Thicker Than Water

"Good girl."

I stop choking her and she gasps anew, saliva dripping from her bottom lip and dappling her camisole. I put my middle and index finger together, then slide them into her mouth. She immediately sucks on them as if they were a pacifier, eyes shut, moan-humming. Both of her hands grip my forearm. I've stopped thrusting, too, and my right hand dives behind the front of her tanga, finding a sodden treasure betwixt her luscious thighs. My middle and ring finger curl backward, and then up into her. Meanwhile my forefinger presses into her upper left thigh, my pinky into her right. My right hand has basically formed an inverted 'metal horns' gesture.

With my two middlemost fingers inside of Lyssa's already wet pussy, her moaning around those in her mouth becomes more powerful. Her whole body quivers on top of my two fingers, which pale in comparison to the eagerness of my throbbing cock. But she can feel it, too, inert but far from inactive, like an idling V8 between her ass cheeks. The tip has exuded ample pre-cum onto her clothed tailbone.

"Don't ever lie to me again, Lyssa," I say, and begin jerking my fingers up and down, like an inverted jackhammer stimulating her pussy.

"Oh my God, daddy, I won't, I promise," she squeals fast and wet, slobbering over my fingers. More saliva drips onto her camisole-covered breasts, and some on the floor.

"That's my girl." I retract the thumb on my right hand from the sidelines to give it some responsibility. My wrist withdraws my middle and fingers from her pussy to simply massage her labia, while my thumb kneads her extended clit.

Lyssa's body jerks forward, and she inadvertently makes herself gag on my fingers. Then I pull them out of her mouth and lift her head up. I lean forward to kiss her, tongue exploring her throat. She moans into my mouth, body bucking back into me. In a non-penetrative manner, she rides my cock.

I remove my face from hers, along with both hands. They raise, arms curling up the front of each shoulder, fingers interlocking behind her head. That long, thick dark hair cascades over my hands and divides down the front of each shoulder, where my forearms press. With her in a headlock, I gently—but not too gently—push down, forcing her chin to touch her upper chest.

And then I thrust—fast and hard.

If I was inside of her, I could make Lyssa cum like this.

It wouldn't be as enjoyable for me as it might be in missionary or cowgirl, however, because with her I cherish each facial expression, no matter how small or big. Every tic, every wince or grimace, every smile or frown or scowl, every flutter of her lids or rolling of her eyes.

Everything.

That isn't the sole reason why I stop, though.

When I finally do stop, she is nonetheless in a dazed state of pleasure and ache.

I release her headlock and she leans back, face gazing up at the ceiling. I enter her field of vision, completely filling it. My left hand caresses her throat until her mouth opens and her tongue sticks out. I drool into her mouth and then lick her tongue without touching her lips.

"Mmm, daddy...I've missed you so much. Do you believe me?"

"Of course I do, baby. Now...I see you're in the middle of breakfast. I want you to finish."

"Are you sure? We could—"

I spin her to face me. The floorboards are laminated Pergo, so no splinters. My hands grip her biceps, palms and fingers overlapping her colorful tattoos. I allowed her to start getting them after she turned eighteen. She had always possessed a passion for them, and for art in general. Drawing, painting, writing. Even singing. But seeing her express it on her own body—not herself, of course—was something else entirely. It was beautiful. And still is.

Right now, after all that, her hair is a mess. Several strands are draped down her face, reminding me of the girl-creature from the Ring, except a thousand times more attractive.

But perhaps equally crazy. In all the best ways.

I fix her hair in a simple manner, clearing her face.

"I know I've been gone for seven days, Lyssa, but have you become amnesiac?" My voice is firm but not unyielding. Before lust, there is love. It's always the dominant emotion in this household. "Do I need to reiterate the rules? For one, when I'm on my property I always get what I want. And I always take what I need."

"Yes, daddy. You're right, I'm sorry. Just so...excited you're home."

"I can tell." I briefly suck on the two fingers that were inside of her for a minute too short.

She smirks, but it quickly diminishes. "Do the other rules still apply?"

"You mean, like...no nudity unless I permit it, or unless you're in the shower? Yes. You mean, like...if I'm home, I feed you, unless I state otherwise? Yes. Or...if you touch either of my cars without asking, or make intimate contact without my permission, you're punished? Yes. Or...yes, yes, and yes. Okay?"

Believe it or not, the latter is a legitimate rule under this roof.

