Chapter 3: Daddy's Little Girl

Chapter 3: Daddy's Little Girl

The afternoon sun slanted through the manor's tall windows, turning the dust motes into golden specks as I hauled the last of my uni boxes up the creaky oak stairs. My arms ached from lugging them solo—Jake had vanished to the gym, probably pumping iron to work off that kitchen boner—and sweat beaded between my tits, making my crop top cling like a second skin. The top was a scrap of white cotton, midriff bare, hem barely skimming the undersides of my C-cups; paired with a black microskirt that rode up my thighs with every step, flashing the curve of my arse. No bra again—nipples perked against the fabric, dark shadows visible if the light hit right. Knickers? A tiny black thong, string vanishing between my cheeks, already damp from the morning's Jake grind.

"Need a hand, princess?" Richard's voice rumbled from behind me, close enough that his breath stirred the fine hairs on my neck. I froze mid-step, box teetering, heart skipping. He'd materialised like a shadow—freshly showered from his estate rounds, hair damp and tousled, wearing faded jeans that hugged his thick thighs and a plain white tee stretched taut over his barrel chest. Early fifties, but the bastard looked forty: rugged jaw, laugh lines crinkling his blue eyes, and arms like coiled ropes from years of manual work around the grounds.

I turned, beaming innocent. "Daddy! Yes, please—these are heavy." Set the box down, "accidentally" bending at the waist so my skirt flipped up, thong bisecting my arse cheeks fully exposed. Felt his gaze burn there, hot as a brand. He cleared his throat, stepping up to grab the box effortlessly, muscles flexing under his shirt sleeves.

"Lead on, love." His free hand steadied my elbow, thumb stroking the inside—soft, callused skin sending tingles straight to my clit. Up the stairs we went, his heavy boots thudding beside my bare feet on the carpet. My room door swung open to chaos: clothes spilling from cases, books toppled, my pink vibrator half-buried under a jumper like a guilty secret.

He dumped the box on the bed, straightening with a grunt. "Right, let's get this sorted. Can't have my precious girl living in squalor." Precious girl. The words dripped possession, wrapping around me like chains. He started unpacking—methodical, strong hands ripping tape, lifting heavy textbooks one-handed. I knelt beside him, arse towards the mirror, skirt riding high as I folded tops. Every time he reached across, his knuckles brushed the side of my tit—once, twice, accidental-on-purpose. The third time, his palm grazed full-on, cupping the underside briefly, thumb nudging my nipple through cotton.

I gasped soft, glancing up with wide eyes. "Oops, sorry, Daddy—tight space." But I leaned in, pressing firmer, the peak hardening instantly under his touch. Felt it throb, a sweet ache blooming.

He met my gaze, eyes darkening to stormy blue, devouring the way my crop top strained, nipples tenting obvious now. "No harm, princess. Just helping out." Voice gravelly, a notch lower. He shifted closer on his knees, our thighs touching—denim rough against my smooth skin, heat radiating from his crotch. Unpacked faster, but slower touches: forearm sweeping my tits as he grabbed a lamp, fingers lingering on my waist when handing me hangers. The air thickened with his scent—clean soap, underlying male musk, faint woodsmoke from the gardens. My thong saturated, pussy lips swelling, clit begging friction against the damp string.

"These skirts, Delilah," he murmured, holding up a similar micro one from my case, eyes flicking to my current skirt, then my cleavage. "Barely decent. Uni boys must go mad." Possessive growl hidden in humour.

I giggled, twirling so the skirt flared, flashing thong-clad mound. "They try, Daddy, but you're the only one who matters." Liar—lecturer from last term still texted nudes—but the words made his jeans twitch, a thick ridge forming along his zipper. Fuck, he was hung: outline girthy, head flaring like a mushroom cap. Imagined it stretching my jaw, balls heavy on my chin.

Unpacking dragged deliciously—two hours of brushes, stares, tension coiling like a spring. By the end, room tidy, bed made crisp. He stood behind me as I smoothed sheets, hands on my shoulders, thumbs kneading down my arms. "Good as new. Proud of you, my girl." Leaned in, chin brushing my hair, lips ghosting my temple. His erection nudged my arse crack through layers—hot, insistent pulse. I arched back subtle, grinding once before stepping away with a blush. "Thanks, Daddy. You're the best."

