Bunny

The days blend into a rhythm of quiet devotion in your shared home, a sanctuary where the weight of Nate's world outside collides with the warmth you cultivate within. You slave away at the housework with a diligence born of love, every task a thread in the tapestry of care you weave for him.

Mornings begin with the scent of fresh coffee brewing, the steam curling like whispers of affection as you prepare his thermos, knowing it'll be his anchor through the chaos of his day. The counters gleam under your touch, wiped spotless, and the floors shine from your meticulous mopping, each stroke a silent vow to ease his burdens.

Laundry folds neatly in stacks, his favorite shirts pressed with precision, carrying the faint lavender of the detergent that reminds him of your presence even when miles apart. You dust the shelves lined with mementos of your life together framed photos from stolen weekends, a seashell from that beach trip where he first called you his infusing the space with the essence of home, a haven tailored to his needs.

Afternoons might find you in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for a slow simmering stew, the aroma filling the air like an embrace, or tending the small herb garden out back, your hands in the soil grounding you in the role you've embraced his provider of comfort, his little one who thrives under his guidance.

Nate's moods shift like tides, a dance of dominance and surrender that keeps your bond alive with electric unpredictability. Some evenings, when the stress of his job clings to him like shadows, he craves control a firm hand guiding you through the night, his voice low and commanding as he instructs you to kneel by his feet while he unwinds, your head resting on his thigh, the steady rise and fall of his breathing a lullaby that soothes you both.

In those moments, the energy pulses between you, his large palm stroking your hair with possessive tenderness, murmuring praises that affirm your place as his cherished pet, safe in the structure he provides. He'll feed you bites from his plate, watching with dark eyes as you accept each one, the act intimate and transformative, stripping away the world's harshness to reveal the vulnerability beneath his strength. Trust blooms in these exchanges, your submission a gift that allows him to shed his armor, the emotional connection deepening with every shared breath.

Yet there are nights when he relinquishes it all, the weight of the day too heavy for command. He'll collapse onto the couch, pulling you into his lap without a word, his arms wrapping around you like a shield, burying his face in the crook of your neck as if your scent alone can mend the fractures in his soul. These are the tender hours, where affection flows freely, his lips brushing your temple in feather light kisses, hands roaming your body not with demand but with reverence, exploring the curves he's memorized as if rediscovering a cherished landscape.

You'll curl against him, legs tangled, whispering about dreams and fears, the conversation a bridge over the chasm of his silence, vulnerability laid bare in the quiet glow of the lamp. It's in these relinquishments that you see the man beneath the protector, the one who needs your softness as much as you need his steel, the genuine affection forging a love that's as resilient as it is passionate.

But when stress coils tight around him, turning his focus inward, he withdraws, the distance a chasm that aches in your chest. His responses to your texts grow curt, his evenings spent staring at the TV or nursing a drink in solitude, the pet name baby absent from his lips, leaving you adrift in the vastness of your own longing. It's in these voids that the brat in you stirs, a playful rebellion fueled by the need to pierce his shell, to reclaim the intimacy that's slipped away.

One particularly grueling week, with his phone buzzing incessantly during dinner and his eyes glazing over your attempts at conversation, you decide to act. The house is spotless, dinner plated and waiting, but his exhaustion has rendered him unreachable, a wall of fatigue you yearn to breach.

From the bedroom, you snap a photo of your body arched on the bed in nothing but lace panties that hug your hips, the soft light casting shadows that accentuate the swell of your breasts, nipples pebbled in anticipation. Your lips curve in a mischievous pout, eyes wide with feigned innocence, the caption simple “Missing you, Daddy.” You hit send, heart racing as the message whooshes away, a digital tease laced with the vulnerability of your desire. Minutes tick by, then another photo: this one bolder, your fingers tracing the edge of the lace, dipping just low enough to hint at the slick heat gathering between your thighs, the words “Come home soon?” pulsing with unspoken need. A third follows, you on all fours facing the mirror, ass raised invitingly, the curve of your back a siren call.

His reply comes swift and sparse a single “Watch it.” But you don't; instead, you escalate, the thrill of provocation mingling with the emotional ache, your brattiness a bridge to pull him back. By the fourth photo, you're fully bare, legs spread on the rumpled sheets, fingers circling your clit in slow, deliberate circles, the image capturing the flush on your skin, the parted lips exhaling a silent moan, “Can’t stop thinking about you inside me.”

The emotional undercurrent runs deep; this isn't just teasing; it's a plea wrapped in play, your way of saying see me, need me, the trust in your dynamic allowing such boldness without fear.

The front door slams hours later, the sound reverberating through the house like thunder, pulling you from your spot on the couch where you've been fidgeting, the remnants of your arousal still humming.

You hear his keys hit the counter with a clatter, boots heavy on the floor as he strides into the living room, his presence filling the space like a storm cloud. He's still in his work clothes, unbuttoned shirt clinging to his broad shoulders, jeans low on his hips but his eyes, those piercing dark depths, lock onto you with an intensity that steals your breath. No words at first, just the raw hunger in his gaze, tracing your form curled on the cushions in a thin tank top and shorts, the fabric doing little to hide the evidence of your earlier antics. The air thickens with unspoken tension, the emotional charge electric his stress from the day, your deliberate provocation, all converging in this charged reunion.

He doesn't speak as he closes the distance, towering over you, his hand shooting out to grasp your wrist, pulling you up with effortless strength that borders on roughness, yet laced with the underlying care that defines him. Your body yields instinctively, heart pounding as he spins you toward the couch, his free hand fisting the hem of your tank top.

With a swift, rough yank, he tears it off, the fabric ripping audibly, cool air kissing your exposed skin as your breasts bounce free, nipples hardening under his scrutiny. The act is violent in its urgency, but your trust in him transforms it into something profoundly connecting a stripping away of barriers, literal and figurative, baring your vulnerability to his reclaiming touch.

He doesn't pause, fingers hooking into your shorts and panties next, dragging them down your legs in one forceful motion, the material scraping against your thighs, leaving you utterly naked before him, trembling with anticipation and the depth of your shared need.

Pushed back onto the couch, you land on the soft cushions, legs splaying as he looms above, unbuckling his belt with deliberate slowness, the leather whispering free. His jeans follow, shoved down just enough to free his cock thick and heavy, already straining with the rage of unmet desire, veins pulsing along its length, the head glistening with pre-cum that speaks to the torment your photos inflicted.

He grips your thighs, spreading them wide, the position exposing you completely, your wetness on full display, a testament to the emotional fire your teasing ignited. Without preamble, he notches himself at your entrance, the broad tip parting your folds, teasing the slick heat before slamming in with a single, brutal thrust. The stretch is immediate and overwhelming, your walls clenching around his girth as he buries himself to the hilt, the fullness bordering on pain, yet blooming into exquisite pleasure that draws a gasp from your throat.

“You want to be a brat and tease me all day at work? Fine. I'll fuck you like one.” Voice laced with the pent up fury of his day, but beneath it, a thread of affection a promise that this is his way of bridging the gap, channeling stress into the intimacy you both crave. His hips piston forward in a relentless rhythm, hard and raw, each plunge driving deeper, the couch creaking under the force as he pounds into you.

The slap of his skin against yours echoes through the room, mingling with your moans and his ragged breaths, the violence of it a cathartic release for him, his hands pinning your wrists above your head, fingers interlacing in a grip that's dominant yet tender, thumbs stroking your pulse points in silent reassurance. Your body arches into him, breasts pressing against his chest, the friction of his shirt against your sensitive nipples sending sparks through you, the emotional journey unfolding in every thrust the way his anger dissolves into possession, your brattiness rewarded with the connection you've yearned for.

He angles his hips just so, hitting that spot inside you with unerring precision, the pressure building like a storm, your clit grinding against his pelvis with each brutal snap. Tears prick your eyes from the intensity, not just physical but the overwhelming rush of being seen, wanted, the trust allowing you to surrender fully as overstimulation edges in, your walls fluttering around him in desperate pleas.

His free hand roams, palming your breast, pinching the nipple until you cry out, the painful pleasure weaving through the haze, his lips crashing down on yours in a devouring kiss, tongues tangling, teeth nipping, the affection raw and unfiltered.

His pace turns frantic, breaths hot against your neck as he bites down lightly, marking you in the heat of the moment. You shatter first, orgasm ripping through you in waves, body convulsing, nails digging into his shoulders as you clench around him, milking his length with rhythmic pulses that pull him under. He follows with a guttural groan, spilling deep inside you, hot ropes of release flooding your core, the sensation of being filled so completely stirring that primal warmth, a shared fantasy of breeding flickering in the aftermath. He collapses over you, bodies slick and spent, his weight a comforting blanket as breaths sync in the quiet, the rage ebbed into peaceful satiation.

In the days that follow, the realization settles like a secret bloom being a brat always gets you what you want. The distance vanishes, his attention sharpening, touches lingering longer, the dynamic enriched by this playful edge. It's not rebellion for its own sake, but a language of love, vulnerability expressed through tease, trust allowing the raw passion to heal and bind you closer, every encounter a step deeper into the profound affection that defines your world. But Nate Jacobs has always been hot and cold.

