A Talk with Daddy

An idea came to me after reading a particular thread, so I sat down and pushed this piece out. It's a new area for me, so any purists, please, if there's any areas you see for improvement do let me know ... in a constructive way!

I was also unsure in which category to place it - is BDSM a better place for this type of scene?

I hope you enjoy it. Forgive any errors, I didn't want to mess with it too much - as is a particular quirk of mine. When I mess with things I miss continuity issues and the like.

Anyway, again, I hope you enjoy it.

GA - at work! - 23 Jan 2012

At last it was Friday evening. She parked the Porsche -- a nearly useless status symbol in the Capital's crawl, but it put the alpha-males' noses out of joint; showed them who was boss -- in the marked bay and hurried through the subterranean level to the lift. Sweet anticipation fluttered deep in the pit of her stomach, a tickle of expectation that sluiced desire into her already sodden underwear as the elevator transported her upwards, towards her London pied-a-terre. In the flat, the penthouse apartment naturally, she ignored the view of the city skyline silhouetted against a rosy twilight. The Thames, a silvery serpentine thread when viewed from the eyrie, wound in from the west, while the sepulchral tower housing Big Ben stood like a sentinel outside her usual place of business; but she didn't notice, there was other business on her mind.

He was coming to visit.

The smart suit, work attire of skirt and jacket -- sober colours of the establishment --joined the white blouse in a heap on the bedroom floor. Her knickers, as he'd specified, pristine and virginal when she'd first slid them on that morning but which were now sodden, stayed on. It was how he desired it, she couldn't disappoint him; if she disappointed him he'd have a little talk with her. And she knew what would happen next; she knew what it meant to have a little talk with Daddy.

A low moan came from her at the thought. Somehow she resisted the near overwhelming urge to touch herself. She wanted to touch herself, though. That nasty, insistent itch down there, in that place between her legs ...

But he would catch her doing it, would catch her in-flagrante with her pussy hot and bubbling and hungry as she jammed her fingers or a dildo into her body. Not that he'd be disappointed, he loved her as a slut, but that wasn't the scene he expected.

Chewing her lipstick from her bottom lip with frustration and burning desire she managed to suppress the urge. Instead she moved quickly, almost urgently through the luxury of the décor and into the acreage of the kitchen. She poured the rioja and took an indelicate swig. With the fragile-stemmed fishbowl goblet in hand she then walked on bare feet to the bedroom. After a sip at the wine the past hectic week slid from her mind. No more decisions; budgets; minions clamouring for her attention; the damned press and their constant intrusions into her life.

They didn't know the half of it. If they did ...

With the week forgotten she unpinned the elaborate hairstyle of her workaday life and brushed her long dark hair with sweeping strokes. She then tied the thick mass into a simple pony tail with an elasticated, coral- pink band. The subtle make-up came off next. Clean-faced, she took another hefty swallow of rioja before dressing in the simple pleated kilt he liked so much.

A present for you, he'd said. You'll look so pretty in it.

She wanted to look pretty for him.

The kilt barely reached mid-thigh, it showed a lot of leg, an indecent expanse of skin; but he liked her legs and so she wore it to please him. A white blouse so tight across the front that bra and flesh gaped between the buttons and a pair of high-heeled patent shoes completed the ensemble. There was nothing to do now but wait.

Minutes dragged slowly past. She finished the wine and poured another glass. When the clock showed the time at seven-thirty she reached for a packet of cigarettes and lit one. The thing was half-smoked when she heard the thrilling rasp of his key in the lock. After crushing the cigarette into an ashtray she hid the evidence under the chair.

"You've been smoking," he said immediately. He stared at her accusingly, his blue eyes glinting with suppressed anger. She stared back at him, wide-eyed and innocent as she wriggled against the chair cushion. His eyes flicked to her legs as the already brief kilt ruched higher along her thighs. With his nose twitching, as though he were a predatory beast scenting prey, he sniffed the air. "I can smell it," he scolded. "Smoking." His eyes softened as he tut-tutted, shaking his head and looking at her with reproach. "You know you shouldn't smoke," he said. "It's nasty. Dirty. Only dirty girls smoke." He placed his brief case down between his feet.