Dinner was subdued—Jake back, sullen from workout endorphins or kitchen regret, shovelling steak without eye contact. Richard's foot played footsie again, sole rubbing my calf higher this time, nearly to knee. Jake noticed, fork pausing, jealousy flickering. I sipped wine, thighs slick under the table, clit a constant throb.

Evening wound down; baths called after the day's sweat. Manor's en-suites were pure luxury—clawfoot tubs big as beds, brass taps spewing steaming water scented with lavender oil. I ran it deep, bubbles foaming thick, stripping slow in front of the full-length mirror. Crop top peeled off, tits bouncing free—heavy, pale orbs with rosy areolas, nipples stiff peaks from arousal. Skirt dropped, thong last: peeled from soaked lips, string coated in creamy slick. Stepped in naked, shaved pussy gleaming—lips plump and pink, clit hooded but peeking, inner folds glistening. Sighed as heat enveloped me to my neck, bubbles parting around my curves.

Eyes closed, reliving Daddy's tit brushes, Jake's thigh grind. Hand drifted down, fingers parting bubbles to trace my slit—slick even in water, clit swelling under pad of finger. Circled slow, pressure building, other hand cupping a tit, pinching nipple. Moaned low, hips lifting water slosh. "Daddy... touch me," whispered to the steam.

Door creaked—no knock. Eyes snapped open; Richard stood there, towel slung over shoulder, fresh from his own shower. Jeans low, tee off—chest hairy silver-fox pelt, abs still defined, happy trail vanishing into waistband. His eyes widened fractionally—"accidentally" walked in?—then dropped, locking on where bubbles thinned: my shaved mound, pussy lips pouting above the foam, clit visibly twitching from my hidden rub.

"Shit—sorry, princess! Door was ajar." But he didn't move, rooted, gaze hungry, tracing my tits floating buoyant, nipples slicing bubbles. The tent in his jeans swelled massive, zipper straining.

I shrieked playful, splashing water—covering tits with arms, but legs stayed parted under surface, fingers resuming secret circles on clit. Blush heated my cheeks genuine-for-show. "Daddy! Ever heard of knocking?" Voice high, innocent quiver, but thighs trembled real from building orgasm, water lapping my folds.

He swallowed thick, Adam's apple bobbing, eyes glued to my pussy. "Thought you were done. Won't happen again, love." Liar—stayed planted, towel dropping forgotten. The stare devoured: lips, clit, the way my fingers subtly moved underwater. His cock throbbed visible, a wet spot blooming pre-cum. "Beautiful as ever. My precious girl."

Heat flooded me; clit engorged, fingers faster—two now dipping shallow into my hole, scissoring. Thighs quivered surface ripples, bubbles popping frantic. "Go on, Daddy... privacy?" Giggle breathy, but inside screaming: look more, touch.

Finally, he backed out, door clicking shut—but not before a low groan escaped him. "Night, princess. Sweet dreams."

I shattered seconds later—orgasm ripping silent but vicious, pussy clenching fingers, walls fluttering wild. No squirt in water, but waves pulsed endless, clit grinding palm, tits heaving splashes. Bit my lip bloody, tasting copper, thighs clamping as aftershocks milked me dry. Slumped back, panting fog on mirror.

Towelled off slow, skin flushed rose, nipples raw diamonds. Slipped into silk nightie—short, spaghetti straps, no knickers—pussy still puffy, leaking residual slick down thighs. Bed welcomed me, sheets cool on fevered flesh. But sleep evaded; phone glowed: barman from village pub replying to my earlier "fancy a drink?" pic. "That arse needs spanking. Tomorrow?"

Smirked in dark. Daddy's little girl, indeed. But tomorrow, I'd bend for more than boxes—and not just his hands.

Morning loomed with promise: Jake's jealousy simmering, Richard's "accidental" peeks. Pool time again, maybe, in that slingshot bikini. Tease the spiders in their web while I spun mine wider. They owned my facade; cocks owned my holes—but choices? All mine.