The evening air still clung to Nate's skin as he stepped through the front door, the faint scent of expensive cologne and cigar smoke trailing him like a shadow from the business dinner that had stretched into the late hours. One of those nights of endless handshakes with men whose smiles hid sharper edges, deals whispered over glasses of scotch that left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. His mind churned with the weight of negotiations half-won, egos bruised but not broken, and the undercurrent of power plays that mirrored the control he wielded at home.

You were waiting, as always, the house a cocoon of soft lighting and the subtle aroma of the chamomile tea you'd brewed for him, knowing it soothed the edges of his tension. Curled on the edge of the bed in a simple silk slip that draped over your curves, you looked up with those wide, trusting eyes, your presence a balm he craved without words.

He didn't speak at first, his gaze devouring you as he shrugged off his suit jacket, the fabric whispering to the floor. The dinner had ignited something primal in him a need to reclaim dominance after hours of calculated restraint. His fingers worked the buttons of his shirt with deliberate slowness, revealing the taut lines of his chest, muscles flexing under skin marked by faint scars from old fights, reminders of the fire that still simmered within.

You rose to meet him, hands reaching to help, but he caught your wrists in one large palm, pinning them gently yet firmly above your head against the headboard, his body crowding yours. Every need met under his watchful eye the groceries stocked, bills paid, your world narrowed to the safety of his provision and the thrill of his guidance.

The kiss that followed was consuming, his lips claiming yours with a hunger born of the night's frustrations, tongue delving deep to taste the sweetness of your mouth, drawing a soft whimper from you that vibrated against him. He released your wrists only to trail his hands down your sides, bunching the silk of your slip and yanking it up over your head in a fluid motion, exposing your body to the cool air of the bedroom.

Goosebumps prickled your skin, nipples tightening into peaks that he noticed immediately, his thumbs circling them with teasing pressure before pinching just hard enough to elicit a gasp. “Good girl.” The praise wrapping around your heart like warm silk, affirming the trust that allowed you to yield so completely. His mouth followed, lips closing over one sensitive bud, sucking with rhythmic pulls that sent jolts of pleasure straight to your core, his teeth grazing the edge in a bite that blurred pain and ecstasy.

You arched into him, legs parting instinctively as he pressed his thigh between them, the rough denim of his trousers scraping against your inner thighs, friction building heat where you ached most. His free hand ventured lower, long fingers thick and calloused from years of gripping control sliding between your folds to find you already slick with anticipation. He groaned against your skin, the sound rumbling through his chest, as he circled your clit with expert precision, dipping inside to curl against that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. “So wet for Daddy.” The title a tender anchor in the storm of his desire, his little one safe in the vulnerability of this moment. But tenderness gave way to urgency; he withdrew his hand, leaving you clenching around nothing, and shed the rest of his clothes with impatient tugs, his cock springing free thick and veined, the head flushed and weeping pre-cum that glistened in the lamplight.

He maneuvered you onto your stomach with effortless strength, knees spreading your thighs wide, ass lifting as if presenting yourself for his approval. A palm cracked down on one cheek, the sting blooming hot and immediate, followed by a soothing rub. He positioned himself behind you, the broad tip of his length nudging your entrance, parting the slickness with torturous slowness. Then, with a single, powerful thrust, he buried himself deep, the stretch burning as your walls yielded to his girth, every ridge and pulse of him filling you to the brink. You cried out, fingers twisting in the sheets, the sensation overwhelming a raw invasion that spoke to the depth of your bond, his body claiming yours as surely as his heart held yours.

He set a punishing pace from the start, hips snapping forward with unrestrained force, the bedframe thudding against the wall in rhythm with his grunts. Each plunge drove him deeper, the angle hitting nerves that sparked fireworks through your veins, your body rocking forward with the impact. His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into flesh hard enough to bruise, pulling you back onto him as if to fuse you together.

Sweat slicked your skin, mingling where your bodies met, the wet sounds of him sliding in and out obscene and intimate. “Fuck, you're tight.” One hand sliding up your spine to tangle in your hair, arching your back further, the pull sending a delicious ache through your scalp. He leaned over you, chest pressing to your back, lips at your ear as he whispered praises laced with possession “My perfect little pet, taking it all for me.” The words weave vulnerability into the ferocity, reminding you that this rawness was born of love, a transformative release for the stresses he carried alone.

The intensity built like a crescendo, his thrusts turning erratic, one hand slipping around to rub furious circles on your clit, the dual assault shattering your control. You came with a sob, walls convulsing around him in rhythmic squeezes, pleasure crashing over you in waves that left you trembling, tears streaking your cheeks from the sheer profundity of it.

He followed moments later, burying himself to the root as he spilled inside you, hot pulses flooding your depths, the sensation of being marked so intimately stirring a profound sense of belonging. He collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms without withdrawing, his cock softening within you as breaths mingled, kisses peppering your shoulder in gentle aftercare. “I love you.” He mumbled, voice rough but sincere, the emotional journey from dominance to devotion sealing the night. Exhausted, he drifted off, leaving you sated but spent, body humming with the echoes of his passion.

Morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a golden haze over the bedroom where you lay much as he'd left you tangled in sheets, limbs heavy and protesting with every shift. The ache was profound, a deep throb between your thighs where he'd taken you so thoroughly, muscles sore from the relentless pounding, bruises blooming like dark petals on your hips and thighs from his grip. Your core felt tender, swollen, each twinge a reminder of the night's fervor, making even the thought of rising send a wince through you. Bedridden in the truest sense, you curled tighter under the covers, the vulnerability of your state a quiet testament to the trust you'd placed in him, your body a canvas of his care and claim.

The door creaked open hours later, Nate's footsteps soft on the carpet as he entered, fresh from a shower, towel slung low on his hips, droplets tracing paths down his toned abdomen. He paused at the sight of you, still nestled in the bed, eyes softening with a mix of concern and amusement. A huff of laughter escaped him, low and affectionate, as he approached, sitting on the edge of the mattress.

His hand reached out, brushing damp hair from your forehead with a tenderness that belied his dominant nature, thumb tracing your cheek in a gesture that spoke volumes of the genuine affection underpinning your dynamic. “Look at you, baby.” Voice warm with that edge, eyes roaming your form under the sheet, noting the subtle winces as you stirred. “Fucked you so good you can't even move, huh?”

You nodded weakly, a shy smile tugging at your lips despite the ache, the emotional connection in his gaze pulling you from the haze of discomfort. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, his presence a reassuring weight. “If you'd just obey without all that teasing fire in you, you'd be able to walk straight.” He teased gently, the words carrying no real reprimand, only the loving structure that defined your world his provision extending to this moment of care, ensuring you felt seen and cherished even in your vulnerability. He gathered you closer, arms enveloping you in a protective hold, the beat of his heart against your ear a promise of the tenderness that always followed the storm, deepening the bond that made every intense encounter a step toward greater intimacy.

The weight of the world seemed to press down on Nate's shoulders as he pushed through the front door, the clock ticking past midnight in the quiet suburban home you'd made into a sanctuary. Another grueling day at the firm deals teetering on the edge of collapse, clients demanding the impossible, and the relentless grind that chipped away at his resolve had left him drained, his broad frame slumping against the frame for a moment before he straightened, jaw clenched tight.

You heard the familiar creak of the door from your spot in the living room, where you'd been curled up on the couch with a book, the soft glow of the lamp casting warm shadows over your form. Dressed in one of his oversized button downs that swallowed your smaller figure, the hem brushing your thighs, you set the book aside and padded barefoot toward him, your presence a silent offering of comfort in the storm of his exhaustion.

His eyes, shadowed with fatigue, softened the instant they landed on his little pet, the one constant that grounded him amid the chaos. Without a word, he reached for you, pulling you into his chest with arms that enveloped you completely, his chin resting atop your head as he inhaled the faint scent of your shampoo, a mix of lavender and vanilla that always unraveled the knots in his soul. “Rough day, Daddy?” Laced with that gentle concern that made his heart ache with affection, your hands sliding up his back in soothing circles. He hummed in response, the vibration rumbling through you, but there was no demand in his touch tonight; just a quiet need for the intimacy that only you could provide, the trust you'd built allowing him to shed the armor he wore for the world. “I just need you.”

He guided you toward the bedroom with a hand at the small of your back, the gesture tender yet possessive, his fingers splaying wide to claim the curve there. The room was dimly lit by the bedside lamp, sheets already turned down in anticipation of his return, a small act of care that didn't go unnoticed.

Nate sat on the edge of the mattress, pulling you to stand between his parted knees, his gaze tracing the lines of your body with a reverence that spoke of deeper longing. Slowly, he unbuttoned the shirt you'd borrowed, each pop of fabric revealing more of your skin soft curves, the gentle swell of your breasts, the dip of your navel until it fell open like petals unfurling. His hands followed, palms gliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts in feather light strokes that sent shivers cascading through you, your nipples pebbling under his attention.

His brown eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that stripped away pretenses, vulnerability flickering in their depths. He craved control, but exhaustion tempered it into something softer a desire to lose himself in your surrender, to find solace in the way your body responded to his touch.

He leaned forward, pressing open mouthed kisses along your collarbone, tongue tracing the hollow of your throat as his hands cupped your breasts, kneading gently, rolling your nipples between thumb and forefinger until you gasped, arching into him. The sound pulled a low groan from his chest, the first crack in his fatigue, as he guided you down onto the bed, laying you back against the pillows with care, his body hovering over yours like a protective shield.