He had important papers in the case. He was an important man; he always told her he was an important man with important business. He looked important, impeccably dressed and immaculately groomed, with close-cropped, iron-grey hair -- Distinguished and competent, although in reality he was a middle-ranking policeman, a former bodyguard of hers, close protection; not the urbane political figure he played out now. After crossing his arms and fixing her with a stern look, he added: "And dirty girls smoke to impress boys." His level, accusing gaze was upon her. "Is that why you've been smoking? To impress boys?"

"No," she mumbled, looking into her lap as she picked a stray strand of cotton at the hem of the kilt.

"No?" he questioned curtly. "Are you sure? Are you certain you're not one of those nasty ... dirty girls?"

"Uh-uh," she muttered and shook her head. "I'm not, Daddy ... Honest I'm not." Her eyes remained fixed on her lap. She couldn't look at him.

"If you are," he said moving a couple of steps into the living room from the hall. "Then we'll have to have a little talk. You know that, don't you? You'll have a little talk with Daddy."

"I know," she whispered. "I know that if I'm bad that I'll have to have a little talk with you, Daddy."

"Drinking?" he asked, his eyes widening while his voice rose in shocked indignation. "Smoking and drinking?" He pointed toward the wine glass; evidence that damned her. Shaking his head reprovingly, he said, "I don't know what I'm going to do with you, my girl." He tutted, clicking his tongue as he shook his head again. "It's a curse to have a wayward young lady like you to look after, such a burden. I work hard all day on important business and I come here to find you ..." He harrumphed and continued. "Well, I don't know what to think. Smoking and drinking and up to all kinds of disgusting things ..."

"I'm sorry," she whimpered, finally looking into his face as he stood over her. She noticed his eyes were focused on her legs. A little tremor of excitement shuddered through her. A slow trickle slid from her opening and she smiled inside at the secret. Shifting on the seat she manipulated the kilt higher up her legs. His face immediately slackened at the sight of all that skin. "I try not to be bad," she simpered. "But ... I just can't help it sometimes. I just find myself doing wicked things. But I'm ever so sorry ..." she paused. "... Daddy," she added softly, knowing the effect the appellation would have.

"Oh ..." he half grunted. After clearing his throat again, he added: "Oh but we're going to have a little talk." He lifted the half-finished glass of wine from the side table, swigged a deep draught and then loosened his tie. After removing his suit jacket, and placing it carefully over the back-rest of the sofa, he sat in the deep armchair opposite. "Come here," he ordered, his voice gruff with restrained desire. She looked at him for a long time, apparently on the edge of refusing the instruction. Her mouth opened and her eyes flashed a gleam of truculence. "I said," he hissed vehemently, "to come here. Do it, you wicked little bitch."

She sniffled with contrition and moved quickly to where he sat.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, standing in front of him, eyes downcast; the image of contrition.

"Sit on my lap," he purred. "Settle into daddy's lap and we can ... talk."

"I'm sorry, Daddy," she whimpered as she curled onto his legs, her face pressed into the groove between his neck and shoulder. Her arms went around his neck and they sat like that, nestled intimately together for a few long seconds.

"I can smell cigarettes," he said. "You don't smell like a nice girl AT ALL." She wriggled against his lap. His nose wrinkled again. "I can smell something else," he added.

"No, Daddy," she whispered, her face still buried into his shoulder. The precise symmetry of his clipped goatee bristled against her cheek. "It must be the wine I drank ..."

"I don't think so." His voice was thick and heavy with some indefinable emotion. "I don't think it's that at all." She felt his fingers against the soft flesh of her legs, high up on her thigh. "It's ..." he began. His fingers squirmed at her, insistent and invasive. "Open your legs," he ordered. Her breath quickened as she immediately complied. It wasn't good to defy Daddy when he was like this. "Oh no!" he cried, "your underwear ..." She felt pressure against her body. His fingers were pushed tight up against the damp cotton of her knickers. There was only the thin membrane of her underwear between his fingers and her vulva. "Your knickers," he said, indignant. "Soaking! Oh, you wicked thing. Have you wet yourself? Or ... Or ... Or is it something else?"

