{as with all my work, the characters depicted here are intended as mutually consenting adults, regardless of the nature of their role}


She appreciated that he still read books, real books, made of paper, smelling faintly of ink, sometimes curled at the edges, their pages softening and thickening over time. She enjoyed watching him read, the casual care with which he cradled the spine of the book, the way his fingertips would move to the corner of the page as his eyes devoured the words upon it, perfectly timing the turning of the page, his thoughts and focus uninterrupted.

High above him on the stairs, looking down into the living room she liked to sit and watch him. The small landing was the perfect perch, like the crow’s nest atop a ship where she could observe him, a man who felt to her as dark and beautiful and powerful as the sea.

She could sit there, silently, undetected, unless he had reason to turn and look up at her, where he’d see her face leaned against the spindles of the banister, bare feet on the step below the landing, hands slack in her lap, lips parted, breathing quietly, vaguely meditative, sedate.

Conversely, he sat comfortably in a wide leather armchair, feet propped on the hassock, coffee at hand, near to the eastern facing windows where he liked to read and work in the mornings. On this particular morning the sky was heavy with snow and there was no warmth in the morning light but the fire crackled reassuringly across the room from him. He had heard her quiet footsteps above him and resisted turning to look for her, knowing she would sit awhile at the top of the stairs before she descended. He turned to the window to be sure she could not see the smile that her voyeurism gave him. He’d noticed her little watching game but never let on, he preferred to enjoy her lack of self consciousness, observing him from what she thought was a safe and secret distance.

The hardwood beneath her bare and tender bottom was cool, soothing, despite how hard and flat a surface it was. She shifted, the bruises aching darkly beneath her weight as she leaned further into the sound of the fire and the vision of him; erudite, focused, a beacon of calm. Her fingertips slowly caressed her bare thighs, ever closer to the pulsing warmth between them. Inch by slow inch she got nearer that heat until her knuckles brushed the downy thatch on her mound.

“Sweetheart. Come down from there.”

She stiffened, struck by how his voice filled the space. His eyes never left his book. She swallowed and quickly and quietly skipped down the stairs, crossing the large room and stopping before him, the fire warm against her backside.


His eyes remained on the page.
“Wait here, please, Angel.”

She moved to sit on the sofa to his left but he cleared his throat and she turned back to him and sat at his feet, his hand immediately moving into the hair at the nape of her neck. She basked in his touch, comforted by his nearness as his fingers massaged her scalp. She closed her eyes and waited. The clock on the mantle ticked on and she let herself be lulled by it’s rhythm and the movement of his hand in her hair. Her eyelids drooped and she rested her head on his knee.

He listened as he read, hearing her breathing slow and deepen, feeling the weight of her head on his leg as her neck went slack with sleep. He read on until he finished the chapter and closed the heavy book. He watched her sleep for a moment before gently touching her lips with his fingers. To his delight, she made a soft sound and opened her lips, allowing two fingertips to penetrate her mouth, stroking the warm velvet of her tongue. He undid his belt quietly, his cock already straining to be released. He took himself in hand and began to stroke and fondle himself as she sucked his fingers in her sleep. He spent several minutes squeezing and sliding his hand along his shaft, the tension in his balls building quickly. No longer willing to wait, he dragged his wet fingers across her face and into her hair. A slow, firm tug at a handful of hair had her blinking awake, instantly.

“Sweetheart … good girl. Time to wake up. Come here.”

She smiled and moved into the space between his knees, her cheek pink and creased from pressing into his leg, eyes sleepy and mouth glossy. She knelt, her hands on his thighs, as he caressed her face and bobbed his cock before her, making it twitch so she’d laugh, making her wait, again. Waiting was a mutual aphrodisiac, he’d learned. She loved and craved the discipline of being patient and he loved holding out until his desire turned to need. With both his hands on the back of her head and his eyes intently trained on hers, he pulled her face nearer and filled her mouth with his cock. She took it without hesitation or preparation, her eyes growing slightly glassy with the pleasure of being used, the joy of being useful. He filled her mouth and when it was full, he pressed deeper, slowing as her throat constricted, pausing to let her gag reflex abate before pushing further still. He smiled as the tip of her nose squished into his pelvis. He held her there, stroking her hair and flexing his cock, the wet tightness around him making him moan. As slowly as he had pushed in, he retreated, adoring her wet sounds and small gasps, his thumb brushing away the wetness in the corner of her eye.

“More? I think you like having your throat filled by Daddy, don’t you, Princess?”

She nodded, the head of his cock still on her tongue, which she swirled around him in silent reply. He pushed deep again, smoothly pulling back out, slowly, firmly fucking her face. She felt the warmth of her eyes watering and tears spilling down her cheeks and her nose beginning to run. She didn’t dare move her hands to wipe her face, her fingers pressing into his thighs, grounding her to him, making it impossible to look away. Over and over he thrust himself into her throat, choking her, making it clear with every thrust that she was only still breathing because he allowed it. The deeper he pressed the more enthusiastically she swallowed him, her throat slack and willing, ignoring the fact that she’d be sore later, caught up in the sensations and the look in his eyes. She felt him surge, his cock tightening, his sudden pause told her he was about to pour himself down her throat. She nodded slowly, eyes on his as he roared and her mouth flooded with the heady taste of him. She held his semen on her tongue as he pulled himself out of her mouth and moaned again as the last spurts rained down on her chin and chest.

“Show Daddy,” he grunted, breathless. She stuck out her tongue to show him the pool of come triumphantly. Slumping back in the chair he motioned for her to climb into his lap and pulled her up.

“Kisses, Sweetheart.”

She kissed him softly, her lips swollen and tender, the briny spunk in her mouth fished out by his tongue, both of them drinking it down as they kissed. She settled her head into his shoulder and waited while he caught his breath and pet her hair. “You’re an excellent girl. Daddy needs to keep reading. Don’t go far, Little One, I may need you again soon.” He kissed her forehead and she grinned, slipping from his lap and ascending the stairs to her vantage point on the landing. She watched him zip up and finish his coffee, staring out the window for a few minutes before he picked up his book again. He opened it to the new chapter and paused, looking up at the landing above him and caught her eye. He raised an eyebrow as if to ask what she was doing. She smiled and sighed, standing and continuing up the stairs, licking her reward from the corners of her lips.

Violet Fawkes

Violet Fawkes (she/her) is a freelance writer and sex blogger focusing on pleasure education, erotic fiction, and the intersection of identity, kink and mental health.