Mafia Daddies Between My Thighs

Chapter 87: Chapter EIGHTY SEVEN

ANGEL

I spread wider. I could feel my wetness on my inner thighs. The cool air against me. I knew he could see everything from where he stood and it only made my arousal trickle even more.

Seconds passed. Five. Ten. My thighs were trembling from holding the position.

”Vincenzo, please—”

”My name isn’t Vincenzo tonight.” His voice was ice. ”Try again.”

”Daddy. Please.”

”Please what?”

”Please touch me.”

”Why would I do that?” He pushed off the bar. Daddy walked toward me. Each step seemed calculated. ”You spent all night letting other men touch what’s mine. Showing them what’s mine.” He stopped at the foot of the couch and looked down at me. ”Why should I give you what you want when you’ve been giving it away to strangers?”

His words landed like a slap. My face burned with remorse. My cunt clenched.

”I wasn’t giving anything—”

”You pulled your dress open in a restaurant.” He crouched down at the end of the couch. His eyes were levelled with my spread thighs. Close enough that I felt his breath on my skin but he wasn’t touching me. ”You let a man see your tits. You went to a bathroom and asked to see his cock. You laughed at it and told him mine was bigger.” His eyes were locked between my legs. ”You used my cock as a measuring stick for a stranger. Like it was yours to share.”

”It is mine,” I breathed.

”No.” His finger traced my inner thigh. One finger. Featherlight. Moving upward at a pace that was making me insane. ”You haven’t earned it. You don’t own anything tonight, Angel. Tonight you’re the thing that gets owned.”

His finger stopped. Millimeters from where I needed it. I could feel the heat of his hand but nothing else. My hips jerked toward him.

He pulled back.

”Don’t move.”

I whimpered.

”You moved your hips. So now I wait longer.” He stood up and walked back to the bar where he picked up his drink.

”No — Daddy, please—”

”You spent weeks teasing me.” He sipped his drink. Slowly. ”Sleeping in my bed. Rubbing yourself against me. Walking around in those little shorts with no underwear. You tortured me.” He set the glass down. ”Now, it’s my turn to punish you,”

I was trembling. My hands were gripping the couch cushions and my thighs were shaking and I was so swollen and aching that the air itself felt like torture.

”I’m sorry,” I whispered.

”No you’re not.” He walked back. Stood over me. ”You’re not sorry for any of it. You wanted me to snap.” He crouched again. His hand settled on my knee. ”Well. I snapped. And you’re going to find out that my control was the only thing protecting you from what I actually wanted to do.”

His hand slid up my inner thigh. His calloused fingers were rough against my soft skin. He stopped at the crease where thigh met hip. His thumb pressed into the hollow. Hard.

”Tell me what you are,” he said.

”Yours.”

”Tell me who this belongs to.” His thumb moved inward. Barely grazed me. I gasped.

”You, Daddy.”

”Tell me who’s going to touch it from now on.”

”Only you—”

”And if I catch another man looking at what’s mine?”

”You won’t. I’ll be good. I’ll—”

”You’ll what?” He leaned close. His lips brushed my ear. ”You’ll be my good girl?”

”Yes, Daddy. Your good girl. Only yours—”

”Liar.” He said it gently. Almost tenderly.

And then his hand was on me, his strong fingers finding me swollen and dripping and pushing inside me without warning.

Two fingers.

Deep.

Rough. I cried out and my back arched off the couch.

His palm ground against my clit as he buried them to the knuckle and my body welcomed him like it had been waiting for this specific hand its entire life.

”You’re not a good girl.” He pumped his fingers hard. Curling them. Finding the spot that made my vision dissolve.

”Good girls don’t pour ice cream on their tits in public.” He twisted his wrist and I choked on a moan.

”Good girls don’t pull their dresses down for strangers.” He added a third finger. The stretch burned. My walls gripped him so tight I could feel my own pulse beating against his knuckles.

”Good girls don’t lie to their fathers to make them beat a man half to death.” He drove them deeper, angling up, hitting that spot again and again until my thighs were shaking and my hips were grinding against his hand without my permission.

”So what are you?”

”I’m not — a good girl — Daddy,” I could barely speak. His fingers were relentless.

Every curl dragged against something raw and electric and my body was clenching around him in waves I couldn’t control.

I was dripping down his wrist, I could hear it — the wet sound of his fingers working me open — and he could hear it too because his breathing had gone ragged and his free hand was gripping my thigh hard enough to discolor it.

”No. You’re not.”

He pulled his fingers out and held them up — glistening, wet — his gaze was lidded as he looked at them.

Three fingers coated in me, catching the dim lights. When Daddy looked at me again. His eyes were burning like the blackest cold. Lust emanating from his very breath.

”Open your mouth.”

I opened it.

He put his fingers on my tongue. The taste of myself flooded my mouth — salt and musk — and he pushed them deep enough to make me gag. He held the fingers there while my eyes watered.

”That’s what a bad girl tastes like,” he said. ”Get used to it. You’ll be licking it off my cock later.”

My eyes watered in pleasure as I sucked his fingers. He pulled them out, wiped them on my breast, and stood up.

The warm wet of it turned my nipples to peaks.

I heard his belt buckle.

Everything after that was punishment.