Alpha Daddy: Chapter II
The days passed. Friday came quickly, though Lena wouldn’t tonight. A night to settle and adjust and see if things felt comfortable seemed more appropriate, Kara wanted to get all of this as right as she could.
Sunset this high up in the city loomed burned orange through the windows, felt aesthetically pleasing in a way that superseded Kara’s ability to string words and explanations why, but the place laid in comfortable disarray like a penthouse doing its best impression of a loft, there were books stacked everywhere, paintings propped and leaned, mismatching antique furniture and restored brass furnishings and all of it sat bathed in terracotta dusk. A wave of honey dulcet quiet in the air. A Friday evening doing its best impression of Sunday afternoon.
All the dust in the air sat trapped and visible like it should, like one expects from hot early Autumn evenings and homes filled with antique brass and mismatching woods overlapping, and so without words to explain why it was all so quietly clean and exactly as it should be, everything felt right regardless, and Kara’s anxieties unwound from the day and took their thumb off tight muscles in her jaw.
Kara pottered around Lena’s place waiting for her to reappear from the shower. She disregarded conversations several blocks away and sirens that could cope without her tonight, fully aware Alex would call if help was needed, half-suspecting that her sister actually probably wouldn’t call at all.
Thinking about it, missile silos could fire nuclear bombs either direction. Alex would still insist she needed some semblance of an ordinary, normal twenty-something year old life—girlfriend included.
So Kara stood there mindless and blank headed, in her girlfriend’s kitchen but out of her body, listening to the running order of cabinets opening and closing in the bathroom, a peeled banana in one hand and a glass of cold white wine in the other. She wasn’t convinced the combination worked. Another bite followed by a sip confirmed her hypothesis. It didn’t stop her, she nibbled and sipped, expecting a different outcome each time, then wrinkling her nose and slapping her mouth from the taste.
It was thick with heat in the air, the warmth kicking out from vents that left sweat prickled on her back and awkward clinginess to her boxers, but Lena liked the place stifling, liked the grey boxers and the shape of her shaft, the sway, the bounce, the absence of tight panties that smoothed and hid away a part of her body that, no matter how many times Lena saw, she always looked then looked again with wide eyes.
It was sweet. It was textbook adorable baby girl behaviour, a clinical symptom of Lena’s softest layers of subspace stirring and nibbling at her bottom lip and slippering pretty panties wet and damp. Lena never liked to admit it, Kara always asked anyway.
“You look so pretty when you squeeze your thighs together. Does it always make you wet, or only when I wear the grey ones?” Kara beamed with quiet confidence and all the correct answers in her back pocket.
“I…” Lena laughed nervously and looked everywhere and anywhere. “I just…”
The blush always went cherry-coloured, and Lena would stutter and stumble and get so embarrassed she couldn’t speak. Around this point, Kara decided it wasn’t adorable or funny and put her out of her misery.
“It’s okay if you’re shy with explicit words. You can just say you like the grey ones, baby.”
The pandering got to her. Kara saw it clear as day when Lena’s jaw went tense, tight and clenching. She loved being managed so softly, she hated being managed so softly, and while the war was going on within her brain, Kara often reached down and briefly stroked her cock over the material of her boxers—adjusting herself a moment too long to be decent.
Something would change in Lena’s eyes.
It wasn’t the same as heat, not even close, it wasn’t frantic or cracked or so desperate that Lena ever looked as though she were fighting against her skin. But Lena would exhale softly between her little crimson lips, then wind the corner of her mouth in her teeth, antsy and chewing and smirking into a primal subspace she felt inadequate and embarrassed about.
“Daddy I like the grey ones,” Lena always managed to quietly rasp the words out.
The rasp got Kara every time—shattered her each and every way. The husking, textured need in the back of her voice. If she wasn’t hard, which she usually already was, then the embarrassed little voice sent her up like a flare.
