. Like the fractured memory of wanting to see what a dick looked like, others assailed me as I rode down deep into my space. The chill of anticipation of an ass caning from my father, the only one I ever had... The wonder of sex, before I knew anything about it... The thrill of the power I felt, knowing I could make things happen if I was cute and sweet... Wonderful memories, suddenly turned into an exciting game.
Stephen slapped my hands away from my nipples, jarring them free. I shuddered even as my eyes flew open, ready to protest.
He held up his hand, demanding silence, his eyes dancing wickedly. "Don't think for a minute that you can just walk around here pulling on your nipples or showing off your vagina any time you like, young lady. That is not acceptable behaviour under my roof. Understood?"
"Y... Yes, Daddy," I replied breathlessly.
"In fact, why don't you go put on a skirt and we'll see what kind of self-control you have. Oh, and no panties, baby girl."
God. I was a wreck already. Within five minutes I'd become a sexual time bomb, a plethora of conflicting emotions. On the outside, I could be innocent and wide-eyed, ready to be corrupted. On the inside, I felt deliciously decadent, different and new. I swallowed and felt the beginnings of an orgasm, an honest to God orgasm stirring in the pit of my stomach. My pussy pulsed hotly, and I could feel how wet I was.
This is just how I want my domination, smashed into my head. I jumped off the bed and tore into my dresser, finding and changing into clothes to Stephen's liking. My breath was coming hard and loud. There was no stopping my hammering heart. By the time I kneeled by the side of the bed, looking up at him and feeling goose bumps breaking out all over my skin, I felt like I'd run a mile.
"It's interesting, you know," he said.
"W... What is, Daddy?"
"Well, this is giving me a hard on, just talking like this."
I gulped. It did? "W... What's a h... hard on, Daddy?" I asked, willing myself not to look.
Stephen was a little taken aback. "It's ah, it's when um, Daddy gets excited, baby."
"I don't understand, Daddy," I complained, twirling a lock of my curly, long blonde hair and looking up at him expectantly. I could feel a droplet of my juices slowly trickling around the curve of skin under my ass. I was drenched, and I felt like the dirtiest girl in the world.
Stephen cleared his throat. I glanced down and saw a little tiny wet spot where the end of his hard cock was. I kept staring at it and bit my lip.
Pointing right at his cock, my French-nailed fingertip barely an inch from it, I asked, "Daddy, why is it crying?"
He shook his head and chuckled. "I see we are going to have to have the 'birds and the bees' talk."
"The 'birds and bees' talk, Daddy?"