She writhed against his fingers, pressing that itch against his hand. "I'm sorry ..." she mumbled.

He felt the heat of her radiating from that sinful place between her legs. The plumpness of her ... He groaned and stroked the crease in the cotton where it moulded against her labia.

"Stand up," he commanded. "Take those ... things off." He stared at her as she pulled her underwear down her legs. Snatching the sodden scrap of cloth from her he held it to his nose. "Yes," he muttered, turning his suddenly fevered gaze to her. She stood, contrite, her eyes downcast with shame in front of him. "Lift up that skirt. Show me your ..." He coughed. "I want to see if it's ..."

"No, please, Daddy," she whispered, her hand moving protectively across the front of her body.

He insisted, vehemently banging a clenched fist against the chair arm. "Show me." She jumped, startled but, with glistening eyes, on the verge of tears, and with her bottom lip trembling, she lifted the hem of the kilt and revealed her pudenda to his hungry stare. "Oh my," he whispered, entranced by the plump labia which pouted between her thighs. "Oh how very sweet." He looked up into her face. "Do you ..." His voice cracked. "Do you want to touch yourself? Down there? Is that why your underwear is in such a state."

She nodded, her cheeks burning scarlet. "Yes."

"What a wicked, dirty, nasty ..."

"Can I do it, Daddy?" she interrupted. "Can I touch myself? Can I? Please. I've wanted to touch myself all day. I haven't," she added quickly. I wouldn't do it, not after you told me not to." She paused, her cheeks burning. "But I wanted to, Daddy," she whispered. "I wanted to ... And I've been thinking about you all day. That's why my ... That's why I'm ..."

He nodded. "Show me," he said. "Show me just how bad you can be." He nodded again fervently. "Show me what a nasty girl does when her Daddy's not here to keep an eye on her."

She turned away slowly, completing a one-hundred-and-eighty degree turn with her kilt still hiked up around her hips so he could see the taut curve of her buttocks. As she walked slowly from him she knew that flaps of her sex would be peeping through the ovate alcove at the top of her thighs.

"I can be so bad," she muttered after lighting a cigarette and reclining into the chair. She hooked a knee over the chair arm and exposed the gaping scarlet of her sex to him. "See me smoking cigarettes, Daddy? Aren't I just so bad?" She squirmed into the seat under her bare buttocks. "I want to touch myself, Daddy," she said. "I like it. It feels so good when I rub just ... here." She groaned and arched her back, her hips jerking as she slid a finger across her clitoris. "I know what they call it," she continued in a breathy voice, her eyes locked with his. She took a long drag at the cigarette and blew smoke towards the ceiling in a long stream. "It's called a cunt," she said. "And I like fingering my cunt. It gets so wet and so itchy and hot ..." She challenged him with a belligerent stare, a sly smile twisting on her face. "And when I rub myself and push my fingers in there ..." she took another luxuriant drag on the smoke. "... Sometimes," she continued, "stuff squirts out of me. I think it's called ... cum." She smirked again at his face. "I piss cum," she finished.

"Oh ... Oh you're ... Oh ..."

She laughed at his expression. "I smoke and I drink and I touch myself." She slid her fingers between the folds of her labia. Her vulva gaped. "And I piss cum." She pouted. "But there's something not quite right about it," she said. "It feels nice ... So, so nice, but ..." Her eyes bored into his. "I think I need to put something inside there. Something thicker and harder and longer than my fingers." She smoked again, letting her words drip into his ears, knowing he'd soon be desperate for her. Her voice tapered almost to a whisper. "I need something inside me, Daddy. I just know it would feel so ..."

He stared at her, his face slack-jawed and with eyes heavy-lidded with latent lust. His voice came from dark, treacly depths, a depraved croak. "I know what you need."

"I think you do, Daddy. I know what you have between your legs. It's a cock ..." She paused and, with the cigarette smoked down to the filter, stubbed it out in the ash tray she'd retrieved from under the seat. She unbuttoned her white blouse. "I think that I should go and find someone to show me their cock. Anyone would do, any man. I don't care what he looks like, if he's young or old. I just want to see his thing all big and hard and excited for me. I think I'd like to get fucked by somebody, Daddy."