I established it a few months ago when she woke me up with a blowjob. It wasn't the fact that she woke me up, of course; I was going on my eighth hour of sleep. Even if a man hadn't slept in eight years, he wouldn't mind being woken up with some head. Especially the premium quality exclusive to a girl like Lyssa. No, it was the principle...the fact that she had become rabid for cock, as silly as it might sound, wasn't what I wanted for her.

I need her to be my daughter foremost, my friend and lover second, and a slut last.

Most of all, I need her to be my subordinate.

When it comes down to morality and our souls, she's my equal if not superior. But in matters of physical authority, I am her master. It isn't hashtag-BDSM. We don't subscribe to labeled kinks and fetishes. We don't even discuss it casually. It's become a second nature sort of thing, but only for me. She makes that transition upon my beckoning or my command, but never without me.

That is a punishable trespass.

Since establishing these rules, she seldom knowingly breaks them. When she does, except for that lattermost one, it's genuinely accidental, like it slipped her mind or she didn't have the right mentality at the time.

"Okay, daddy. So I'll finish my breakfast. You're going to join me?"

"Of course, Lyssa. Go sit your beautiful ass down. What are you watching?"

"Sons of Anarchy."

"Oh. New season, or Netflix?"

"Netflix." She plops down on the couch and starts to pick up her plate but stops. A reminder of one of our rules. I feed her if I'm present or awake, unless I say otherwise.

I amble into the kitchen. "I'm gonna grab a bite, myself. You can keep watching. Want any more OJ?"

"Um, yes, please. Kinda dehydrated."

After I kissed her half to death, I imagine, and then made her moan out what remained in her lungs.

"Why don't you bring me your glass, baby?"

"Sure!" she hops up and takes her glass over to me by the refrigerator. "Here you go! Just a little, please."

I pour her about a cup's worth of more OJ into the glass, and then peck a kiss on her cheek. She smiles and thanks me, then turns to head back to the couch. I become a statue of stagnant testosterone as I ogle her ass shift and bounce with each step.

"Still working out every day?" I ask while putting the carton back in the fridge. I open the freezer to get some waffles but see a Ziploc bag of premade pancakes.

"You bet. Except Wednesdays, of course."

"Hump day, right," I mumble, and retrieve the pancakes. "Well, I can definitely tell. You still look as amazing as you did when I left. Or since your twentieth, for that matter."

"Psh, if anything I should look better."

"This is true, and you do. Just saying, you haven't regressed at all."

"Thanks, daddy. That means a lot coming from you. Especially since I, you know, pig out on occasion."

"Baby, you could pig out every day, I'm telling you, your body is blessed. Your metabolism is something found in Lord of the Rings or some shit."

She laughs. "Sure, sure. You just like watching me stuff my face."

"Guilty as charged."

"You're silly," she chuckles.

"Possibly," I mutter. "Hey, so you made pancakes, I see..."

"Oh, I did! Want some?"

"Sure do."

"Go for it, daddy. Lemme know what you think."

"I'm sure they'll be great. Why don't you go ahead and eat, I'll be another minute or two over here."

"That's okay, I'll wait for you, daddy."

"You're a sweetheart."

I warm up three pancakes, plop them on a plate, grab a fork and knife, snag the Mrs. Butterworth bottle of syrup, and then make my way over to Lyssa.

"What're you drinking?" she asks before I even sit down.

"Fuck, I forgot."

"I'll get it for you!" she starts to hop up but I put my hand on her shoulder, pushing her back down. She sits with a soft titter.

"You keep that ass in the cushion, darling. I'll get me a bottled water from the cupboard."

"Okay."

I go fetch a bottled water from the cupboard out in the laundry room, where extra foods are stored and a larger freezer holds additional items that don't fit into the kitchen one. I like my water room temperature instead of cold, even in the summer. I'm weird, I know. She jokes about it from time to time. I return to sit on the couch to her right, making her scoot over a foot and slide her plate a few inches to give me more space.

Sons of Anarchy keeps playing, on low but audible volume, while I cut up my steaming pancakes and then pour generous syrup on them.

"Good, actual food for the first time in seven days. And it's made by my very own Lyssa." I smile warmly and look over at her. She's smiling, too, deliciously beautiful. More appetizing than any amount of pancakes and syrup. I lean in to peck a kiss on her lips, and then say: "I'm fucking blessed."

