The room is dim, just the low amber glow
of a single lamp kissing the edge of the bed.
I wait on my knees, thighs parted soft,
black lace thong already damp at the center,
clinging like a secret I can’t keep anymore.
My skin hums under the air—
every inch awake, expectant,
small breasts rising quick with each breath,
dark nipples tight little peaks
begging for the first rough pinch
of the hands I know are coming.
I arch my back just enough,
ass lifted, round and high,
the curve of it catching light like polished obsidian.
I sway once—slow, deliberate—
a quiet invitation carved in motion.
My lips part on a whisper,
The word drips out warm and thick,
coats my tongue like honey,
and settles low, pulsing between my legs.
Fingers trail my own throat first—
tracing the flutter there,
then lower, circling one breast,
cupping its small weight,
thumb brushing the tip until I hiss.
The other hand slips between my thighs,
pressing the soaked lace against swollen folds,
that make my hips jerk forward
like they’re already chasing something thicker.
I imagine your shadow in the doorway—
broad, unhurried, watching me unravel
just from the thought of you.
My breath catches, turns ragged.
two fingers gliding through slick heat,
teasing the entrance that clenches
at the barest promise of fullness.
The plea is small, needy,
voice cracked open like ripe fruit.
I push deeper, curl inside myself,
never enough without your weight pinning me,
your grip bruising my hips
while you stretch me slow
until I’m sobbing your name into the sheets.
I rock against my hand now,
the wet sound of it loud in the quiet room.
Head tipped back, throat exposed,
dreads spilling over my shoulders like dark rivers.
Every roll of my hips says the same thing:
Come claim what’s already trembling for you, Daddy.
I’ve been ready since the moment
I let the word leave my lips.
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