He kissed his way down your body, lips lingering on every inch nipping at the curve of your hip, soothing with his tongue, hands pinning your thighs open with a firmness that promised safety in submission. When he settled between your legs, the heat of his breath ghosting over your core made you tremble, anticipation coiling tight in your belly.

Nate's eyes met yours one last time, a silent question of trust, and you nodded, fingers threading through his dark hair, offering yourself fully.

His mouth descended then, lips brushing your folds in a tentative kiss that quickly deepened into devotion. The first flat swipe of his tongue along your slit drew a whimper from you, the warmth of him contrasting the cool air, tasting the subtle saltiness of your arousal as he lapped slowly, savoring you like a lifeline.

He knew your body as well as his own the way you bloomed under his attention, slickness gathering as he parted you with gentle sucks, his tongue circling your entrance before delving inside, fucking you with shallow thrusts that mimicked what his cock would do on another night. But tonight, this was his release the hours he'd pour into worshiping you, drawing out every quiver and moan until the stress ebbed away, replaced by the profound connection that bound you.

Minutes stretched into what felt like eternity as he worked you with patient precision, his strong hands gripping your thighs to hold you steady, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh in rhythmic pulses that grounded you both. He alternated between broad licks that coated his chin with your wetness and focused flicks against your clit, the sensitive bundle swelling under his assault, sparks of pleasure igniting with each pass. Your hips bucked instinctively, seeking more, but he pinned you down with a firm press of his palm on your lower abdomen, the dominance a loving restraint that heightened the vulnerability of the moment.

“Stay still, baby.” He breathed against you, the vibration sending aftershocks through your core, his voice muffled but commanding, laced with the affection that made your heart swell even as your body arched.

As he drew you closer, he introduced his fingers long and thick, the kind that stretched you just right, calloused tips a testament to the life he led. He slid one inside you slowly, the intrusion slick and welcome, curling upward to stroke that spongy spot deep within that made your toes curl and a keen escape your lips.

He watched your face, eyes dark with hunger and tenderness, drinking in the flush creeping up your chest, the way your lips parted in silent pleas. “That’s it, feel how good you take me.” In awe, he adds a second finger, the stretch burning sweetly as he scissored them, opening you up while his mouth returned to your clit, sucking with gentle pulls that had you teetering on the edge.

The orgasm crashed over you like a gentle tide at first, then fiercer, your walls clenching around his digits in rhythmic spasms, juices flooding his palm as you cried out his name, body convulsing under his unrelenting attention. He didn't stop, oh no, this was just the beginning.

He lapped through your release, tongue soothing the oversensitive nerves, fingers pumping steadily to prolong the bliss until you were a trembling mess, tears of overwhelming sensation pricking your eyes. Nate's own arousal strained against his pants, but he ignored it, focused solely on you, on the way your vulnerability mirrored his own exhaustion, forging a deeper bond in the quiet hours.

He shifted then, propping your legs over his shoulders to angle deeper, his free hand stroking your thigh in soothing patterns as he dove back in. The second round built slower, his tongue tracing lazy figure eights around your clit while his fingers thrust with deliberate slowness, knuckles brushing your entrance with each withdrawal, the wet sounds filling the room like a private symphony.

You reached down, fingers tangling in his hair, not to guide but to connect, feeling the tension in his scalp ease under your touch as he hummed approval, the vibration pushing you higher.

Hours blurred as he brought you to the brink again and again, each peak more intense than the last. By the third, your thighs quivered uncontrollably, muscles aching from the strain of holding still, core throbbing with a mix of pleasure and fatigue that echoed his own.

His fingers those magnificent, thick lengths curled and twisted inside you, pressing against your g-spot with unerring accuracy, while his mouth alternated between sucking your clit and dipping lower to tongue fuck your entrance around them. Sweat beaded on his forehead, dripping onto your skin, but he persisted, jaw working tirelessly, the devotion in his eyes unwavering as you shattered once more, a sob tearing from your throat at the profundity of it all the physical ecstasy intertwined with the love that made it transformative.

The clock edged toward dawn, he eased back, fingers slipping free with a wet pop that left you clenching around emptiness, body limp and sated. Nate crawled up beside you, gathering you into his arms, his lips brushing your forehead in a kiss soft as a promise. The stress that had etched lines around his eyes had softened, replaced by a peaceful glow, his hand tracing idle patterns on your back as breaths synced in the afterglow.

“Nothing beats being inside you, but this…” He trails off, voice rough with emotion, the tension yielding to the lover who cherished the trust you'd placed in him. “Fixes everything.” In that moment, wrapped in sheets scented with your shared passion, the world outside faded, leaving only the unbreakable thread of affection that wove through every touch, every surrender.

The renovations had turned the house into a chaotic symphony of hammers and saws, dust motes dancing in the sunlight filtering through half hung drywall sheets. Nate had decided it was time to expand the master suite, add another walk in closet the size of a small apartment and a en-suite spa bathroom, because why not spoil his pet even more? The contractors buzzed like bees in the adjacent wing, their heavy boots thudding against the subfloor, voices barking orders over the whine of power tools.

You spent the morning flitting around the edges of the work zone, offering coffee and smiles in that demure way that kept everyone professional, your sundress swishing against your thighs, the fabric light enough to hint at the lace thong beneath. Nate had been in and out, overseeing the progress with his usual commanding presence, barking at the foreman about timelines while his eyes lingered on you, dark promises flickering in their depths.

Late afternoon, the heat had built, the air thick with the scent of sawdust and fresh paint, your skin prickling under the humidity. You were in the kitchen, wiping down counters that weren't even part of the reno, when Nate's shadow fell over you. He moved like a predator, silent until he was right behind, his body heat enveloping you before his hands did. One palm splayed across your lower belly, fingers dipping low to press against the apex of your thighs through the dress, while the other gripped your hip, yanking you back against the rigid length straining his jeans.

“Been watching you bend over all morning, teasing those workers.” Low into your ear, breath hot and bourbon scented from the flask he'd been nursing. “Makes me wanna remind you who owns this ass.” His fingers rubbed circles over your mound, the pressure firm enough to make your clit throb, a spark igniting despite the distant clatter of ladders shifting nearby.

You twisted slightly, glancing toward the open archway leading to the hallway where the crew was framing out the new closet space. “Nate. They're right there. What if they hear? See?” Your voice was a hushed plea, pulse racing at the thrill mixed with nerves, the bratty edge creeping in because part of you craved the risk, but the sensible side screamed caution.

He chuckled, the sound dark and vibrating through your back, his free hand sliding up to cup your breast, thumb flicking the hardening nipple through the thin cotton. “That’s the point. Quick and dirty gonna fuck you right here, make you take it silent.” But you shook your head, a soft whine escaping as you tried to step away, the counters digging into your hips. “No, please we can't. Too loud, too close.”

Nate's patience snapped like a taut wire. In one swift motion, he spun you to face the island, bending you over the cool granite with your cheek pressed to the surface, dress hiked up to bunch at your waist. The air hit your exposed skin, the thong no barrier as he kicked your legs apart, boots scuffing the tile.

“You don't get to say no when I'm hard like this.” Voice edged with that demeanor that brooked no argument. His weight pinned you, one massive hand clamping over your eyes, first long fingers splaying wide to block out the world, palm warm and slightly callused against your lids, plunging you into darkness. The sensory blackout heightened everything: the rough denim of his jeans against your thighs, the distant hum of a drill that could mask your sounds if you stayed quiet.

Before you could protest further, his other hand clamped over your mouth, fingers digging into your cheeks, thumb pressing your jaw shut. The dual grip immobilized you, his body a cage of muscle and intent, the scent of his skin sweat and cologne flooding your senses. “No seeing, no bitching. Just feel me.” You mumbled against his palm, the words muffled to vibrations he ignored, your heart hammering as arousal warred with the fear of exposure. The contractors' laughter echoed faintly from down the hall, oblivious, but the proximity made your core clench in forbidden excitement.

He wasted no time, the zipper of his jeans rasping like a threat, the heavy weight of his cock springing free to slap against your ass. Thick and veined, the head already leaking, he dragged it along your thong's crotch, soaking the lace before yanking it aside with a rip that echoed too loud in your ears. Cool air kissed your bare slit, slickness betraying your hesitation, folds parting eagerly despite your mind's whirl. “Fuck, already dripping for me.” The hand over your eyes tightening as he aligned himself, the blunt tip nudging your entrance.

With a single, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, the stretch burning through the sudden fullness, your walls yielding to his girth like they were made for it. You cried out into his palm, the sound smothered to a desperate keen, body jolting forward on the counter, breasts scraping the edge painfully. He didn't pause, hips snapping forward in a punishing rhythm, each plunge deep and unyielding, balls slapping your clit with wet smacks that blended into the reno's ambient noise. The hand over your mouth muffled your gasps, fingers bruising your face as you bit down instinctively, tasting salt on his skin.

