The air in the room thickens as Daddy leads me toward the bed, his presence steady and commanding.

"Lay down for me," he says, his voice a low, gravelly instruction.

I settle onto the mattress, my heart thudding as he reaches out. His large hands catch my ankles, spreading my legs wide and anchoring them firmly.

Between them, he places a steaming, hot apple pie, its fragrance of cinnamon and baked butter filling the air.

He drops to his knees, his face level with the offering. He leans in, his breath hot against the pastry.

With slow, deliberate motions, he slides his tongue along the firm, hard peak of the golden crust. He flicks his tongue against the edge, a rhythmic, insistent motion that sends a shiver down my spine.

Suddenly, he abandons the crust. He lowers his face, pressing his mouth directly over a little steaming hole in the centre of the pie.

He devours the opening hands-free, his lips and tongue working through the soft, yielding fruit. He lingers there, his face coated in the warm, sticky syrup, tasting the heat of the mess he’s made with a primal, unhurried hunger.

He pulls back slightly, his skin shimmering with the sweet glaze, and reaches out.

He pushes one finger into the pie, moving it slowly to feel the resistance of the softened apples. He lingers with just that one finger for a long while, exploring the depth and the warmth of the centre.

Only then does he add a second finger, his movements rhythmic as he carefully and slowly creates a wider, deeper space within the yielding filling.

The tension in the room peaks as Doddy moves closer with a deliberate, slow-motion grace, his presence looming large as he reaches for his big silver fork.

He positions the tines at the very edge of the opening and holds. For seconds that feel like minutes.

There is a palpable sense of longing in the way he pauses. He savours the anticipation. He doesn’t just plunge it in; he holds it over the steaming, open centre of the pie, letting the longing build until the air feels like it might snap. I hold my breath.

When he finally moves, it’s with an agonizing slowness. He pushes the tines through the soft, spiced depths, the metal disappearing inch by inch into the warmth. I watch his eyes whiten and mouth open as he feels the resistance of the thick, syrupy fruit. He sinks it all the way to the base of the dish.

Then, he begins to draw it back out. The sound is wet and heavy as the fork emerges, coated in glistening glaze. He slides it back in, a rhythmic, deep motion that mimics the pulse of the room. In and out.

Each time he pushes the fork back into the yielding centre, he watches my face, his own expression a mask of intense, focused hunger. Like an animal holding back force.

He’s making sure every inch of the interior is saturated.

He sets the fork aside, but he isn’t finished. He reaches for a pitcher of thick, white cream. He holds it high above the mattress and begins to pour.

A slow, velvety stream of rich, cream falls through the air, hitting the very heart of the open hole he carved out.

I watch, my breath hitching, as the liquid swirls into the deep, dark heat of the apples. It slowly drips down the sides of the dish. It’s a lavish release, a total saturation of the dessert he’s claimed.

He exhales deeply, but doesn't move away. Instead, he leans back, surveying the ruined, beautiful mess left on the mattress between my legs.

The plate is smeared with my sticky cinnamon glaze and his cream.

With a low, possessive rumble, he moves in for the aftermath. He ignores the utensils entirely, lowering his head to the plate. He begins to lick the ceramic clean, his tongue broad and heavy as it sweeps across the surface. He is thorough, catching every stray drop of syrup that escaped the centre.

The sound of his tongue against the plate is primal, a final act of devotion to the feast. He doesn't stop until his dish shines again, polished by his touch.

When he finally looks up, his lips are stained and sweet, his gaze anchored on mine with a satisfied, quiet intensity.

He stays there for a moment, kneeling between my legs with his weight resting back on his calves, the now-spotless plate a silent witness to how thoroughly he just claimed his prize.

The room is silent, save for the sound of our breathing - mine quick and shallow, his deep and steady.

He reaches out, his thumb catching a lingering drop of syrup at the corner of his mouth before he leans forward, bracing his hands on the mattress on either side of my hips. He doesn't move to touch me yet; he just stays in my space, letting the heat of the encounter settle.

"Look at what you made me do, baby girl," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that feels like a physical caress against my skin.

I look up at him, my head against the pillows, feeling completely exposed and cherished all at once. "I liked to see you enjoy it," I whisper, my voice still a little breathless.

A slow, satisfied smile touches his lips, the kind of look that says he knows exactly the effect he has on me.

He reaches up, his hand cupping my cheek, his thumb stroking my skin with a tenderness that contrasts sharply with the intensity of the feast.

"I enjoyed every second," he says softly, his gaze dropping to my lips. "There’s nothing better than taking my time with something so sweet." 🍎