Todos os capítulos de All For… Daddy: Capítulo 131 - Capítulo 140

Bernice. I had never thought going for yoga was something that would make my pussy throb like this. All through the night after Mia left, my mind kept replaying her words about the hot yoga coach. The way she described him—older, commanding, built—had my body on fire. I lay in bed, my legs restless under the duvet, until I couldn’t take it anymore. My fingers trailed down into my nightwear, slipping past the waistband and finding my swollen clit already slick with need. I rubbed harder, circles growing faster as I pictured strong hands guiding me, that deep voice telling me exactly how to bend. “Fuck… oh my god… please… daddy… fuck,” I had moaned into my pillow, my voice breaking as the orgasm crashed over me. My pussy clenched around nothing, dripping messily onto my fingers, juices coating my thighs. It was the hardest I had come in months, and it still wasn’t enough. The next day I woke up with every nerve on edge, skin tingling like it reme

“Please… fuck! Since the moment you walked in… oh God…” I cried out, my hips bucking helplessly. “And you’re so fucking wet,” he said again, voice rough with approval. He slid down, lying on his front now, his face right between my spread legs. My elbows stayed propped behind me, legs still folded wide open for him. He started licking and sucking right over the soaked crotch of my leggings. His tongue pressed flat and broad, dragging slowly up and down the length of my slit through the thin, clinging fabric. Every lick made the material rub deliciously against my swollen clit and dripping folds. He sucked hard on the wet spot, tongue swirling and flicking, making obscene wet noises as he drank down my juices through the leggings. I moaned loudly, hips jerking up toward his mouth, chasing the friction. “Fuck… coach… that feels so good,” I gasped, one hand flying up to my breast. I pinched my own nipple through the thin top, rolling it between my f

Bernice. I positioned myself over him, my knees on either side of his hips, hovering just above that thick, curved cock. My torn leggings hung open around my thighs, my pussy still dripping from everything he had already done to me. I reached down, wrapping my fingers around his heavy shaft, and guided the flushed pink head to my entrance. Slowly, I sank down. The stretch was intense. Inch by inch, his thick cock parted my soaked walls, filling me up in the most delicious way. I gasped, eyes fluttering shut as I took the first few inches. He was so big, the curve dragging perfectly against that sensitive spot inside me. I rocked my hips gently, working myself lower, feeling every vein and ridge as my pussy swallowed more of him. “Oh god… you’re so deep already,” I moaned, breath catching. He watched me with dark eyes, hands resting on my thighs. When I had taken about half, he suddenly folded his strong legs behind me, planting his feet

Fiona. The next day, Mass ended with the usual rustle of hymnals closing and footsteps echoing toward the doors.
 I lingered near the back pew, fingers twisting the cord of my rosary like it could anchor me.
 Everyone else filed out in quiet clusters, but my gaze stayed locked on Father Dean as he greeted the last parishioners at the entrance—handshakes, soft blessings, that warm smile that never quite reached the storm in his eyes when they found mine. Those ocean eyes.
 God, the way they pinned me across the nave felt indecent—like he was staring straight through my habit, past skin and bone, right into the slick heat pulsing between my thighs.
 My pussy clenched hard, a greedy, aching spasm that made my knees threaten to buckle.
 I hated myself for it, hated the rush of wetness that soaked my cotton panties the instant his gaze touched me, but I was already moving, drawn forward like a moth too stupid to fear the flame. I needed to be near him.
Ne

Fiona. That night, the convent was wrapped in its usual hush—only the old pipes creaking and the wind rattling the stained-glass windows. My cell felt smaller than ever.
 The sheets were twisted around my legs like restraints, and every time I closed my eyes I saw Father Dean’s face inches from mine, felt the phantom weight of his thumb pressing my lip, heard that low, filthy promise:
 Eight o’clock.. Habit. Nothing underneath. The clock on my nightstand crawled toward 7:45.
 Fifteen minutes.
 Fifteen minutes until I either damned myself forever or chickened out and spent the rest of my life wondering. I sat up, heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat.
 My palms were slick with sweat.
 I couldn’t do it.
 I couldn’t not do it.
 The ache between my legs had turned vicious—sharp, constant pulses that made me squeeze my thighs together just to keep from whimpering out loud. Then—footsteps in the corridor.
Soft, hurried.