by Maren Smith
He flailed, a weird watery blob with two ‘tentacles’ instead of arms and a transparent lump where his head should be. The lump rippled, letting out another burbling cry, “Aaaggggghhhhh!”
That was when Ommin felt it—the tickle of many tiny drops moving over his skin. They pulled themselves out of the fibers of his wet clothes, dripped out of his hair, and rolled down off his fingers. Ommin choked, catching his neck as globules rolled back up from his stomach to his mouth. They sucked together, little globs becoming bigger ones that tripped his gag reflex when they oozed slug-like between his tonsils and onto his tongue. That he spat instead of throwing up was nothing short of sheer willpower.
The gob splattered when it hit the pavement, but all the scattered drops of it trickled forward, pools of living water that rushed in from all over the intersection, to rejoin themselves to a rapidly solidifying and naked Jim, still trapped underneath that car. He was almost back to normal when a cop dropped to his knees next to Ommin to identify the source of the warbling screams.
“Oh shit,” he said, and then sprang up again, radioing in for another ambulance.
“My toe,” Jim warbled weakly. “Someone ate my toe.”
“I think that was me,” Ommin said, feeling sick.
“Oh. Oh, thank goodness.” Jim closed his eyes in relief. “At least it’s someone I know… this time.”
Chapter 6
“So, they hauled him off to the hospital,” Ommin grumbled as he scrubbed the battery connections free of corrosion, “and I had to run some poor homeless guy down before he could steal Jim’s coat.”
Sitting on the middle stair of the steps leading up from the garage into the laundry room, Britney blinked wide-eyed. “H-he just… burst?”
Pop, Ommin mouthed, pausing what he was doing to mime the balloon-like burst of impact.
“All blood and guts and…” she began but broke off queasily.
“No. More like all clothes and water. He just looks like water when he does it.”
“He’s done it more than once?”
“Yeah,” he said dryly, and decided against offering any details about the toe. “They were going to cite him for streaking, except there were half a dozen witnesses ready to testify to how the bank robbers had hit him so hard they knocked him clean out of his clothes. Not one person remembered him bursting into water, but everyone remembered seeing his clothes go flying.”
“Human memory is a funny thing,” she said. “To be honest, if I’d been there, I’d probably convince myself I’d been witness to a hit-and-run declothing over having watched a person burst into water.”
Grunting, he connected her battery cables and then, wiping his hands on his jeans, got in behind the steering wheel to crank it up.
The car started like a dream and on popped the radio.
“…and in other news,” the broadcaster announced, “two men were apprehended this morning after robbing the Bank of San Francisco by none other than resident superhero, Sharkman. Witnesses say…”
Ommin shut off the car and sighed. After a moment, he got back out.
“Fixed,” he said, handing her back her keys.
She stood up to take them, her eyebrows buckling. “Are you okay?”
“I am all done talking about it.”
Blinking twice, she backed up the steps when he moved toward her, following her up the stairs and into the laundry room. She only stopped when she bumped up against the washing machine. When she did, she laughed, a little high-pitched. He couldn’t tell if she was more nervous or excited, but she was definitely a little of both. She leaned backwards, as if she didn’t want to touch him. The prominent tips of her nipples thrusting against her shirt said otherwise. So did the fine wave of goosebumps that appeared up the side of her neck and across her chest above the lacy neckline of her blouse.
“You look very nice.” He lay his hands on the washing machine to either side of her, holding her loosely imprisoned between his arms.
Her pulse at the base of her throat fluttered. He could see it, the barely visible movement beneath her delicate skin.
“Why did you call me instead of a mechanic?” he asked, already feeling the settling byproduct just by being this close to her. He loved the smell of her, fresh and clean and slightly fruity from whatever soap she’d used that morning. It evoked all sorts of memories from the night before—all of them wonderful, all of them inspiring the heady thrum now moving through his body to converge in all the places that she was now closest to.
Her breasts rose and fell slightly faster than normal. The sea-mist of her eyes had turned stormy. He wondered if she was remembering now too.
“Well…” she answered shyly, trying to hold his gaze but not quite able to. Her eyes kept darting away, only to steal back again because it seemed she couldn’t not look at him too. “Y-you’re my Daddy now, aren’t you?”
He knew the exact second when that ceased to be a teasing question and became a frightening one. The smoke in her eyes died hard and a tension zipped into all the previously relaxed lines of her, furrowing her brow as she bit her bottom lip.
Letting go of the washing machine, he grabbed her ass instead, startling that tension right back out of her when he lifted her up and dropped her on top of her appliance. “Yes, I’m your Daddy,” he confirmed. “Don’t you ever worry about that again.”
When he sidled closer, she opened her legs so he could come between them. She even hooked her ankles behind his thighs, which had the added bonus of bringing her hips right up to the edge of the washing machine. It put her at the perfect height for him.
“My first real Daddy,” she said softly, looking at his mouth.
Her last, too, if he had anything to say about it.
Her fingers wandered up his chest to his shoulders. “My very own Daddy Shark.”
She laughed, scrunching the bridge of her nose in the most beguiling way.
