Pink Lips and Lace

He broke the kiss just long enough to look at me — eyes dark, full of hunger and tenderness — then lifted me effortlessly onto his lap.

My legs straddled him, the lace panties stretched tight across my hips. His arms wrapped around my waist, strong and steady, pulling me flush against his chest.

The next kiss started soft — lips brushing, teasing — but it quickly deepened. He tilted my head back with one hand at the nape of my neck, claiming my mouth with slow, deliberate intensity. Tongues met, danced, then fought. Each kiss grew hungrier, more urgent, until I was gasping into his mouth.

I felt my clitty harden fully, straining against the soft lace. It slipped free from the side of the panties, flushed and needy. Daddy noticed immediately. He pulled back just enough to glance down, a low growl rumbling in his throat.

Then he leaned forward and kissed the glistening tip — a single, soft press of lips — before taking it gently into his mouth for one slow, warm suck.

I let out a deep, broken moan that echoed in the quiet room. My whole body trembled.

He didn’t let me recover. With a firm grip on my hips, he turned me around so I was on all fours, facing away from him. His hands slid the lace panties down my thighs in one smooth motion, leaving them tangled at my knees.

I felt the bed dip as he settled behind me. Then his breath — warm, teasing — against my skin. His tongue traced the cleft of my ass, slow at first, exploring. When he finally pressed in, licking, circling, delving deeper, I collapsed forward onto my forearms with a whimper.

I was soaked — dripping precum onto the sheets, my hole twitching under his relentless attention. The sensation was overwhelming: filthy, intimate, perfect.

I couldn’t wait anymore. I twisted around, tugged his boxers down, and his thick cock sprang free — already rock-hard, veins pulsing.

I took him into my mouth eagerly, deeper than before, sucking with the same desperation he’d just shown me. He groaned, fingers threading into my hair, guiding but never forcing.

After a few minutes he pulled me off gently, eyes blazing. “On your back, baby girl. I want to see your face.”

I obeyed, heart pounding. He positioned me in missionary, lifting my legs over his shoulders. The black lace bra still hugged my chest, the pink lipstick slightly smudged from our kisses.

He tore open a condom packet, rolled it on with practiced ease, then coated himself generously with lube. More lube on his fingers, which he worked into me — slow, careful circles — until I was whimpering and rocking back onto his hand.

Then he lined up. Our eyes locked. His gaze never wavered — steady, possessive, reassuring.

He pushed in slowly. The stretch burned at first, but the training had done its job. I opened for him — inch by inch — until he was buried deep.

I gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. He paused, letting me adjust, forehead resting against mine.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispered. “My beautiful girl.”

Then he started to move — slow, deep thrusts that made my toes curl and my breath hitch. Every slide in, every pull out, sent sparks through me. I was lost in him — in the weight of his body, the heat of his skin, the way he looked at me like I was everything.

This time… there was no pain. Only pleasure.

And the quiet certainty that I was exactly where I belonged.