Daddy’s Solicitor

Six months since his release and the blindfold goes on. You're in his lap on a leather sofa.

You can hear them breathing. Three men. Maybe four.

You'd said yes in the car. When he'd told you where he was taking you. What would happen. Your mouth had gone dry but you'd nodded. Then nodded again when he'd asked if you were sure.

"Isn't she something," he says. His hand in your hair. You can smell him. Tobacco and something cheap. The same smell from those consultation room visits. "Look at those stockings."

Murmurs. Your face burns. Morrison's tribunal hearing is at nine tomorrow and you're here with your legs spread for strangers.

"I want you to behave," he says quietly. Just for you. "Can you?"

You nod because speech has abandoned you.

His mouth against your ear. Stubble scratching. "Remember what you told me. In that room. What you needed."

Every word. Every filthy detail you'd whispered across that table whilst he was inside for GBH. How he'd made you say it all. Made you be specific.

Footsteps. Hesitant.

A hand touches your ankle. Trails up your calf. Finds the seam of your stocking and follows it. The nylon smooth under his rough fingers.

"Christ." Young voice. Nervous.

Both hands now. Pushing your legs apart. Your dress riding up. The stockings he'd told you to wear this morning, the suspenders, everything exposed.

You're a solicitor with a mortgage and a fucking book club and here you are.

"Go on," he says. Not Daddy yet. Just go on. His voice rougher than across that consultation room table. Council estate vowels he never bothered hiding.

Fingers find your knickers. You're already wet. You'd been wet in the car. Shamefully wet whilst he drove you here explaining the rules in that flat accent.

The young one rubs through the fabric and you make a noise you don't recognise. Your hips tilt forward. Seeking more.

"She's soaking."

"Told you." His hand tightens in your hair. "My posh girl's gagging for it."

Your knickers pushed aside. A cock pushes into you and you gasp. Wrong shape. Wrong thickness.

Your husband hasn't touched you in eight months but here you are being split open by someone whose face you'll never see.

Urgent fucking. No skill to it. Just desperate animal thrusting. You can feel balls slapping against you with each stroke. Breathing ragged in your ear. He smells of cigarettes and cheap aftershave.

Your hips start moving. Meeting his thrusts. Taking him deeper.

"That's it," he says. Watching. "Take what you need."

Morrison's tribunal at nine-thirty. Employment discrimination case. Twelve months of prep work.

Someone grabs your hand. Places his cock in it. Already hard. Older man. Confident.

"Stroke it."

You do. Wrapping your fingers around him. Thicker than the first. The first man still fucking you. Each thrust pushing you forward.

"Daddy." Your voice. Still clear. That word. "Can I use my mouth?"

Silence. Making you wait.

"Ask properly."

"Please, Daddy. Can I suck his cock?"

The contrast he wants.

"Go on then."

You open your mouth and the older man guides himself between your lips. The taste of him. Salt and something bitter. The stretch of your jaw as he pushes deeper. You're sucking eagerly. Hollowing your cheeks. The way you'd described in that consultation room whilst touching yourself under the table.

"Fucking hell. Where'd you find this one?"

"She found me." His voice casual. He lit a cigarette. You can smell it. "Couldn't help herself. Could you?"

You moan around the cock in your mouth.

Answer enough.

The young one's rhythm breaks. "Can I..."

"Come inside her."

And he does. You feel his cock pulse. Warm cum flooding into you. He groans and keeps thrusting like he's trying to fuck it deeper. You moan around the other cock and the older man tightens his grip.

The young one pulls out. You feel it start to leak down your thigh. Soaking into the top of your stocking.

The older man fucks your mouth harder. Both hands in your hair now. Using your throat.

You're gagging, spit running down your chin, but you don't pull back. You want this.

He pulls out suddenly. Wanks himself over your face. Hot spurts hit your cheek. Your neck. Dripping down onto your silk dress.

"Oi, you got it on the sofa."

"Fuck off, she's the one kneeling there innit."

"Could've warned us."

"What am I, your secretary?"