Blind and silenced, the world narrowed to sensations: the granite biting your hips, his cock splitting you open, dragging along every ridge inside with friction that built fire in your veins. He pounded relentlessly, the angle hitting that spot deep within, forcing gushes of arousal to coat his shaft, dripping down your thighs in obscene trails. “Take it quiet, pet. Don't want them knowing how I stuff you full.” He hissed, breath ragged against your neck, free hand wait, no, both were occupied, but he shifted, the one over your eyes sliding down to grip your throat lightly, maintaining the darkness with pressure on your lids while the mouth cover stayed firm.

Sweat slicked where your bodies met, his chest heaving against your back, the fabric of his shirt chafing your skin. Each withdrawal left you empty, clenching on nothing, only for him to slam back in, grinding his pelvis against your ass, the coarse hair at his base scraping your sensitive flesh. Your clit throbbed untouched, the indirect slaps and the fullness coiling tension low in your belly, orgasm creeping despite the peril. Muffled whimpers escaped around his fingers, saliva pooling under his hand, your tongue pressing against it in futile rebellion.

The contractors' voices grew nearer a toolbox clanging, footsteps approaching the kitchen threshold for water, perhaps. Panic spiked, your body tensing, but Nate only fucked harder, using the cover of their proximity to mask the slick glides, his cock swelling thicker inside you. “Shh gonna cum in this tight hole.” The words vibrating through his chest. The thought pushed you over, walls spasming around him in waves, milking his length as pleasure ripped through you, visionless stars exploding behind sealed eyes. You bucked, nails scraping the counter, a choked sob lost in his grip.

He followed with a guttural groan buried in your shoulder, hips stuttering as he flooded you, hot spurts painting your depths, excess leaking out around his base to mix with your release. He held deep, grinding through the aftershocks, ensuring every drop stayed buried, his hands unyielding until the footsteps receded, the danger passing.

He eased back, cock slipping free with a wet schlick, your pussy fluttering on the void, cum trickling down your inner thigh. He released your face and eyes slowly, the sudden light blinding as you blinked up at him, cheeks flushed and smeared with your own spit, lips swollen from the pressure. Nate zipped up casually, smirking down at your disheveled form dress askew, thong torn, legs trembling. “Clean up before they come back. I wouldn't want them seeing how messy you look.'

You nodded weakly, pushing up on shaky arms, the ache between your legs a delicious reminder of his claim, the secret thrill lingering as hammers resumed their chorus.

The living room air hung heavy with the sharp tang of frustration, the kind that radiated off Nate like heat from a coiled spring ready to snap. He'd stormed in from whatever bullshit had twisted his day deals gone south, endless bullshit from his old man, the weight of it all etched in the hard set of his jaw and the storm clouds in his eyes. You knew the drill; these moods were your cue to play the perfect little shadow, anticipating his needs before he even growled them out. Dressed in that skimpy apron over a barely there slip that hugged your curves like a second skin, you padded barefoot across the plush carpet, a cold beer sweating in your hand, condensation dripping onto your fingers.

He'd already kicked off his boots at the door, socks whispering against the tile as he dropped onto the leather couch, remote in one fist, flipping channels with aggressive jabs. The white ribbed tank clung to his broad chest, damp patches under his arms from the day's sweat, outlining every ridge of muscle tensed from pent up rage. His jeans hung low, unbuttoned at the waistband, the zipper half down like he'd been too pissed to bother fixing it, a teasing glimpse of the dark trail leading to what you knew throbbed beneath. Legs sprawled wide, he slouched back, one arm slung over the couch back, the other nursing the first beer you'd handed him minutes ago, the bottle empty now, clinking onto the side table.

You hovered at the edge of the room, twisting the hem of your apron, your full lips parted in that wide eyed, vacant stare that made you look every bit the poor, empty headed bimbo he loved to claim. Heart pounding with a mix of sympathy and that twisted ache low in your belly, you watched him scowl at the screen some mindless action flick exploding in bursts of gunfire that mirrored his inner turmoil. “Daddy?” You ventured softly, voice high and breathy, stepping closer with another beer extended like an offering. “You look so... tense. Let me make it better? Please? You know I hate seeing you like this.”

His gaze flicked to you, sharp and assessing, lingering on the way your slip dipped low between your breasts, nipples pebbling under the thin fabric from the cool air or his scrutiny you could never tell. He snatched the beer without a word, twisting the cap off with his teeth, the pop echoing as he took a long swig, Adam's apple bobbing. Foam clung to his lips, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand, eyes narrowing.

You sank to your knees beside the couch unbidden, hands clasping together as you gazed up at him, lashes fluttering, lips glossy and parted. Thighs pressing together as warmth pooled between them, the slip riding up to expose the lace edges of your panties.

Nate's free hand shot out, fingers tangling roughly in your hair, yanking your head back to force your eyes to meet his. The pull sent a delicious sting across your scalp, making you whimper, but you didn't pull away you never did. “On your knees already? Pathetic.”

There was a dark hunger in his tone, the bulge in his unbuttoned jeans twitching visibly. He released your hair just enough to shove the coffee table aside with his socked foot, clearing space, then pointed down with the beer bottle. “Get between my legs, then. Show me how bad this dumb little mouth wants to help.”

Eager, you scrambled forward on all fours, the carpet rough against your palms and knees, positioning yourself in the V of his spread thighs. The scent of him hit you first musky arousal mixed with the faint salt of sweat, intoxicating as you nuzzled closer.

His jeans gaped open, the waistband low enough that you could see the root of his cock straining against black boxers, a damp spot blooming where pre-cum had leaked. Hands trembling with anticipation, you reached up, fingers hooking into the denim, tugging it down his hips along with the boxers, freeing his length to slap heavy against his tank-clad abdomen.

Thick and veined, it stood proud, the shaft flushed dark, head swollen and glistening with that first bead of slickness. You licked your lips instinctively, eyes wide and adoring as you wrapped one small hand around the base, feeling the heat pulse under your palm, the girth so wide your fingers barely met. You cooed in that breathy, bimbo lilt, stroking slowly from root to tip, thumb smearing the pre-cum over the slit, making it shine.

He groaned low, head tipping back against the couch, but his hand returned to your hair, guiding you forward with insistent pressure. You parted your lips, tongue flicking out to lap at the underside first, tracing the prominent vein that throbbed with his heartbeat. The salty tang burst on your taste buds, making you moan softly as you swirled around the head, hollowing your cheeks to suckle gently, drawing more of that essence into your mouth.

Nate's hips bucked once, impatient, shoving the first few inches past your lips, stretching your jaw as you accommodated him. You gagged lightly when the head bumped the back of your throat, but you breathed through your nose, relaxing, letting saliva pool and drip down his length to ease the slide. Your hand pumped what you couldn't yet swallow, twisting on the upstroke, while your other hand cupped his heavy balls, rolling them gently, feeling them tighten under your touch. The TV droned on, explosions punctuating his ragged breaths, but the world narrowed to this: your knees digging into the floor, the ache building in your jaw, the way his cock filled your mouth like it was made for it.

“Just like that, pet. Deeper.” His socked foot nudges your thigh wider, as if claiming more space. You obeyed, tilting your head to take him further, throat convulsing around the intrusion as you bobbed, nose brushing the coarse hair at his base. Gags turned to wet slurps, strings of spit connecting your lips to his shaft on each withdrawal, your brain fogging with the sole purpose of pleasing him. His free hand gripped the couch arm, knuckles white, while the one in your hair set a rhythm pushing you down, holding you there until tears pricked your eyes, then letting you up for air, only to repeat.

The anger in him ebbed with each thrust into your warmth, his groans deepening, body relaxing inch by inch as you worked him over. You hummed around his length, the vibration pulling a curse from his lips, your tongue pressing flat against the underside to massage that sensitive spot. Saliva slicked your chin, dripping onto your heaving breasts, the slip growing damp and translucent. Between your legs, you were soaked, thighs rubbing together for friction, but this was about him, your Daddy, your provider, unleashing into your willing mouth.

His pace quickened, hips lifting off the couch to fuck your face in shallow pumps, balls drawing up tight against your palm. “Gonna flood that pretty throat and swallow every drop, don't waste it.” He warned, voice strained, the ribbed tank riding up to expose the cut lines of his abs flexing. You nodded as best you could, eyes watering but locked on his face, that blissful scowl softening into raw pleasure. With a final, guttural grunt, he held you flush, cock pulsing as thick ropes of cum shot straight down your gullet, hot and bitter, forcing you to gulp convulsively.

You milked him through it, sucking softly until he twitched oversensitive, then pulled back with a gasp, lips puffy and red, a stray dribble escaping the corner of your mouth. He watched you through hooded eyes, thumb swiping the mess to push it back between your lips. You sucked his thumb clean eagerly, then tucked him away gently, zipping his jeans with a soft kiss to the bulge. Crawling up to curl at his side, you nuzzled his arm, the beer forgotten as his hand draped possessively over your shoulder, the storm in him finally quelled for now.

The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a golden haze over the backyard pool that shimmered like liquid silk. Nate pushed through the back door after a day that had dragged on like gravel under his tires meetings that went nowhere, the usual bullshit piling up in his chest like lead. He expected the routine: you on your tiptoes at the front entrance, that soft, eager mouth waiting for his kiss, your body pressed close in that submissive arch that always grounded him. But the house echoed empty, no patter of bare feet, no breathy "Welcome home, Daddy." to cut through the silence. A flicker of irritation sparked in his gut, but it twisted quickly into something hotter when he heard the distant splash from outside.

