I reach round and stuff your panties in your mouth, the musky sweetness of your need filling your senses now. Again your first instinct is to protest but you open your mouth like daddy’s good little slut. As you take the lacy damp fabric into your mouth I growl, “We’re going to need to make sure you stay quiet for this…”
I take you hard, suddenly. My cock is rammed inside your hungry pussy before you’ve even adjusted to breathing through your nose, an exhalation pushed out of you as if my length has filled a void. And in that perfect moment it genuinely is as if the emptiness you’ve felt all morning is satiated. Here, bent over your bridal couch, bare ass in the air, drenched panties in your mouth, your sticky cum-tracks coursing down your silky thighs, wedding dress over your head… here, in this moment, you feel complete with daddy’s masculinity wrecking your pussy that is betrothed to another.
You scream into your panties and, still, I can make out your muffled cry of “Fuckkkk, fuck me daddy. Fuck your little whore bride!!!”
And I do. I fucking do. I fucking fuck the living fuck out of you. I grunt and groan and pound my hips against you. You hear the familiar growl of my lust, intensified a hundred-fold by the secret gift of your body to me on this day of all days. I grasp handfuls of the train of your dress for purchase as I ram my cock again and again deep into your belly. My first orgasm still warm in your stomach, you can feel the abandon of my raging lust ready to release a second flood deep in your pussy. Your bare pubic bone grinds into the expensive dress below you, each thrust of my hips rubbing your mess into the fine lacy fabric. It runs through your mind that you’re getting the dress wet, hoping the clear juices won’t show as you walk down the aisle. But you do know — as you feel the ecstatic stream of cum flow out of me again — that you’re going to feel daddy’s cum running out of you into your soaked panties as you stand in front of the dearly beloved and say “I do”.
I’m cumming. I can’t believe how much there is for a second orgasm in such quick succession, it seems to keep pouring from me endlessly. We’ve lost all control, pumping and grinding and cumming inside and all over everything. Raw sex.
I half collapse over you, our hips keeping a reducing tempo. Gradually, we regain our senses, realising our time is up and we need to get you back into a state befitting a bride. You turn and slump down on the couch, face flushed, half-hanging out of your corset, chest heaving. I sit beside you, whispering “open… good girl” as you let the panties fall from your mouth and into my hand. “I’ll keep these,” I mutter, slipping them into the pocket of my abandoned suit jacket. “Good thing you bought some extra,” I smirk, my mind cast back to your message last week showing the two sets of lingerie you’d bought for the Big Day.
Together we dress you again, righting the corset, pulling it tight, adjusting the dress as you stand and we flare it out again into its elegant form. It’s a moment of unspoken tenderness. We know what we’ve done is wrong…or at least if anyone else knew they would consider it so. But it’s our secret and in that sense it feels completely right.
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