You're gasping. Face covered. Your cunt still dripping cum onto the leather.

You feel empty now. You need more.

"Daddy." Your voice rougher now. Less controlled. "There's one more. Can I... should I sit on his face? Or should he fuck me?"

You hear him shift. Exhale smoke. Taking his time deciding.

"What do you want?"

"Both. I want both." The words coming faster. Desperate.

"Greedy." But there's approval in it. "Alright. Face first. Then if you're good."

The third man knows what he's doing. Experienced hands position you. Guides you onto his face. His tongue finds you immediately. Licking through the cum already there.

You cry out.

"Christ, she tastes like..."

"Shut your gob and get on with it."

His tongue works you. Long strokes. Focused. You're grinding against his face. Your hands gripping the sofa. The leather sticky under your fingers.

"Daddy, can I touch myself?" Still posh but breathless now. The careful vowels slipping.

"No." Firm. "You come when I say."

You whimper but obey. The third man's tongue pushing inside you. His hands gripping your thighs. Holding you down on his face whilst he devours you.

Your orgasm building. Too fast. Too much.

"Please, Daddy. Please can I..."

The words breaking apart now. Less articulated.

"Not yet."

The third man relentless. His tongue everywhere. Your whole body taut. Right on the edge.

"Now. Let go."

And you do.

Your body convulsing around his tongue. You try to lift off but he holds you there. Makes you ride it out on his face whilst you scream.

When he finally lets you move you collapse sideways.

Gasping for air.

"Good girl." His voice. Closer now. "But we're not done."

The third man positions you on your hands and knees. Your dress gathered round your waist. He pushes into you from behind. His cock pushing through the cum already inside you. His hands gripping your hips.

"She's fucking soaked. You lot made a right mess."

"Now fuck her proper."

Long, steady strokes. You push back against him. Taking him deeper. Rocking your hips.

The young one kneels in front of you. His cock in your face again. Already hard.

"Daddy, can I..." Raw now. Nearly gone.

"Don't ask. Just do it."

You take him in your mouth. Work your tongue the way that makes men lose their minds. The way you'd practised describing. Every detail.

"Thought you already went?"

"Yeah, well. Seeing her like this got me hard again."

They use you together. One cock filling you. The other hitting the back of your throat.

Your second orgasm hits without warning. Your whole body goes rigid. You try to scream but the cock muffles it.

"Fuck, she's coming."

The third man comes. Buried deep. You feel him pulse inside you. So much cum. Running down your thighs now. Soaking your stockings. Ruining them.

The young one follows. Holds your head down as he empties into your throat.

You swallow. All of it. Every drop.

When they pull away you collapse.

Cum on your face. In your hair. Leaking from your cunt. Your jaw aching. Between your legs still pulsing.

He lifts your face. Removes the blindfold. You blink.

He's there. Leaning against the wall. Tracksuit bottoms. Cheap trainers. Cigarette between his fingers.

The three men are pulling their clothes back on. Not looking at you now. They're just men. Ordinary men who've just fucked you senseless because he told them they could.

He walks over. Stubs the cigarette out. Cups your face. His hands rough. Working hands.

Not like Richard's.

He kisses you. His tongue in your mouth that tastes of cum.

"Perfect," he says.

The three men leave. Muttered thanks like you've just served them tea.

Door closing. Then silence.

You lie there. Can't move. Your body won't respond properly. Covered in them. Filled with them. Your stockings ruined. Cum and runs where fingers tore at the nylon.

He kneels beside you. Doesn't speak. Just looks. Really looks at the state you're in.

His hand trails down your body. Over your cum-covered breasts. Your stomach. Between your legs where you're still dripping.

"My filthy posh girl."

"Daddy." Barely there now. Your voice completely gone.

His fingers push into you. Through all that mess. You're loose. Used. Raw. But you push against his hand. Wanting more. Always wanting more.

"You took all of them." He pulls his fingers out. Brings them to your mouth. You taste yourself mixed with all of them. You suck his fingers clean without being told. "But you're mine, aren't you?"