He stepped onto the patio, the warm concrete rough under his boots, and there you were floating lazy in the water, oblivious to the world. The pool water lapped at your skin, droplets tracing slow, teasing paths down the swell of your breasts, over the dip of your waist, hugging every curve like a lover's hands. Your bikini was a flimsy thing, barely containing the fullness of you, the thin straps slipping off one shoulder as you treaded water with lazy kicks. Sunlight caught the rivulets streaming from your hair, making your body glisten, nipples hardening against the cool cling of wet fabric. Nate leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing over his chest, the sight hitting him low and hard. His cock stirred in his jeans, thickening against the denim as he watched the water slide between your thighs, imagining how slick you'd feel under him, how those curves would yield to his grip.

You didn't notice him at first, lost in the float, body arching back with a soft sigh that carried on the breeze. The way your ass broke the surface, rounded and slick, sent a pulse straight to his base, his length now straining fully, the zipper biting into him. He shifted, palming himself discreetly through the fabric, breath coming deeper as he drank in the view, your legs parting slightly to kick, the water parting around your mound like an invitation. Fuck, you were his perfect little pet, even in rebellion, this unplanned tease stoking the fire he'd been banking all day.

You twisted, spotting him through the ripples. With a fluid push, you swam to the edge, hands gripping the lip as you lifted yourself out. Water cascaded off you in sheets, soaking the patio stones, your body emerging like a forbidden fruit breasts heaving with the effort, bikini bottoms riding up to expose the soft flesh of your hips. You straightened, shaking out your hair, and that wide, beaming smile split your face, all innocence and heat. "Hi, Daddy.” Light and dripping eyes sparkling as you sauntered closer, hips swaying, water still beading on your skin like jewels.

Nate's gaze raked over you, unhurried, the smirk tugging at his lips as his cock throbbed insistently. He raised one hand, those long, thick fingers waving lazily in the air a silent command, a promise of what those digits could do to you later, curling inside, stretching you wide. The smirk deepened, dark and knowing, as he crooked them just a touch, beckoning without a word, already plotting how he'd have you on your knees by the poolside, making up for the missed greeting with that hot, willing mouth.

The house feels unnaturally quiet as you perch on the edge of the bed upstairs, fingers twisting the hem of your favorite babydoll nightie the one in soft lavender lace that skims your thighs and dips low between your breasts, nipples already pebbling against the sheer cups from the chill creeping through the open window.

This week has been torture; Nate's gone back to his old habits and has been a ghost in his own home again, brushing off your playful touches, your whispered teases, your desperate bids for attention with curt nods and locked doors to his office. He’s a creature of habit. One week he’s insatiable and the next he can’t be touched. No more lingering glances over breakfast, no rough hands pulling you close after his workouts. Just distance, cold and impenetrable, leaving you aching and restless.

So tonight, you rebelled. No simmering pots on the stove, no plated meal waiting under the warming lights. The one ritual he clings to coming home to the smell of your cooking, your body presented like a reward gone. It's petty, but god, you need him to notice, to react, to shatter that wall he's built.

The front door slams downstairs, the sound jolting through you like a live wire. Heavy footsteps echo across the foyer, the jingle of keys hitting the side table, then the shuffle of his boots being kicked off. Your heart hammers, breath catching as you strain to listen. He's moving toward the kitchen pausing, no doubt, at the empty counter, the silence where the clatter of utensils should be. A beat passes, then another, tension coiling in your gut like a spring. And then it comes your name, barked out in that voice. Not a scream, no that's what twists the knife. It's low, gritted through clenched teeth, each syllable scraped raw with barely leashed fury. “Where the fuck are you?” The words vibrate up the stairs, sinking into your bones, sending a shiver racing down your spine that pools hot and heavy between your legs despite the fear.

What scares you most isn't the volume; it's the control in it, the way his anger simmers just under the surface, promising an explosion that's all the more terrifying for being deliberate. You've seen that rage before the kind that simmers from his high school days, addictive and destructive, the monster he keeps chained but lets slip when you push too far.

Your thighs press together instinctively, the lace of your thong rubbing against your swelling clit, a traitorous spark of arousal mixing with the dread. You don't move at first, frozen like prey, pulse thundering in your ears as his footsteps start up the stairs deliberate, heavy thuds that make the floorboards creak under his weight.

The echo of his gritted call still hangs in the air like smoke, thick and choking, as you finally summon the courage or is it defiance? to move. Your bare feet pad softly against the cool hardwood of the upstairs hallway, heart a wild drumbeat in your chest that syncs with the distant shuffle of his movements below.

The spaghetti straps slip just enough to tease the swell of your breasts with every step. It sways around your thighs as you glide down the stairs, not rushing but flowing, a deliberate grace that masks the tremor in your limbs. The fabric whispers against your skin, a fragile armor against the storm brewing in the man waiting at the bottom.

He stands there in the foyer, a silhouette carved from tension and shadow, brooding, his broad shoulders squared under the dim glow of the entry light. Nate's eyes lift as the first creak of the stairs betrays you, locking onto your form with an intensity that pins you mid step.

He watches from beneath furrowed thick brows, gaze traveling down the length of you over the way the nightie molds to your hips, the hem fluttering to reveal glimpses of smooth thighs, his expression a mask of barely contained fury. He looks down his nose at you, literally and figuratively, chin tilted up in that imperious way that makes him tower even more, his large frame radiating authority like heat from a forge. The anger etches lines around his mouth, jaw set in a hard line, but there's something else flickering in those dark brown eyes, a hunger that's been starved all week, now twisted with betrayal.

You reach the landing, close enough now that the scent of him envelops you earthy sweat from his day, mingled with the faint leather of his belt and the cologne that always lingers on his collar. Your big doe eyes, wide and luminous under lashes that fan like dark wings, flick up to meet his, searching the planes of his face. The sharp cut of his cheekbones, the stubble shadowing his jaw, the way his lips press thin with restraint.

He's pissed, oh god, you can feel it rolling off him in waves, but he holds it back, muscles in his neck corded as if he's physically wrestling the beast inside. But with the kitchen empty and cold, that chain strains.

As soon as you're within arm's reach, his large hand shoots out, wrapping around your jaw with unyielding precision. His fingers long, thick, callused from weights and work dig into your cheeks, forcing your mouth into a pout, the pressure firm but not bruising, a warning wrapped in possession. The warmth of his palm seeps into your skin, contrasting the chill of fear that prickles your arms, raising goosebumps beneath the silk. You freeze under his touch, breath hitching as his thumb brushes the corner of your lips, almost tender in its menace, holding you captive in his gaze.

“Where’s dinner, baby?” The words come out low, almost pitifully, laced with a mocking empathy that twists your gut. It's not a roar; it's worse a soft croon that drips with false concern, like he's humoring a child who's spilled their milk. His voice vibrates through his chest, close enough that you feel the rumble against your own body, inches apart now, his free hand hanging loose at his side but fingers flexing as if itching to claim more. Your doe eyes dart across his face, tracing the clench of his jaw, the subtle flare of his nostrils as he inhales your scent vanilla lotion and the faint arousal that's already betraying you, pooling warm between your thighs despite the tension.

You swallow against the pressure of his grip, the silk of your nightie shifting as your chest rises with a shaky inhale. “I forgot.” The lie slips from your lips with a deliberate click of your tongue, lingering on the final syllable like a challenge, drawn out and bratty, your voice a soft lilt that belies the pulse racing at your throat. It's not true you didn't forget; you withheld, a calculated rebellion to crack through his distance, to make him see you again, touch you again, remind you that you're his little one, his pet who lives for his approval and his fire.

A flash crosses his eyes then, lightning in a storm pupils dilating wide, the brown darkening to near black as shock and fury collide. His breath comes heavy, a ragged exhale that fans hot across your face, chest expanding under his tank top, the white fabric clinging to the ridges of his abs from the day's exertion. He leans in closer, nose almost brushing yours, the grip on your jaw tightening just a fraction, enough to make your teeth ache against your lower lip. “You forgot?” He repeats it slowly, each word ground out like gravel, disbelief sharpening the edge of his tone. There's a tremor in it, not weakness but the effort of control, his free hand rising to brace against the wall beside your head, caging you fully now, his body a wall of heat and muscle that blocks out the world.

You nod as much as his hold allows, a small, defiant tilt of your chin that presses your cheeks deeper into his fingers, your eyes never leaving his pleading, provoking, a mix of vulnerability and spark that begs for the emotional tether only he can provide. The air between you thickens, charged with the unspoken the week of his withdrawal, the nights you've spent curled in bed alone, aching for the weight of him, the way he murmurs good girl after pushing you to your limits.

His jaw clenches harder, a muscle ticking visibly, and for a heartbeat, you see the war in him, the addictive pull of unleashing that old rage warring with the man he's become.

But the restraint cracks, just enough. His thumb traces your lower lip, parting it slightly, a gesture that's equal parts threat and promise, his breath mingling with yours as he searches your eyes for the truth you both know. “Forgot, huh? My sweet little pet, so busy playing games you can't even keep one simple promise?” The mocking tone returns, but softer now, edged with that underlying affection that makes your heart clench the knowledge that beneath the anger, he craves this connection as much as you do, the push and pull that reaffirms your bond. His fingers loosen a touch, sliding to cup your face more gently, thumb stroking your cheekbone in a loving sweep that sends a shiver through you, melting the fear into something warmer, needier.