I don't believe in God and nor does she, but she knows what I mean. Just because we're spiritual atheists doesn't mean we can't take His name in vain when the time is right and say words like 'blessed' or 'pray.'

Besides, the only thing I worship in this life is Lyssa, and that's a two-way road.

"You're a flatterer is what you are, daddy," she says, half-smiling.

"An honest one at that," I say, and then pull three cut triangles of syrup-soaked pancake off my fork and into my mouth. I chew through, savoring the sweetness, and my eyelids flutter as I ingest it. "Whew. So tasty, Lyssa. I swear, the things you can do with your hands...you're too talented."

"And you're too nice."

"I only ever speak the truth, baby. You can write fiction, poetry, songs, play the guitar, the piano, shoot, cook, and give the meanest handjob."

She was smiling through the list but with the last she scowls sarcastically and playfully slaps my shoulder, saying "daddy, gosh" as if I made the dirtiest joke. In a way I did, but I swear, it's no goddamn joke.

"Like I said, baby...only the truth."

She chuckles briefly and stares at the TV, but I notice her eyes waft over her plate. She's sitting forward, elbows on her knees like me, hair pushed over her ears and what isn't down her back is draped across her breasts.

I set my fork down, take a swig of water, and pick up her surviving piece of toast. It's one half of a slice of wheat bread, perfectly crisped, with a small bite taken off a corner. The surface is matted with peanut butter.

"I know you're hungry, baby. Open up."

She opens her mouth and my cock twitches. I don't know what's wrong with me, but I get aroused watching an attractive girl eat. Especially slowly. Especially half-naked. And obviously if I'm the one feeding her.

I do it gingerly, careful not to spill any crumbs or get anything on her chin or nose. I've done that before, too, the messy way—the hot way, at least to me. But it also works better with some foods than it does with others. Toast, not so much. No matter the amount of peanut butter used. Pancakes and syrup, however...

After I finish feeding her the toast, I pull her face to mine and kiss her with abundant tongue. I taste the peanut butter and crisp bread from her teeth. I suck the flavor off her tongue, and finish with a gentle kiss on the lips.

"Delicious."

She smiles. "Better than your pancakes?"

"You? Always."

She smiles wider, and then it calms. "Go ahead, daddy, eat. I imagine you're hungrier than I am."

"In more ways than one," I mumble. My cock relaxes until it rests atop my boxers as I lean back with my plate and cautiously eat while holding the plate up.

"Can I do anything to help?" she tucks in her legs to lean against me, her head resting on my left shoulder.

"Yes and no, baby. I don't wanna choke on my pancakes while making you choke..."

She scoff-laughs sarcastically.

"What were your plans today?" I ask, eating and watching SOA.

"It's Wednesday, daddy. I have no plans. Just being lazy. Well, and some yoga later."

"Oh, yeah, that's right. Sorry, totally lost track of my days."

"Which is what you say when you're home, too."

"Time is irrelevant in your presence. Over there, it's a burden."

She smiles at the obvious.

"So, when's your yoga?"

"No specific schedule. I guess...an hour or two after I eat. Two, preferably."

"TV until then, or something else?"

"I was actually gonna read. Brush my teeth and then read."

"That's good, baby. Mind if I join? I really don't want to be away from you for a second now that I'm back."

"Aw, you're so sweet. And of course, you don't ever have to leave me side if you want."

She's given me head while she was on the toilet before, too.

Water sports and coprophilia aren't my bag at all, they're actually disgusting, especially the latter. But engaging in sexual activity while predisposed with something mundane is especially arousing for me. Examples are brushing teeth, washing dishes, cooking, eating, reading, exercising, and as you may have guessed, sleeping.

She was urinating at the time, and it was a long day of yard work for me. She had been especially lazy the last few days, so perhaps it was kind of a punishment thing, deep-throating her while she was on the toilet. I ultimately came into the bowl, between her legs, while sucking one of her breasts. We ended up fucking ten minutes later, after she was done, because she was annoying me with requests of cuddling. As part of one of the aforementioned rules, she cannot engage in any intimate contact without my permission, nor can she ask for it. That's forbidden, despite my candidly vulgar acts.

Cuddling is the closest to sex that she can ask for, aside from a hug or kiss.

But I knew what she really wanted.

So I gave it to her, and she had been itching for a release since the toilet head earlier.