People rarely guessed her assignation right away—not correctly at least. Everyone had an opinion about that kind of thing, whether it was pertinent, whether it was important to conform and conduct and present. What was an Alpha supposed to look and behave like? She was polite and mild-mannered because that was inherent and earnest. It was Alpha to be those things because Kara felt the statement correct and true.
She didn’t bristle or flare her nostrils or speak crudely.
Except sometimes—usually in grey boxers.
There was something inexplicable about it. Lena would look at her, all green eyes and blushing cheeks, feeling things in parts of her body that she didn’t know how to hide or be discrete about despite wanting to be. Kara growled in those moments and felt her nostrils flare because how could they not?
Lena called her Daddy.
Game over.
No resolve or restraint or mild-manners to be found anywhere.
Daddy. Kara felt that word, felt it everywhere in her body, like all the dumbest stereotypes and cheesiest romance novels were scientific research studies. And so she would growl and clench and touch her like a woman, babytalk her like a little well-behaved good girl. Take her thighs back with warm palms and kiss her dripping cunt and swelling little clit, some nights, slip her tongue inside places that left them both too embarrassed to mention about the next morning.
She handled Lena in precise, dominant ways that were sometimes a little cruel and sometimes abundantly adoring and always so connective that, for days after, Kara felt if she were expected to present publicly in a way that accurately communicated her identity?
White sneakers and the crispest socks.
A baseball cap.
Her phone secured to her belt in a holster and her shirt rolled up her forearms.
Kara wasn’t sure what being an Alpha had to do with anything out there in the world, but it had everything to do with who she was in the small four walls and quiet warmth of privacy. She was Lena’s Daddy—that was that.
The shower ran, the water went in loud splashes off limbs and shoulders and edges of bones. Kara heard it and that was enough, she imagined dripping jet black hair and gleaming pale skin and damp clean freckles, and she smiled wider, thinking of all the places she wanted to kiss and suck and nibble in long trails going back and forth nowhere and everywhere. Little sensitive pink nipples that needed to be bitten and sucked too hard. Lena broke every time and whimpered through croaking rasps where her pronunciations usually sat prim and ladylike.
Kara loved it, loved touching them, loved the feeling of a warm nude body careening into bed on Friday night with a movie on the agenda, Lena’s lips coming up to kiss and peck along her jaw innocently enough, and Kara slipped her hand up a push-pulling belly and grazed fingertips over little puffy nipples that stiffened on her lightest touch.
“Daddy…”
It always came so shakily out of her mouth, so quick and responsive and desperate.
Kara would coo over her always, push her on her back, kiss little stiff nipples in a flurry of pecks and grazing teeth and swirling tongue. A bounce in her upright cock, it stiffened awake with rushing blood flow and webbing precum.
A shower and grower, Kara was humble about it, maybe only because she had felt so ashamed when she was younger. It wasn’t fun being a shy, awkward introvert adolescent with changes and development that sat so at odds with her demeanour. Her cock spilled out of her panties, rarely behaved, hung low and heavy and threatened the hem of her skirt with foreskin and accumulating inches she wanted to slow to a halt. It took time to be okay. It took time to know it was more than okay to feel good and care about girls feeling good, that she was capable of making them feel good. Kara got there, in her own time.
Older and alright with herself, Kara had ten thick solid inches that took up space between her slender legs and could not be avoided or glanced past. She wouldn’t care if she had five, but she had ten, and she wouldn’t push them inside Lena even if she did ask.
Even if she wasn’t a virgin, even if the stars aligned and Lena’s pink lips pressed open on the stretch of her reddened slippery gland, nudging at the little pristine hole, dribbling and webbing from the end of her cock with desperation to fuck the first blood out of her, Kara still would not give leverage and break her way slow and steady inside.
Lena hadn’t proved a heat and Kara would hurt her.
Not intentionally, not saviour-complex overanxious worrying, nor in some arrogant assumed way by virtue of her size and overbearing thickness. Lena hadn’t proved a heat and the little hymen in her cunt was rigid, tight and hypersensitive as a result. A single finger inside, Lena whimpered and winced in pain and puffed the kind of moans that had to be pressed against Kara’s pulse point in order to feel safe and grounded and okay.
