Page 32 of Hard Wood Daddy

I’m kind of joking, but he takes it seriously. “Later, babygirl,” he says, gazing at my pussy like it’s the Holy freaking Grail. “How does Daddy get to your clit inside, too?”

I guide his hand lower, sliding his hands through our mixed juices. “Turn so that your palm is facing up… Yes, right there!”

He slides a finger inside of me. I ache and sting, but it melts into the most delicious feeling of satisfaction.

“If you crook it,” I croak out, “like you’re calling me over to you, then on the wall there—ooh!”

He found it on its own. That spot inside my pussy that makes me shake and moan.

He watches my face closely as he moves his hand. First he rubs—which is good, and he can see. But then he kind of flicks and that’s even better.

It only takes one little adjustment to get his hand just right. Then he’s stroking two thick fingers inside me, massaging my inner walls, with the heel of his palm grinding on my clit from the outside.

Rutger’s a fast learner. And he’s an eager student. He kisses the side of my neck while rubbing me, inside and out, and I cling to his shoulders helplessly as pleasure swells and surges and drags me down.

“Come for me,” he says.

And I do.

After I come for about the billionth time, Rutger feeds me.

“This is my grandma’s pancake recipe,” he says while he works in the kitchen, naked except for an apron that looks like it probably belonged to his grandma. There’s rope knotted to the ends of the little bric-a-brac edged ties because there’s no way they’re long enough to connect around his middle.

I grin as he pours batter onto the griddle, steam and sizzle coming up in greeting as I enjoy the occasional glimpse of that otherworldly dick swinging half flaccid down below the hem of the apron. And more than occasional glimpses of thick, hard slabs of muscle that cover him from head to toe.

He has hair almost everywhere, and I never thought I’d like that as much as I do. It covers his chest, hiding the ripples across his pectorals that I can feel when I spread my fingers there. Hair clings to each defined abdominal that points the way down to the part of him that makes me shiver.

His shouldersarehairless, but they’re built for carrying logs… Or carrying little girls who need Daddy to take them up to bed.

“You like pancakes, right?”

I clear my throat, casually brushing the back of my hand under my chin making sure the drool that’s gathering in my mouth isn’t making an appearance.

“I love them. And I’m starving.” My stomach is growling. We’ve lost hours curled up with each other, and I forgot that I needed anything except Rutger.

Luckily, he remembered. He gets bacon and eggs going, then puts a coffee pot on the stove. The apron has a little piggy embroidered on the front pocket where he sticks his utensils. It’s impossibly cute.

His cabin is generally a much more pleasant place than I expected. I thought he’d live like a bear in a cave. But it’s actually really cozy, filled with old photographs, crocheted blankets, and some clumsy wood carvings.

While he cooks, I explore a little. He’s got a rustic bathroom with a huge bathtub, which I want to use later.

When I open another door down the short hallway, I’m stunned to see…myself.

That is to say, drawings of me.

They’re everywhere.

I recognize some of them. I’ve spent enough time in class with the students to recognize their art. Plus, I remember the poses, with the drape situated over my shoulder and between my thighs.

Most of the students only draw the suggestion of my face. They focus on the curved lines. That’s what the teacher calls “gesture” drawing.

But some of the art is different.

There are pages with bold lines. I’m not drawn with any real detail on them at all, but it’s definitely me. Simple pastel shapes capture the way my body looks. Shockingly bright slashes mark my fingers and toes—the impressionist depiction of my painted nails.

It’s childlike, yet simultaneously sophisticated.

I remember wiping pastel chalk off of Rutger’s cheek in his pickup and realize.

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