“I am the Daddy Shark.” His hands found her hips. She was so tiny compared to him. His hands almost wrapped around her. He squeezed, molding her hips, then her ass in his palms. His fingers slipped up under the hem of her shirt before he realized that was what he was feeling his way along. The waistband of her thin, black yoga pants was just as easy to get into. “No panties,” he noted.
“I was kind of hoping it would be no pants too, eventually, once you got here,” she admitted. A touch of color splashed her cheeks. “For both of us this time.”
His cock twitched hard, that low thrum sweeping through his veins now eagerly relocating below his belt.
He pulled her to him, right up to the very lip of the washing machine. The heat between her legs burned straight through the fly of his jeans. If he wasn’t hard before, he was a damn rock now, and only getting harder. She was teasing him, and he had no idea if she knew she was doing it or not. Her legs hugged his waist, but they weren’t motionless. She was caressing him with one, stroking the side of his hip with her inner thigh in the most beguiling, come hither way.
Her fingertips tapped along his shoulders, half rubbing, half stroking. It was doing crazy things to his heart rate. His hands couldn’t help but rub back the same way, squeezing at the globes of her ass, blocked from getting into the heat he so craved because of how she was sitting.
Okay, these pants had to come off now. He withdrew his hands only long enough to hook the soft elastic at her waist and peel them down.
Giggling, she put her hands on the washing machine to help lift her up high enough for him to get them down. He pulled them off her legs and dropped them on the floor. God, she was beautiful when she leaned back like this, her legs still spread, the bare folds of her pussy already glistening wet for him.
Ready for him.
His mouth watered.
He should have backed her all the way into the bedroom, because then at least he could lay her back far enough to lift her ass and get his mouth on her. Washing machines were objects of cleanliness, and it was cock blocking him from getting as dirty w
ith her as he wanted.
“No,” she protested, when he tried to go down. She caught at his shoulders, pulling him to come back up so they were eye to eye and mouth to mouth, and so her hands could find the fastenings of his jeans so they could come off now too.
Who was the Daddy in this relationship?
As if he’d even been a Daddy before this. As if he’d been one for more than a day, at most.
Not that it mattered. He was more than willing to give her what she wanted, but in his time and only after he’d drunk his fill of her gasps and sighs, heat and the salty-sweet nectar that made her pussy shine so gorgeously.
Grabbing her wrists, he pinned them behind her back.
“Don’t tell me no,” he growled, only to have her giggle again. Breathlessly, she caught him in the circle of her naked legs and pulled him that much closer again. The minute he let go of her hands, fully intending to force them open wide enough for him to get his shoulders down between them and his mouth locked on her sweet core, she defied him.
“No,” she pouted, and grabbed his pants again.
Ommin ripped her shirt straight down the front. Only belatedly did he think to wonder if it was a shirt she might be fond of.
She gasped, radiating shock at how quickly and effortlessly he’d done it. By then, however, he had her lifted down off the washing machine, spun around, and immediately bent back over it. He swatted her ass, then used her ruined shirt to tie her hands behind her.
She wanted his pants off? Fine, but that meant his belt came off first. Slithering out of his pants loops in two sharp yanks, and before he put more than a wary thought to it, he had it doubled in his hand and was laying the first of three solid snaps across her wriggling bottom.
She gasped again, sharper this time. On the second crack of leather to skin, she arched her back, bucking and grinding her hips in an expression of pain every bit as instinctive as the decisions moving him now.
“Daddy!” she cried, but he gave her the third whipping stroke even harder than before.
“Do not,” he repeated, “tell me no. Not when we’re in bed and especially not when you don’t mean it.”
Her knees banged the washing machine, but her only response was another shrill gasp, followed by a low, near guttural moan as he bent and bit, sinking his teeth into one of the fast-flushing marks his belt had made. Spreading her legs wide, he went in. That first taste was heaven. She opened to him like a flower, the folds of her parting to the lash of his tongue. Her knees and forehead both clanged against the metal of the machine as she rolled her hips and curled her toes.
“Oh!” she panted, pushing back against the sucking, licking, and punishing nips of his mouth.
He was gentle, but he was hungry. He liked the sense of power her wanton cries gave him. She danced for him as if she just couldn’t bring herself to hold still. Her thighs shook; her whole body shook—for him. The more he feasted on her, the more pronounced that shaking became and the more fervent his desire grew.
He broke away from her succulent flesh. Yanking her up off the battered washing machine, he dropped her to the floor, head down, hands behind her back, lovely ass striped with belt weals propped up in the air as she scrambled to get her knees under her.
He held on to her bound wrists so she couldn’t squirm away. It was the tether by which he pulled her back into position and sank his fingers into her. Two fingers had been a nice fit last night, but Little girls who tell Daddy no get three fingers and no mercy tonight.
As far as punishments went, it was utterly ineffective. The harder he pumped her, the louder she cried and wilder she became, trying to ride his hand. He smacked his fingers into her until the sharp, staccato sounds of it seemed more like spanking than sex. Until her sweet pussy milked him, twitching and clutching at him, shaking like her legs were shaking. Until that hard, involuntary shudder ripped her delicious body taut and the slick heat of her sex spasmed, saturating his hand with the force and fluid of her orgasm.