"You dirty girl," he hissed. "If I caught you doing that, why then, we'd have to have a little talk." His breath came in short gasps as he stared at her, lewd and wide-legged and goading him.

"Would you show me your cock, Daddy? Please? I'd like you to," she said quietly. "I'd like to see it spit that goo out of the end; the baby milk stuff; that thick spunk stuff that gives women babies. Will you show me yours and make it do that?"

His stare intensified, his eyes gleamed. "You want to see Daddy's cock?" he growled. "That's a bad thing to do," he added. "You've been so naughty." He indicated her sprawled form with a jut of his chin. "Sitting there, smoking and letting me see your ... your cunt ... And now you're showing me your tits ... And you want to see my cock?" He tutted and shook his head, as though perplexed by her insistence at being so wayward. "Why do you persist in saying all of those nasty words?"

"Because it makes me feel sexy," she murmured. "I'm all hot and itchy between my legs, Daddy. Look." She shuffled her hips forward along the seat, her buttocks hanging over the precipice. He could see the flushed slash of her sex pouting and oozing lust.

"Oh you evil girl," he moaned. "What a wicked young lady you are. Come here," he barked. "Come over here RIGHT NOW!" She hauled herself to her feet, tottering slightly on the heels. "That's it, baby," he sighed as, after he'd slid his braces down over his shoulders and unbuttoned his trousers. "Lick it. Suck Daddy's cock. She knelt between his feet and reached for his erect penis. She kissed the bulging tip. "Kiss Daddy's dick, baby. Kiss it and lick it and stroke it. Oh yes ... Oh fuck yes ..."

"Do your other girls do this to you?" she asked between lascivious slurps. "Do they suck your cock and then let you fuck them?"

"Yes ..." he hissed through clenched teeth. "Yes they do, but none of them are as pretty as you ..."

"Will you fuck my cunt, Daddy? Will you put that thing inside me and fuck?"

"Yes ... Oh ... Fuck ... Yes ..."

"Will it spit inside me? Will you pump that sticky goo into me? I think I'd like that ... I think it'd feel so nice to have Daddy's spunk inside me."

"You filthy ..."

"Oh yes," she interrupted him. "Filthy and wicked. I'm a bad girl. Sucking Daddy's cock. Letting him stick it into me ... Wanting him to fuck me ... Will you lick me too, Daddy? Will you lick my nasty cunt?"

Her fist moved along the shaft of his erection. "Oh shit," he groaned. "I'm going to ... Wank it. With your hand. Wank it hard!"

The stuff squirted from him in a thick spurt. He groaned and grunted, his body convulsing as more jizm spunked from his cock and splashed against her skin. The white blouse hanging loose around her body grew translucent as splashes of semen spattered against the fabric, and she kept pumping at him for as long as the gloop poured out of that evil eye in the end of his cock.

"Kiss me, Daddy," she purred, laying back in the chair she'd vacated earlier and opening her legs. Thick dribbles of his outpouring slid in a viscous ooze down her cheek. She offered her sex to him.

"You taste of cigarettes," he said quietly after they'd kissed. "Cigarettes and wine? What a dirty girl. What am I going to do with you?"

"Have a little talk with me, Daddy," she whispered in reply.

And he did. She lay across his lap, her buttocks uppermost, a target for his palm. Daddy had a good, long talk with his nasty girl.

Her buttocks glowed a hot pink, stained with the imprint of his hand, and he made her kneel on the sofa. He stood behind her and surveyed the blush he'd caused to rise on the taut flesh. Her sex oozed desire, the lips heavy and pouting.

"Are you going to fuck me, Daddy?" she asked, her voice quivering.

He slid into her, the blunt head of his cock pressing against her molten sex, eliciting a long, low groan of pleasure from the woman's mouth. As he fucked into her body with sharp, efficient strokes, the detective sergeant of the Metropolitan Police wondered how long he could hold back -- wondered how long he could hold out before he filled a Minister of Her Majesty's Government with semen.