You lean into his touch instinctively, your hands rising to rest on his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart mirroring yours, the fabric of his tank damp under your palms. “Daddy.” You whisper, the word a plea laced with remorse and desire, your body arching subtly toward him, the nightie riding up to expose the curve of your hip. His eyes soften fractionally, the fury ebbing into something primal, protecting the emotional depth of your dynamic surfacing as he releases you.

His grip on your jaw eases, fingers lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary, tracing the imprint they've left on your soft skin before he withdraws completely. The absence of his touch leaves a cool void where warmth had bloomed, and you stand there in the foyer, lips pursed in a full pout that tugs at your lower lip, eyes still wide and shimmering with that mix of contrition and craving. The babydoll nightie clings to your body, the silk now slightly rumpled from his earlier hold, the hem brushing your thighs like a teasing reminder of your vulnerability. Your chest rises and falls in shallow breaths, the emotional tether between you humming with unspoken promises he's pulled you back from the edge of his distance, but the night is far from over, and the depth of your connection demands more, a reaffirmation through surrender.

Nate turns away without a word, his broad back a wall of muscle under the fitted tank, shoulders rolling with purposeful tension as he takes long strides toward the dining room. The tile floors echo his steps, heavy and commanding, each one pulling at the invisible leash that binds you to him. You hesitate for only a moment, feet rooted as if testing the pull, but the ache in your chest the need to be near him, to feel the security of his provision and protection wins out.

Helplessly, you follow, trailing like a lost puppy, your bare soles padding softly behind him, gaze fixed on the way his jeans hug the powerful lines of his legs, the subtle sway of his hips that speaks of restrained power. It's this dynamic that grounds you, the way he leads and you yield, weaving trust into every command, vulnerability into every step that brings you closer.

He enters the dining room first, the space bathed in the warm glow of the chandelier overhead, crystals casting fractured light across the polished oak table that dominates the room. The air smells faintly of lemon polish from your earlier chores, a domestic scent that underscores his role as provider, the home he maintains for you, the life he builds around your shared intimacy.

As he crosses the threshold, he pivots sharply, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that stops you in your tracks. “Stay.” The word firm but laced with that underlying affection, a single syllable that carries the weight of your dynamic. It's not just an order; it's a test of your devotion, a moment where your obedience reaffirms the emotional bond, the trust that he holds your heart as surely as he holds your submission.

You do as told, freezing in place just inside the doorway, hands clasped in front of you, fingers twisting the hem of your nightie as your pout deepens. Your big eyes follow him, tracing the confident lines of his form as he strides to the head of the table, the seat of authority, his throne in this carefully curated world. He sinks into the high backed chair with deliberate grace, legs spreading wide in a posture that's both relaxed and possessive, knees apart to claim the space beneath the table like territory.

One hand rests on his thigh, but then, with a soft, almost absentminded palm, he cups the growing twitch between his legs, fingers pressing lightly against the denim over his arousal. The gesture is subtle, intimate, a quiet acknowledgment of the power he wields not just physical, but the thrill of your fear, the way it stirs him, deepens the connection. He likes it, you know; the way your pulse quickens under his gaze, the vulnerability that makes your surrender all the more profound, transforming dominance into an act of profound care.

His stare holds you captive from across the room, unblinking and thorough, eyes raking over you with a hunger that's as emotional as it is carnal. They travel slowly, deliberately from the delicate straps of the nightie that barely contain the soft swell of your breasts, over the dip of your waist, to the exposed length of your legs and the shadow between your thighs where your earlier arousal still lingers, warm and insistent.

The scrutiny makes heat bloom in your cheeks, a flush that spreads down your neck, your body responding to the weight of his attention like a flower to sunlight. In his eyes, you see the storm of his day the stress he's carried home, the rage he's leashed for your sake but beneath it, the genuine affection that makes this more than control; it's the way he sees you, truly, as his cherished pet, the one who softens his edges, who draws out the tenderness he guards so fiercely.

The silence stretches, thick with anticipation, your breaths shallow as you stand there, exposed and yearning. Then, his voice breaks it, low and commanding “Come.” The word wraps around you like a caress, pulling at the core of your need to please, to bridge the emotional gap his distance has created. You start forward instinctively, taking a tentative step on unsteady legs, the nightie swishing against your skin, heart fluttering with the promise of closeness.

But he stops you with a sharp “No.” His head shakes once, firmly, the motion sending a jolt through you. His expression hardens just enough to convey the boundary, eyes narrowing in that way that mixes sternness with underlying warmth. “Crawl.” He adds, jutting his chin up in emphasis, his free hand pointing to the ground with unyielding authority. The command lands like a spark, igniting the familiar blend of trepidation and desire in your belly. Lowering yourself slowly, you sink to your knees, the cool tile biting into your skin through the thin barrier of the nightie. Your palms press flat against the floor, fingers splaying as you begin to crawl toward him, each movement deliberate and humiliating in the most intimate way hips swaying slightly, breasts shifting with the rhythm, the fabric riding up to bare the curve of your ass. It's restrictive, this position he demands, a physical manifestation of the power exchange that strips away pretense, leaving only raw vulnerability and trust. You feel his gaze on you the entire way, heavy and approving, the emotional depth of it wrapping around your heart as surely as chains.

The distance to the table feels endless, every inch a testament to your submission, your eyes lifting occasionally to meet his, seeking that flicker of pride, of love, that makes the humiliation bloom into something transformative. By the time you reach him, kneeling between his spread legs under the table's edge, your knees ache faintly, breaths coming in soft pants that mist the air. The space is intimate, shadowed, his thighs framing you like pillars, the scent of him musk and faint soap enveloping you completely. He looms above, one hand still resting possessively over his crotch, the other reaching down to tilt your chin up with two fingers, forcing your gaze to his.

In his eyes, you see the week's frustrations melting, replaced by that deep seated affection, the knowledge that this ritual reaffirms your bond, his provision for your emotional and physical needs.

You lean forward on instinct, hands rising to his belt, fingers fumbling with the buckle in your eagerness to serve, to ease the tension you sense coiling in him. The metal clinks softly, the leather sliding through the loops with a whisper, your touch reverent yet urgent, driven by the desire to connect on this visceral level. But before you can progress further, his hand moves quick but controlled, delivering a soft tap to your cheek with his fingers, the contact light, almost playful, yet carrying the weight of correction. It stings just enough to make your skin tingle, drawing a gasp from your lips as you freeze, eyes widening in surprise.

He raises an eyebrow, the arch expressive and stern, his lips quivering in a half smile that's equal parts amusement and dominance. “No, pet.” A low rumble that vibrates through the air between you, thick with that mocking tenderness that twists your insides. His fingers linger on your cheek, stroking now in a soothing circle, thumb brushing your lower lip to part it gently, the gesture shifting from reprimand to affection in a seamless flow. It's this duality that deepens everything the control laced with care, the restriction blooming into trust. Your heart swells at the endearment, the way it acknowledges your role, his little one who exists in the warmth of his guidance, provided for in every sense.

“Not yet.” His free hand guides yours away from his belt, intertwining your fingers instead and bringing them to his lips for a brief, feather light kiss against your knuckles. The touch is tender, a loving gesture that counters the earlier tap, weaving emotional intimacy into the power play. He leans back slightly in his chair, legs still spread to accommodate you, his arousal evident now in the strain against his jeans, but he holds back, savoring the build, the way your submission draws him out of his shell. “You’ve been forgetting your place all week, baby girl. Thinking you’re in control” His words are soft, almost crooning, but they carry the undercurrent of his need, the emotional hunger for this reconnection, for the vulnerability you offer so freely.

You nod, cheeks burning under his judgement, the pout returning as you settle more fully on your knees, hands now resting submissively on your thighs. The position is one of utter yielding, your body open to him, the nightie pooling around you like a surrendered flag. He watches you for a long moment, eyes softening as they trace the lines of your face, the flush of your skin, the way your lashes lower demurely before his hand cups the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair with a gentle tug that grounds you.

“Good girl.” The praise a balm that soothes the earlier correction, flooding you with warmth. It's in these moments that the physical dominance reveals its emotional core, the trust that allows you to crawl, to be restricted, to be his pet in the truest sense, cherished and provided for in a life built on mutual depth.

He doesn't rush instead, he draws out the tension, his thumb stroking your scalp in rhythmic patterns that send shivers down your spine, building the anticipation until your body hums with it. The dining room fades around you, the world narrowing to this space beneath the table, his thighs, his scent, the steady beat of his heart you can almost hear over the quiet.

When he finally guides your head forward, not to his jeans but to rest against his inner thigh, it's an invitation to simply be, to feel the heat of him through the fabric, the subtle twitch of his need pressing against your cheek. “Just like this for now.” Husky with restrained passion, his other hand covering yours in a squeeze that conveys everything the affection, the protection, the transformative power of your shared vulnerability. In his hold, the week's distance dissolves further, leaving only the profound connection that makes every command, every crawl, an act of love.

