Top Space
A short scene exploring daddy/daughter bdsm sex from the perspective of an introspective top uncomfortable with his mind.
"Daddy!"
Somewhere in his mind the words burned him. They hurt a deep and troubled part of his soul. On the surface - where the two of them lived now in the moment - they kicked a deep spur in his flank and he drove into her hard. He dug his claws into her shoulders and arched his body with tension like a bow drawn nearly to breaking, trembling, as she folded up beneath him. Missionary was not a timid position for the two of them. He thought he might break her as he pitched his cock inside her, feeling the base stretch her entrance, trying either to drive deeper or rip his way up her chest like an autopsy.
He twitched inside her and she clamped down. They both felt her clench and his pre warm the passage to her womb. Their bodies did the work. Id was at play. There was no reason in the room, only raw expression.
He pressed his cheek to hers in an oddly tender posture. Words rolled out his throat like thunder, "who's a good little girl." He jerked forward, still hilted, and his knot filled. "Tell me who's a good little girl."
"Choke me," she squeaked out. She had a clear mind. It was a game to her. He was furious she interrupted the flight of his most wicked demons.
He stiffened up and raised his shoulders. He put a paw against the headboard and one around her neck. He had never known exactly how hard to hold another person's throat. He knew his own was like iron. He knew no hand he had ever crossed could snuff him out. He let her feel his claws as he saw the flesh through her fur redden. Her face scrunched up and her eyes went cloudy. Her pussy flooded - it gushed - she was cumming hard. He just kept squeezing. He was thick enough to tie, but he was sick of what was happening.
She screamed when he yanked out. Biology saw to his climax, but his heart and mind were empty and cold. The last of his cum was painted over her gaping pussy and soft... soft tummy. She looked like a little girl. It sickened him. Everything sickened him. He felt like he would wretch. There she lay in ecstasy. She was lost in the fantasy.
He put on his clothes and walked out while she struggled - no. She didn't struggle. She lay there fully immersed and satisfied - aftershocks rippling through her. She had no intention to open her eyes even if some part of her would have been curious enough to look where he was going.
He stepped out the door and flicked the bottom of a soft pack of smokes. He put it between his lips more carefully than he had pressed them to any part of her. He walked down the stairs.
"What was that phrase?" He thought. "The thought that comes to mind on the stairs on the walk home?" Esoteric french loan words weren't his strong suit. Everything he could have said came to mind. Everything he should've told her. Everything that would've made things okay before, during, and after. Every sick and dirty phrase that would've brought her to greater heights. He had played her like a violin to satisfy his need to be a man. No. He simply wanted to be good enough. Now he didn't know how to stop. He had lost himself a long, long time ago.
But at least he could fuck like nobody she had ever met.