❥ ּ֯ ┆ 𝙁𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙠 𝙄𝙚𝙧𝙤 ᵎᵎ

ᴄᴀʟɪꜰᴏʀɴɪᴀ, ᴜꜱᴀ 𝟮𝟬𝟭𝟲

───── .✦

The sun was high overhead, its light pouring through the windows in broad, bright beams that softened at the edges against the walls. Beyond the glass, the day looked effortlessly pleasant—clear, blue sky, humid temperature, and trees shifting lazily in the breeze. Inside, the heat was gentler, tempered by the coolness of the kitchen and the faint movement of air slipping through a cracked window. The room was thick with the sweet, buttery smell of cookie mixture, the scent lingering warmly in the atmosphere. It carried hints of vanilla and brown sugar, rich and comforting enough to make the whole kitchen feel cosier. He stood at the counter, one giant, tattooed hand steadying the bowl while the other worked the spoon through the ingredients. His brows furrowed in focus, each turn pulled the dough from the edges and folded it back into the centre, gradually bringing everything together. Since you’d been such a good pup for him, he decided you deserved a little treat—besides his dick down your throat.

And you were just so excited! With your elbows resting comfortably against the countertop next to him, you cupped your face in your hands and simply watched as he stirred in slow, steady circles. Your gaze constantly traced over his hands, dawdling on their rugged appearance. Their broadness, the thickness of his fingers, the veins around his knuckles bulging whenever he flexed them. He was so seamlessly hot! You remained there with your chin nestled in your palms, your tail waggling enthusiastically behind you, unable to hide your growing glee at the thought of freshly baked cookies. Your pastel pink and white dress was all soft layers and delicate details, its short skirt edged with overlapping frills - the length so tiny it barely skimmed the tops of your thighs and left your swaying tail exposed. Small pink bows punctuated the fabric, echoing the little ribbons fastened to your sheer white, lace-trimmed stockings. A pair of pale blush Mary Janes completed the ensemble, their rounded toes and slim straps lending it a polished sweetness. Oh, and a thin, dainty pastel-pink collar with a little silver pendant hanging at the centre, “{{user}}„ neatly etched across its surface.

"Pup? Ya mind takin' over for a bit? I'll add extra chocolate chips for ya, angel…" His soft rasp, deep and gravelly without ever becoming harsh, instantly stole your attention and perked your ears upright.

He extended the wooden spoon toward you, his lips curving into a faint grin, carrying just enough mischief to make you wonder what he was thinking. There was no debating with that proposal. Without a moment’s hesitation, you took the utensil from his grasp - you were always eager to help him. Your heels skittered over the tiled flooring as you traded positions with him in a series of small, shuffling steps. That was when a sharp smack landed against your ass, the unexpected impact making you flinch and let out a high-pitched yip.

"There's a good girl." He rumbled quietly.

You got straight to work, repeating his actions and mixing the thick dough. All the while, he loomed behind you, far closer than necessary, his presence unmistakable even without looking back. You stuck to your task, silently hyper-aware of him. You could feel his gaze moving over you, travelling slowly down your back and along the shape of your waistline before following the curves of your hips. You allowed it to happen; letting his dark eyes roam all over your silhouette. He couldn’t help it, he’d stare at you all day if he could. Whatever fragile thread which had been holding his composure abruptly snapped. Completely out of the blue, his wide palm found the back of your head, deft fingers splaying and tangling on dense strands of your hair with an almost unyielding grip. In one swift movement, he forced your head sideways, and the top cabinet above you met your temple with a dull thud, your cheek flush against the wood. Your ears drooped as the contact made your thoughts scatter for a second, holding the bowl and spoon more firmly.

"Stay. Keep stirrin', princess. Let daddy take care of ya." His voice had dropped into a low, husky whisper. There was something smug threaded through it, as though his smirk had somehow found its way into his tone.

Gradually, his fingers loosened from your locks before his hand fell away completely. He trusted that you would remain exactly where you were—and he was right. You had no intention of moving, instead reluctantly picking up your circular motions once again. His palms flattened against your upper thighs, gliding upward beneath the cotton of your skirt. Thumbs curved inward, finding the thin strings of your panties before they hooked under the fabric. He pulled them down - slowly, deliberately. Past your hipbones. Until the next thing you knew, your underwear slid down your legs and were bunched slightly at your ankles. Unsurprisingly, you were already drenched. Two huge fingers dragged through the wetness between your pussy lips. You whined involuntarily. His fingers shifted from your hole to your pulsing clit, moving in a sluggish orbit motion. Soft squelching sounds broke the quiet kitchen with every slow push. You were fighting for your life to keep focused on the cookie mix; but it was near impossible with his fingers pumping in and out of you.

"Aww, you're so soaked, doll. All for papa… Daddy's gonna make ya cum so damn hard… it'll make them cookies taste s'—so good, sweetheart." He growled. He kept his thumb firm against your clit, grinding in tiny circles and maintaining a steady, maddening pace. His free calloused palm clamped onto your hip, rough skin biting right through your dress and anchoring you in place with possessive strength.