Anyway, I don't have to ask if I can join. But I do out of courtesy, especially since I just got back. I really want to make love to her, but I also want to fuck her until she's bedridden.

Perhaps I'll do both, in time.

Mind you, as limitlessly intimate as we've become, it wasn't always this way. Her mother passed in a car wreck at the age of ten, during my early days at the Agency. I was seldom home, and now alone, needed to really up my game 'at the office'—what I'd tell her—to get promoted to heavier responsibilities. Higher the risk, higher the pay. So I hired at-home childcare services that the Agency HR recommended. Eventually I got my Talon training, and she'd grown up some, but still not mature enough to trustworthily live at home by herself for the times I was away. As I developed as a Talon, she developed as a woman, and along with my seniority I started getting more off time.

More R&R.

I soon learned that, despite her physical and mental development, part of her emotionality was stunted due to the loss of her mother at such a young age and my common absence. She became diagnosed with a dependent personality disorder, and with a flexible schedule I started spending more time with her. Letting our bond thrive, which became easier after she turned eighteen and I gave her more freedom, such as the tattooing and then driving.

Over the course of the next two years, her DPD didn't mitigate, it only grew stronger, in part due to my own developing over-affectionate disorder, which she was supportive of.

I just could've never expected or predicted this type of relationship to form, let alone flourish. My tax-free wealth has definitely helped. It nourishes her laziness, but also fuels her creativity, giving it the ultimate freedom. My support of her passions has been a huge importance to her happiness, too, which in turn liberates my own soul.

I loved her mother, I did...but in all honesty, I've never been in love with someone like I am with Lyssa. Even if you stripped away all the sexuality, she'd still be my Milky Way.

Pun intended.

"Daddy...hello," she drawls, gently bumping into me.

I snap out of my daze. "Sorry, baby, totally zoned out. Lost in thought and shit."

"You have such a way with words," she jested.

I smirk. "Sarcasm aside, that'd be you, Miss Poet."

"There's the flattery again."

"I'm serious, baby, you're amazing. Poetry, fiction, that dark shit you sometimes write, and the lyrics."

"Well, to be fair, I wouldn't even have half the time for all that if it wasn't for you."

"What do you mean?" I ask, feigning cluelessness.

"Being rich as hell. All this," she throws her hands up, gesturing at the house. "And, you know, not making me have to work. Pay rent. All that."

"You're above all that, baby." I pet her hair with the 'clean' hand, the one that didn't touch the toast. Whether it was the one that was inside her mouth or pussy earlier, I have no idea, nor do I care.

"You're sweet, daddy. Almost too sweet."

What's odd, in a way, is how utterly saccharine and cliché I am with her at times, emotionally...and then transition with zero subtlety into a ruthless, feral tyrant of lust. Back and forth, like just earlier.

And that's one of the greatest things about this bond we have.

"Sweet and honest, same thing, right?" I say with a chuckle, and eat more pancakes.

"Glad you're enjoying those, daddy. Really glad. And I'm even happier you're home today. What a surprise, I know you didn't call me on purpose."

I shrug nonchalantly, mouthful.

"Play it smooth, it's okay. I know." She points at her chest, acting high and mighty for a moment. "Because I know everything."

I swallow my food and say: "Yes, and that's why you were utterly shocked when you looked though that peephole."

She tried to play it off but was too weak at the moment. At other times she could be really sly and cunning when it came to delivering jokes and holding a straight face. But today I had her beat, in more ways than one, and I'd not even been home for an hour yet.

While she chuckled and hugged me, my left arm raised to loop across her back, my right hand forked the last of my pancakes from the plate resting in my lap.

"Can I go brush my teeth now, daddy?"

I shake my head. "Wash the dishes first."

"The dishwasher's full."

"You didn't put it on a cycle?"

"Not yet."

I sigh. "Then you'll be washing these by hand. Lazier than normal while I've been away, huh?"

"A little," she says shamefully.

"Still enough time to make yourself cum, though, right?"

"Once or twice..." her voice dips into more guilt.

"That's okay, baby. I was away. You deserved that." I said it nonchalantly, which is probably why she still didn't feel entirely relieved. I kind of wanted to belittle her in that moment, but I ended up repressing my original thought:

Always enough time to be the slut you are at heart. But now that I'm home, you don't have to be a lonely one.

It was cruel, but sometimes that cruelty gave me pleasure. Especially since I knew that, in the end, it was a buildup for her own inner masochism.