“No,” she moaned, half sobbing. “Oh, I wanted you in me.”
She wasn’t giggling any more, but her pussy was too wet, too swollen, and too damned delicious for him to care.
He didn’t take his pants off. There wasn’t time for that.
“When Daddy says, not before,” he growled, letting go of her hands and grabbing hold of her hair instead.
He wasn’t sure if the shrillness of her cry was due to that shift in his grip or to the length and girth of him as he shoved himself inside her. His fingers had opened her, but she was such a little woman and he was, well… he was Ommin. And it was the first time he’d ever put himself inside a woman. She was so hot, so wet, so unbelievably tight—like a molten fist that spasmed all around him as he sank as deeply into her as he could go.
“Oh!” She arched on him, forced to take every inch.
She wasn’t protesting.
He pulled out, just so he could slam up into her again and feel once more every luxurious spasm of her body as she welcomed his invasion.
His arm wrapped her hips, hugging her tight. Letting go of her hair, he caught her throat instead, holding her securely. She could struggle if she wanted, wiggle, squirm, arch her hips in any way that might lessen the pressure as he began to thrust—hard, slow, as deep as he could make himself reach—but little girls who wanted Daddy’s cock did not get to protest when they got it.
And he liked this.
He liked every nuance of this.
He liked when she squirmed—sometimes as if she really did want to get away, most of the time, as if she couldn’t feel enough of him.
He loved the sounds she made, the pitch and tone of each one growing in volume and desperation, from breaths to pants to mewls to cries as she neared her next climax.
He could feel the beating of her heart all along the length of his cock.
He could feel the fluttering of her muscles as she bucked and rolled and ground her hips back against him.
Her fingers were clawing at his belly, her bound hands preventing her from grabbing him as he pulled out of her or yanking him back in close again.
“Come on my cock,” he begged her, needing to feel that ultimate rush. That ultimate proof that she wanted this.
Wanted him.
“Come on Daddy’s cock,” he commanded, every inch of his body vibrating to the rushing fury of his own building pleasure. It was washing over him, a tidal wave of force and fury centered in the piston thrusts of his hips as he took her.
She threw her head back against his shoulder, arching into his embracing, shouting out as the spasms came again. “Oh!” Her body locked on his cock, milking him for all that she was worth. Taking him.
Accepting him.
Welcoming the furious rush of ecstasy that tore through him, like nothing he had ever felt before and draining him absolutely dry. He had nothing left to spill into her. The frantic pumping of his hips exhausted itself, and soon it became all that he could do not to fold straight over on the floor, collapsing on top of her like only so much useless meat.
It was a long time before he came back to himself enough to realize he was shaking. Growling, too. His throat felt raw and tight from it.
He must have bitten her shoulder. He could make out the mark of his teeth in her softly bruising skin.
And he’d forgotten the condom again.
God damn it.
She made a sound, and it was that sound that snapped him back to himself enough to realize he was still holding her throat.
He let go, grateful to see he hadn’t shut off her breathing or even squeezed enough to leave the imprint of his fingers on the milky paleness of her neck.
“What did you say?” he asked.
“P-please un-untie m-my hands,” she whispered again.
He’d taken it too far. She’d felt so good in his arms, but he’d hurt her and he’d taken it way too far.
Unable to look at the mark his teeth had left, Ommin forced himself to let her go. He released her
in slow degrees, untying her hands and lowering her gently until she could support herself.
She folded over limply, bracing herself on hands and knees, panting. Her eyes were shut. She said nothing, but he knew she would soon enough.
For the rest of his life, he would always remember how good it had been to hold her, because it wasn’t ever going to happen again. Because, he was Ommin and of course it wouldn’t. Good things like this never happened to him.
“Mmm.” Moving with somnambulistic slowness, she reached down between her legs to lay her hand over her pussy.
She rubbed.
He should apologize, but how did one even begin to find the words for what he’d just done? Hesitantly, not sure if he should even touch her, he lay his hand on her back, willing her to be comforted.
“My shoulder hurts,” she whispered.
He caressed her, so appalled at himself that he almost couldn’t bear to look at her. And when he did, he almost whiplashed himself with the double-take that got his attention. She was spreading her pussy lips open with her fingers. On purpose.
For him.
“Again, Daddy,” she sighed. “Do me like that again.”
Ommin stared at her, shaken to the core all over again.
“Again,” she softly begged, though she looked boneless and practically half asleep.
He swallowed hard, and then he grabbed her. He yanked her up off the floor, hugging her as close as she could come. Her head rolled back onto his shoulder as he rocked her. There was probably something in the rules about Daddies not letting their Littles see them cry, so he buried his face in her hair and made sure she wouldn’t hear the shift in his breathing or feel so much as a single tear fall upon her. One or two might have landed on the toothy bruise darkening on her shoulder.
“Again, Daddy,” she whispered, her back to his chest, limp as a doll in his embrace, already falling asleep. “Again…”
He loved that about her.