If Kara pushed with her cock, Lena would break not as a temporary burning pain giving way to shared pleasures. She would squeal and scream and break the way a dress seam rips under duress and can never be whole or healed after. Kara would never and could never.
It would hurt Lena.
Gentle as she was, Kara made her take the steady slipping finger, hushed and cooed and told a woman four years older to be her brave good girl, relax her muscles then let her little cunt hurt regardless.
There was something about the tight oversensitive hymen barely stretching, sucking so tight on her knuckle that Kara could imagine the burning achiness with clarity. A sudden and constant shifting in Lena’s hips and legs from the pressure. A gasp and wince. An outreach of needy arms thrusting forward that needed Daddy, that slipped and clung tight on Kara’s shoulders.
There and then, Lena’s lips craned and pushed and pressed rapid moans and struggling whimpers into the pulse point of Kara’s throat. Sometimes, more often than she felt proud about, Kara spurted and emptied and glugged out a ruined orgasm that didn’t feel ruined at all.
“Daddy it hurts,” Lena croaked and moaned into her jawline, some nights that always led to ruined orgasms dribbling out of her cock. “Daddy it’s burning—your finger. Inside. It’s stretching and it’s making me sting.”
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No Daddy. No, you don’t—you’re not understanding. I want more?”
“Well you can’t have more.”
“Please just break it?”
“Break it? Honey, no, it will hurt you.”
“I’m not a silly little girl.”
“You don’t feel like a big greedy one. You really want me to pick you up and force my cock inside? You can’t even get your hand around it, princess. I would have to press you against the wall and slam at your little pinprick hole with everything I had just to break into your cunt…”
“Daddy. Daddy fuck please? You can hurt it. Kara, please—”
“No.”
The pressure alone from a single finger moving in and out, slow and careful and so gentle through her tight hole, had tears dribbling and strangled pain in her whimpers.
“Please Daddy?”
“Remember how much it hurt when I pushed inside your asshole? You begged me to fuck you in your ass, you begged for weeks, told me just how good you had gotten with your fingers, remember what happened that night?”
Lena’s expression slackened and her moans grew loud and close.
“Your head popped inside my bottom too fast, and it hurt and I couldn’t take you any deeper and started to cry, but you kept your head…”
“Kept my head where?”
“Stuck inside my bottom, Daddy.” Lena couldn’t remember it without a flood of arousal dripping her thighs. “You kept it stuck there and made me reach back and stroke your shaft until you came inside of my…”
“Your very pretty, very sore, very stretched asshole.” Kara could count her down like clockwork. “You cried like a little girl. Do you remember after I finished inside of you?”
“Mhm.”
“If you make me ask I will stop and put your panties back on myself.”
“Daddy kissed it better. You kissed it better and rubbed your finger over and round the edges, in circles, until I went to sleep.” The moans went high and warbly and gasping. “Kara please push inside?” Lena always tried one last time.
“No baby.” A little come hither and quickening on her clit was all it ever took. “Sweet baby girl. You look so pretty when you cum so hard that it makes you cry. See, you didn’t need more. You just needed to hear Daddy say no.”
Kara loved rewarding, loved kissing and sucking on little pink nipples, loved the way Lena trembled and rose up and wailed into the feeling of a suddenly lavished clit and French kissed cunt.
Daddy loved saying no.
Daddy loved Lena’s good, cathartic loveliest tears. The whimper when her sensitive little nipples were bitten a little too hard. The croaking, rasped and textured wail when Daddy bit harder anyway. The wide helpless arousal in her green eyes when Daddy twisted and pinched her nipples, cooing the little good girl, twisting and pinching past the tears, past the useless slaps drumming rapid and quick against everywhere and anywhere, focused only on the bucking little cunt lips grinding a puddle on Daddy’s knee until the request came.
Daddy loved saying yes too, sometimes.
Daddy whispered reassurance, permission and praise that swaddled orgasms into happy little baby girl tears and subspace calm. Daddy loved a sore, stretched and hypersensitive little hymen on her finger.