The intensity of his need surges as he guides your head down once more, his fingers firm in your hair, not pulling but directing with that unyielding tenderness that speaks of his deeper care. His jeans are undone now, the zipper rasping like a secret shared in the dim light, and he frees himself with a low exhale, the thick length of him springing forth, heavy and insistent against your lips.

You part them eagerly, the emotional pull to serve him to bridge the chasm his distance has carved overriding any lingering hesitation. He eases in slowly at first, the broad head stretching your mouth, the salty tang of his skin blooming on your tongue as you hollow your cheeks, drawing him deeper. But restraint gives way to raw hunger; his hips buck forward, and he begins to fuck your throat with deliberate thrusts, each one claiming more of you, the rhythm building like a storm you both crave.

Every sensation etches itself into your awareness, the prominent vein along the underside pulsing against the flat of your tongue, throbbing with his heartbeat, a living reminder of the life force he pours into this union. The ridges of him, the subtle creases where skin meets sensitivity, glide over your lips and the roof of your mouth, textured and unyielding, filling you completely until your nose brushes the coarse hair at his base.

Saliva builds, slick and warm, spilling from the corners of your stretched lips, dripping down your chin in messy trails that mingle with the tears welling in your eyes from the depth of it all. Gags rise in your throat, reflexive and choked, but you swallow around him, the constriction drawing a guttural groan from his chest, his free hand stroking your cheek in fleeting reassurance amid the dominance. It's overwhelming, the way he consumes you, but beneath the physical invasion lies the emotional anchor this act of surrender mends the fractures of the week, his provision manifesting in the way he takes what he needs from you, trusting you'll give it freely, vulnerably.

Your hands grip his thighs for stability, nails digging into the denim-clad muscle, feeling the tremor of restraint in him as he holds back just enough to keep you safe, even in this frenzy. The table creaks faintly under his shifting weight, the chandelier's light fracturing across his face, highlighting the furrow in his brow, the parted lips that release soft curses laced with affection. He watches you through hooded eyes, the connection electric, your watery gaze meeting his in silent communion your submission, his solace, his dominance your shelter. When he finally stills, buried deep one last time, the final pulses of his release flood your throat, hot and thick, forcing you to swallow convulsively, the taste of him intimate and binding, sealing the emotional release he sought.

He withdraws with care, thumbing away a stray tear from your cheek as he pulls you up, his strength effortless as he lifts you onto his broad lap. The chair groans under the added weight, but he settles you there like something precious, your knees bracketing his hips, the nightie bunching around your waist in disarray.

His hands, large and warm, smooth your hair back from your damp face, fingers gentle now, tracing the strands with a reverence that contrasts the earlier fervor. Your eyes are watery, lashes clumped and shimmering, breaths coming in hiccuping gasps as the ache in your jaw throbs faintly, a badge of your devotion. He leans in, cupping your face, and kisses you deeply, his lips soft against yours, tasting himself on your tongue in a shared intimacy that deepens the trust between you. It's not just possession; it's affirmation, his mouth moving with a tenderness that whispers of the love woven into every command.

“You did so good for me.” He mumbles against your lips, voice roughened by release but softened by genuine warmth, his forehead resting against yours in a moment of quiet connection. The words wrap around your heart, easing the vulnerability of your submission, reminding you of the emotional journey you've traversed together from his anger to this fragile peace. His eyes, dark and searching, trace over your face, lingering on the flush of your cheeks, the swollen pout of your lips, the way your chest heaves with lingering need. There's a flicker of concern there, mingled with pride, as if he's cataloging the marks of your yielding, cherishing them as proof of your bond.

“Are you done with being a bratty bitch?” He asks, the question low and probing, his hands settling on your hips with a possessive squeeze that grounds you. It's not an accusation but an invitation, a chance to voice the emotional undercurrents, to affirm the dynamic that sustains you both. You hold his gaze, lips parting but no words escaping, the silence a subtle challenge born of the week's frustrations, the ache for his undivided attention. He nods once, understanding dawning in his eyes the nod not of defeat but resolve, a silent acknowledgment of the vulnerability you're both navigating. His hands slide to your waist, fingers spanning the curve with ease, and he lifts you effortlessly, placing you on the edge of the dining table with a decisiveness that sends a thrill through you.

“Lay down.” He commands, voice steady and laced with that underlying affection, the words carrying the weight of care beneath the control. You comply, easing back onto the polished wood, the cool surface a stark contrast to the heat radiating from your skin. As you settle, the babydoll nightie hikes up around your thighs, the silk whispering against your flesh, exposing the lace trimmed edges of your little panties, now darkened with arousal.

The table's edge digs slightly into your hips, but it's a grounding discomfort, heightening the exposure, the way your body arches instinctively toward him, seeking the connection that transforms this into something profound.

He steps between your legs, his presence towering and protective, warm hands callused from the day's labors gripping your thighs to spread them apart with deliberate slowness. The motion parts you like a secret unfolding, his gaze dropping to the damp spot blooming at the center of your panties, the fabric clinging transparently to your folds, evidence of the desire that's simmered all evening.

A low hum of approval rumbles in his chest, his thumbs stroking the inner skin in soothing circles, the touch affectionate even as it asserts his claim. He traces a knuckle along the wetness, the pressure light but insistent, dragging over the soaked cotton to outline the shape of you beneath. Your hips jerk upward involuntarily, a spark of pleasure jolting through your core, chasing more of that contact, the emotional need for his touch mirroring the physical ache.

But he pulls away sharply, his hand delivering a firm spank to your thigh, the slap echoing in the quiet room, the sting blooming hot and sharp across your skin, leaving a faint red imprint. A gasp tumbles from your lips, high and breathless, your body tensing as the sensation ripples outward, blending pain with the undercurrent of desire.

His eyes meet yours, stern yet tender, the dominance softened by the way his other hand lingers on your knee, steadying you. “Dont move.” He instructs, voice a gravelly whisper that brooks no argument, but beneath it, the implicit promise this is for us, to rebuild the trust frayed by distance.

He teases you then, relentlessly, his knuckle returning to graze the damp fabric in fleeting passes milliseconds of friction that ignite nerves without satisfying, each touch a whisper of what's to come. Over and over, he repeats the torment, his breath fanning hot across your core through the thin barrier, the warmth of his exhales seeping into you, making the ache throb deeper. Your body betrays you, hips twitching despite the warning, the need coiling tight in your belly until you're whining softly, the sounds raw and pleading, tears pricking your eyes anew from the exquisite frustration. It's not just physical; it's the emotional edge, the way his restraint mirrors his care, drawing out your vulnerability until you're laid bare, aching for the affirmation only he can give.

“Say it.” He demands finally, his voice husky, eyes locked on yours with an intensity that pierces, urging you toward the surrender that will seal your reconnection.

You lean up on your elbows, the table cool against your back, meeting his challenge with a defiant tilt of your chin, heart pounding with the thrill of the push pull that defines your intimacy. “Say what?” Retorting, the words breathy but bold, a spark of the bratty fire that started this all, testing the depth of his patience, the strength of your bond.

His response is swift, a single finger tucking into the middle of your panties, hooking the fabric and pulling it aside with a deliberate tug. The cold air rushes in, kissing your glistening folds, the sudden exposure making you shiver, your arousal stark and vulnerable under his scrutiny swollen and slick, clit peeking from its hood, begging silently. He runs his knuckle along the seam of you, catching the wetness that coats your entrance, the drag slow and torturous, parting your lips just enough to tease the sensitive inner flesh. Pleasure arcs through you like lightning, your head falling back against the table with a thud, a moan escaping unbidden as your walls clench around nothing, the brief contact leaving you emptier than before. He removes it just as quickly, the absence a cruel void, your body trembling on the precipice.

You both stare then, heatedly, the air thick with unspoken emotion, the push of your rebellion meeting the pull of his dominance, vulnerability hanging between you like a thread ready to snap into unity. His eyes bore into yours, dark with desire and that profound affection, waiting for you to bridge the gap. The silence stretches, your chest heaving, until the ache overwhelms, the need for him for this transformative closeness wins out. “I’ll obey.” You whisper, the admission raw and yielding, laced with the trust that makes it empowering rather than diminishing.

His lips twitch with a hint of a smirk, the expression softening the edges of his intensity, pride flickering in his gaze as he absorbs your words. He lowers himself then, face diving into your folds without preamble, his mouth hot and insistent against your most intimate skin. His tongue flattens, licking fat, broad stripes up your snatch from entrance to clit, the pressure firm and devouring, gathering your essence with greedy laps that send shockwaves through your core. He eats you alive, lips sealing around your clit to suckle with rhythmic pulls, teeth grazing just enough to tease the edge of pain into ecstasy, his nose nudging your mound as he buries deeper.

The sensations overwhelm his stubble scraping your inner thighs, the wet sounds of his feasting filling the room, mingling with your escalating cries. He alternates, tongue delving into your entrance to thrust and curl, mimicking what you crave most, before returning to circle your clit with precise flicks that make stars burst behind your eyelids. Your hands fly to his hair, gripping the strands as your back arches off the table, the nightie twisting around your torso like a discarded veil. Pleasure builds relentlessly, coiling tighter with each stripe he paints, each hum of approval vibrating against your flesh. Tears stream down your temples, sobs tearing from your throat as the intensity crests you're a mess, body quaking, thighs clamping around his head in desperate hold, the emotional release crashing with the physical one. He doesn't stop, drawing it out until you're shattered, sobbing his name in broken pleas, the vulnerability of it all forging you closer, his provision complete in the way he wrings every drop of surrender from you, leaving only the tender aftermath of your shared depth.