"Yes."

Whisper.

"Say it properly."

"I'm yours, Daddy."

Trying to pull the voice back. Can't quite manage it.

He sits back. Studies you. Then reaches for your leg. Grabs one stocking at the ankle.

He tears it. Slowly. Peels it off your leg. Then the other.

"On your back."

You lie back on the soaked leather. It's cold and sticky against your skin. Your legs fall open because they remember how even if your mind has checked out.

He takes one torn stocking. Holds it between his hands.

"Wrists."

You hold them out. Trembling.

This is different. This is him. Not them.

He wraps the nylon around your wrists. Once. Twice. Three times. Tight. The fabric cutting into your skin. You feel each loop. Each pass of the material.

Then he ties them to the sofa leg. Pulls it taut. You can't move your arms now. Can't pull them back even if you wanted to.

"You ready for this?"

You nod.

Don't trust yourself to speak.

He takes the second stocking. Balls it up in his hands. His eyes on yours.

Your mouth opens. He pushes the nylon in. Slowly. Filling your mouth with it. The taste of your own sweat and the cum that soaked through earlier. He doesn't shove it in. Just feeds it to you until your mouth is full. Until you can't make a sound.

The silence after is complete. You can hear your own breathing through your nose.

Nothing else.

He stands. Pulls his tracksuit bottoms down. His cock is hard. Has been hard this whole time watching you get fucked by strangers.

He kneels between your legs. Positions himself. The head of his cock pushing through the mess they left. Through their cum. Through the wetness that's yours and theirs mixed together.

"This is mine," he says, and pushes into you.

You try to cry out but the gag stops it. After three men you're sensitive. Sore. Swollen. But he doesn't stop. He fucks into you slowly. Claiming every inch. His cock pushing through their cum like he's erasing them.

You can't move. Can't speak. Can't do anything but take it. Feel it.

This is different from them. This matters.

He grabs your face. Makes you look at him whilst he fucks you. His eyes are dark. No education. No money. No prospects. But he owns you completely and you both know it.

"You confessed this to me. Whispered it across that table whilst I was inside. Made me write down every filthy thing you wanted." His rhythm stays steady. Deliberate. "And I made it real. Didn't I?"

Tears starting.

"Because you're mine to give away. Mine to share. Mine to fuck whenever I want."

He speeds up. Rougher now. Your body responding despite everything. Despite being tied. Despite the gag. Despite tomorrow morning when you'll present Morrison's case.

His hand slides between your bodies. Finds your clit. Starts working it whilst he fucks you. You're completely helpless. Bound and gagged and covered in strangers' cum whilst he reclaims what's his.

Your third orgasm builds. You're pulling at the stockings binding your wrists. The nylon cutting in deeper. You're trying to scream into the gag but it muffles everything.

Your body convulsing around him. You're crying into the gag. The orgasm goes on and on because you can't make a sound. Can't release it that way. It just keeps rolling through you.

He comes right after. Buried deep. You feel him pulse inside you. Adding his load to all the others. His cum mixing with theirs. Filling you completely. But his is different. His matters. His is the one that counts.

He stays inside you. Both of you breathing hard. His forehead against yours. You can see your reflection in his eyes.

What you've become.

"Mine," he says.

Can't speak. Can't do anything but accept it.

He pulls out slowly. You feel everything start to leak. His cum. Their cum. All of it running out of you onto the leather.

He pulls the gag from your mouth. You gasp. Gulp air.

"Yours," you whisper. Barely sound at all.

He unties your wrists. Slowly. Unwrapping each loop the same way he wrapped them. The nylon has left red marks. Deep ones. You'll see them tomorrow when you button your cuffs.

He helps you sit up. You can't quite manage it on your own. Your body doesn't work properly anymore.

He kisses you.

Soft this time. Different.

Tomorrow you'll present Morrison's case with bruises on your hips and wrists and cum dried in your hair you didn't quite wash out.

And you'll do this again. Next week. Next month. Whenever he decides.

Because you confessed. And he understood.