And of course, Daddy loved edging Lena’s pretty fat cunt lips, all swollen and spread and dripping the sheets puddled and damp, to then pull Lena’s panties back up too quickly and pat at her puffy little cunt twitches like she was a sweet, cherished pet, to then feel the frustrated tears dribble on to her hips with a lapping tongue and suckling mouth bobbing her straining cock.
The chastity belt would be on the top of the list of things she loved.
Kara knew it.
She heard the bathroom cabinets open and close. The deodorant. The faucet gushing to brush teeth and gargle. It wasn’t quick enough. Kara wanted to hurry it along and burst in and take her to bed like a little girl to be thrown over her sturdy, solid and strong shoulders. She wanted to be all the things Lena needed. She wanted to rub a nervous, push-pulling tummy, feel the lock click and the belt stay tight and secure on Lena’s hips and waist and denied little sex, smooth on her fingertips running each and every way along the steel straits.
She wanted to hush the inevitable tears.
She wanted to hold her close.
She wanted to ask, just to be sure, and then soften with relief at the inevitable answer.
“Feels good Daddy, I don’t want to take it off. It’s just different. It’s new and it’s a lot.”
Kara half-planned out the things she might say, probably would say, if the words came as she expected, and the moment felt as sweet as she hoped.
“It’s new and it’s a lot and that’s a big deal. It’s not chastity for denial baby, it’s for Saturday mornings curled up eating breakfast in bed and Sunday afternoons pulling my fingers down to your pretty parts at the movie theatre and…all of quiet, perfectly ordinary moments during the regular day that you can feel me there whenever you want to feel close and held…”
In Kara’s mind, she absolutely saw it as earnest truth.
It wasn’t a reason to avoid intimacy. It was a way to embrace it, keep it present and constant, find more reasons and ways to touch and be close and navigate what it meant to be intimate like other couples and yet, somehow, never intimate like other couples despite both craving it.
Kara wasn’t trying to be gross with her runaway thinking, she couldn’t help it, but she heard the faucet turn off and the running order of the bathroom draw to its end, and she tried to not be consumed with the wrong things—tried at least.
The banana had gone straight to her head.
It was the excuse in the absence of needing one. The one that made her laugh to herself. In her comfiest grey boxers and nothing else, Kara stirred back to life and topped her wine glass and poured one for Lena.
“Kara, baby?”
The bathroom door creaked wider, Lena slipped the towel around and Kara smiled at the way she smiled. Dripping black hair, gleaming skin, damp freckles and a thousand other perfectly good reasons to take her mouth and kisses in slow directions and lose herself in the little clean wonder of her girlfriend’s shape.
“Oh. You’re being naughty, uncouth and unsavoury” —Lena’s eyes flew open, then she laughed with the widest grin despite her exasperated and slumping posture— “Do you know how loud your dirty thoughts are? The neighbours complain, Kara!”
Kara snorted into the sip of her drink.
“Sorry baby,” Kara whispered with a smile.
Lena glanced to the empty waiting sofa then back to Kara’s eyeline.
“Wine and cuddles and nauseatingly sweet kisses over trash garbage television?”
“Afterwards.” Kara took Lena’s wine glass from the counter and carried it for her. “Bedroom first. I want you to be a good girl with an edged little pretty cunt under lock and key, and you’re going to be a good girl and take it like I tell you, Lena…” Kara stopped and turned her head as they stood parallel in the hallway, her voice as lavender calm and ordinary as it ever was. “I like it when you cry on my shoulder because you’re feeling things between your legs, baby. I’m going to love holding you tonight in your pretty little new belt and tomorrow I’ll take it off and suck the frustration from your little clit, and we’ll go for breakfast and talk about how it all feels.”
Lena stared like a lame rabbit in headlights.
“Daddy—”
Kara didn’t hang around for the conversation.
“Bedroom, Lena,” Kara whispered sweetly.
Read more, read all my things, come little one.