He lingers between your thighs for a moment longer, savoring the aftermath of your unraveling, his tongue giving one final, languid sweep along your sensitive folds before he withdraws. The cool air rushes in to replace the heat of his mouth, making you shiver as he straightens slightly, his fingers still glistening with your release lifting to his lips. He watches you with those intense eyes, dark and possessive yet softened by the quiet pride that flickers there, as he draws them into his mouth. His tongue curls around each digit, licking them clean with deliberate slowness, the wet sounds intimate and unhurried, tasting you on his skin like a ritual that binds you closer.

The sight of it, so raw and reverent, stirs something deep in your chest, a mix of vulnerability and warmth, knowing this act of consumption is his way of claiming every part of you, emotional and physical alike. A low hum vibrates in his throat, approval and satisfaction mingling as he savors the essence of your surrender, his gaze never leaving your face, tracing the flush on your cheeks, the way your lips part in breathless awe.

Rising to his full height, he towers over you on the table, the chair scraping back with a faint groan as he stands. His hands find your hips immediately, fingers digging into the soft flesh with a grip that's firm but not cruel, pulling you toward him with effortless strength.

There's a tenderness in the way he maneuvers you, turning you around so your back faces him, your body pliant under his touch, guided by the trust that underpins every command. The babydoll nightie clings to your sweat dampened skin, the fabric whispering as it shifts, exposing the curve of your ass to the room's dim light.

He positions you bent over the table's edge, your palms pressing into the wood for balance, the cool surface grounding you as anticipation coils in your belly. His presence behind you is a solid wall of heat, protective and overwhelming, the emotional undercurrent of his need for control weaving through the air like an unspoken promise this discipline is love, raw and unfiltered. Without a word, he steps back just enough to unbuckle his belt, the leather sliding through the loops with a sharp hiss that sends a thrill of trepidation through you.

The first strike lands with precision, the doubled over strap cracking against your bare skin, the impact blooming into a sharp sting that radiates outward, heat flooding the cheek immediately. You gasp, body jolting forward, but his free hand steadies your hip, holding you in place with gentle insistence a reminder that you're safe in his grasp, even as the pain builds. He doesn't hold back, spanking the shit out of you with measured force, each lash of the belt deliberate, layering fire upon fire until your ass aches deeply, the skin prickling and tender under the assault.

Stripes of red rise in its wake, some swelling into faint bruises that throb with your heartbeat, the sensation a vivid tapestry of hurt and release. Tears well in your eyes again, not just from the physical burn but from the emotional release it provokes his distance, all channeled into this cathartic ritual. Between strikes, his voice murmurs soft encouragements.

When he finally pauses, belt hanging loose in his hand, he shuffles forward, closing the distance until his body presses against yours. One large palm presses into the crevice between your bare shoulders, the weight of it pinning you gently to the table, a grounding force that speaks of possession laced with care. His lips graze the shell of your ear, breath warm and ragged, stirring the fine hairs there as he leans in close, his chest brushing your back in a fleeting embrace.

The roughness of his jeans scrapes against your heated, abused ass, the denim's texture a harsh contrast to your inflamed skin, igniting fresh sparks of pain that make you cry out softly, the sound muffled against your arm. It's exquisite torment, the friction drawing involuntary whimpers from your throat, your body trembling under the dual assault of sensation and emotion the vulnerability of being so exposed, so utterly his, melting away the barriers that had grown between you.

His voice drops to a intimate whisper, lips brushing your earlobe as he asks, “Do you know what a bitch is?” The question hangs in the air, heavy with implication, his tone not mocking but probing, inviting you into the deeper layers of your dynamic. You shake your head no, the motion small and submissive, your cheek pressing into the table as tears streak your face, the ache in your rear pulsing in rhythm with your quickened breaths.

He pauses, letting the silence build the tension, his hand sliding up to cradle the nape of your neck in a soothing stroke. “It’s a female dog.” He explains softly, the words laced with a dark affection, painting the picture of loyalty and devotion. Later, as his fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin, he adds, “And you're my dog eager to please, always happy to take me, no matter what.” The declaration sinks into you like a vow, stirring a profound sense of belonging, the degradation transformed by the underlying trust into something empowering, a testament to the emotional intimacy you crave. It's his way of providing, of framing your submission as cherished, the pet-like energy wrapping you in his care even as it asserts his dominance. “The dog doesn’t make orders. It obeys.”

As his words resonate, you hear the soft clink of his belt being set aside, followed by the familiar rasp of his jeans unbuttoning, the sound intimate and charged. The weight of his cock presses into the cleft of your ass, heavy and insistent, the velvety hardness sliding against your tender skin, a promise of what's to come that makes your core clench with need. He's freed himself fully now, the thick length nestling between your cheeks, the heat of him seeping into you, bridging the physical divide with emotional urgency. “Are you going to obey?” Voice rough with restrained hunger, his hand still firm on your shoulders, lips ghosting your ear in a kiss that's almost tender.

The broad head of his cock slips between your wetness, parting your slick folds with ease, the tip catching at your entrance and teasing the sensitive nerves there. Your babbling yes spills out in a rush, fragmented and desperate “Yes, please, yes.” The words tumbling over each other as vulnerability surges, your body arching back instinctively to draw him in. He huffs a laugh, the sound laced with praise and relief, a warm puff of air against your neck that eases the tension, affirming your yielding as the key to his peace. Then, with a single, decisive thrust, he pushes in, the stretch immediate and consuming, his girth filling you to the brink as your walls yield around him, fluttering in welcome.

When he fucks you, it isn't nice or soft it's hard and violent, a tempest of motion driven by the pent up rage that's simmered beneath his skin all week. His hips snap forward with brutal force, each plunge deep and unrelenting, the table creaking under the onslaught as he drives into you, the angle allowing him to hit that spot inside that sparks stars behind your eyes. The slap of skin on skin echoes through the room, mingling with your cries and his guttural grunts, the rhythm punishing yet profoundly connecting his anger pouring out not to harm but to heal, the physicality a conduit for the emotions he can't voice.

Your ass, still throbbing from the belt, jiggles with every impact, the residual sting amplifying the pleasure pain, tears streaming freely now as you surrender to the storm. He grips your hips hard enough to leave marks, pulling you back onto him, the dominance absolute but rooted in the trust that you'll take it all, that this rage is his vulnerability laid bare, shared only with you.

As he nears the edge, his pace falters into something more frantic, breaths coming in harsh pants against your back. With a growl, he pulls you upright and back with him, his arms banding around your waist like iron, lifting you effortlessly as he retreats to the chair. He sits heavily, drawing you down onto his lap in one fluid motion, your legs splaying over his thighs, the new position allowing him to fill you even deeper, the head of his cock pressing insistently against your cervix.

The shift intensifies everything, the fullness overwhelming, your walls clenching around him in rhythmic pulses as he resumes thrusting upward, short and powerful. One hand snakes to your throat, fingers wrapping around it in a light squeeze, not choking but holding, the pressure a gentle reminder of his control, thumb stroking your pulse point in affectionate reassurance. His other hand dips between your legs, fingers circling your bruised clit with expert pressure, the touch igniting fresh waves of sensation amid the ache, drawing whimpers from your lips as pleasure coils tighter.

Your feeble, shaky hands reach up to hold his wrists, not to stop but to anchor yourself to him, nails digging lightly into his skin as the emotional floodgates open the trust in his grip, the way he tempers his rage with care, making you feel seen, wanted, cherished in the chaos. “Cum.” He commands, voice a ragged whisper against your ear, the word laced with urgent affection, a plea wrapped in dominance.

You follow without hesitation, the orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing in his lap, walls spasming around him in milking contractions that pull him deeper. Sobs escape you, raw and cathartic, the release not just physical but emotional, washing away the week's isolation in a surge of connection. He follows moments later, burying himself to the hilt with a final, shuddering thrust, thick white stripes of his release flooding your womb, hot and copious, the sensation of being filled so completely stirring a profound intimacy the breeding instinct humming beneath it all, a shared dream of family that binds you closer.

You both catch your breaths in the aftermath, bodies slick with sweat, his chest rising and falling in heavy rhythms that press against your back, the steady cadence calming you deeply, like a lullaby in the quiet. The room smells of sex and exertion, the air thick but settling into peaceful stillness. Shifting slightly on his lap, the ache in your ass flares anew, a dull throb that grounds you in the reality of your surrender, but it's bearable, even welcome, a physical echo of the emotional journey you've shared.

Absently, you turn your head and press a soft kiss to his jaw, the stubble rough against your lips, the gesture tender and unprompted, born of the affection that lingers after the storm. He nudges his face closer in response, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, his breath warm and even now, the tension fully ebbed from his frame. His hands, large and reassuring, smooth over your torso in lazy sweeps, tracing the curves beneath the rumpled nightie with a gentleness that speaks volumes the provider in him surfacing, cherishing the vulnerability he's helped unearth.