The light through the bedroom curtains was gray and thin, barely morning, and Walther's eyes opened before the alarm could sound. He lay still for a moment, feeling the weight of the mattress shift as Brock breathed beside him—deep, heavy, the sleep of a man who'd driven six hundred miles and spent himself into his boy's throat not six hours ago.
Walther's body ached. A sweet, deep ache between his thighs that made him press them together, the ghost of Brock's hand still warm on his ass where he'd slapped it hard enough to leave a print. He turned his head on the pillow, watched the rise and fall of Brock's chest under the rumpled sheet, the salt-and-pepper stubble on his jaw, the way one thick arm was thrown across the pillow like he'd reached for something even in sleep.
My daddy. The words made his stomach flutter.
He slid out of bed carefully, the sheet whispering over his skin. The air was cool on his bare thighs, his nipples tightening as he padded toward the bathroom. In the mirror, he was a vision of soft curves and sleep-tousled hair—the sheer black babydoll he'd worn to bed had ridden up around his waist, leaving his ass bare, his cunt a dark shadow between his thighs. He smoothed the fabric down, ran his fingers through his chestnut waves, and smiled at himself. A sleepy, secret smile.
Time to be a good boy wife.
The kitchen was dim, the single bulb over the sink still humming from last night. The dishes from dinner sat in the rack, dried now—Brock had done them after all, grumbling that his boy had cooked, so his boy wouldn't clean. Walther's heart squeezed at the memory. He found the apron hanging on a hook by the fridge: a sheer white thing, barely more than a strip of fabric that tied at the neck and waist, leaving his sides and back completely bare. He slipped it on, let it fall over the black lace panties he'd put on while Brock still slept—high-cut, barely covering the swell of his hips, a tiny bow at the center that sat just above his cunt.
The coffee. Brock liked it black, strong, with a pinch of cinnamon stirred in. Walther had learned that on their third date, filed it away like a sacred fact. He measured the grounds by heart now, filled the filter, set the machine to brew. The rich smell began to fill the kitchen, mixing with the vanilla oil he'd dabbed on his wrists and behind his ears before bed. The scent clung to him still, warm and edible.
He leaned against the counter as the coffee dripped, his bare thighs pressing together, the lace of his panties a soft tickle against his skin. He could feel himself getting wet—just from standing here, just from waiting to serve. The thought made him bite his lip. He was so easy for his daddy. So eager.
Footsteps. Heavy, unhurried, the creak of floorboards down the hall.
Walther's breath caught. He turned toward the doorway, the coffee mug in his hands, steam curling around his face. He'd poured it perfect—black, a dusting of cinnamon on top, the rim still warm from the machine.
Brock filled the doorframe. Sleep-rumpled, his chest bare, the hair on his belly disappearing into the waistband of his boxers. His brown eyes found Walther immediately, and a slow, sleepy smile spread under his beard.
"Well, well." His voice was rough with sleep, deeper than usual. "Ain't you a sight first thing."
Walther's cheeks flushed. He ducked his head, let his hair fall forward, peered up through his lashes. "Morning, Daddy. I made you coffee."
He stepped forward, the sheer apron swaying against his hips, the lace panties a dark promise under the white fabric. He held out the mug with both hands, his fingers trembling just slightly—not from cold, from want. From wanting to be seen wanting this.
Brock took the mug. His rough fingers brushed Walther's, callused and warm. He brought it to his lips, took a slow sip, and his eyes closed for just a second. When they opened again, the hunger had sharpened.
"You put cinnamon in this."
Walther nodded, his heart rabbiting. "You like it. Right? That's—you said that once, that you—"
"I remember what I said." Brock's free hand reached out, traced the edge of the apron where it tied at Walther's hip. His thumb brushed the bare skin there, the dip of his waist, the curve of his hipbone. "I remember everything I told you."
Walther's thighs pressed together involuntarily. The touch was light, barely there, but it sent a pulse of heat straight through him, straight to the wet place between his legs. He swayed forward, his body leaning into the contact like a plant toward sun.
"Daddy…" The word came out breathy, almost a whimper.
Brock's hand slid lower, his thumb hooking under the waistband of the lace panties, tugging just enough to make the fabric bite into Walther's hip. He took another sip of coffee, watching his boy over the rim.
"Been awake long?"
"No, sir. Just—enough time. To make this right."
"Right," Brock repeated, his voice a low rumble. "You made it exactly right, baby boy." His thumb pressed into the soft skin of Walther's hip, a firm, possessive pressure. "This apron's new."
Walther swallowed. "I got it. For you. I thought—I thought you might like seeing me in it."
"I do." Brock set the mug down on the counter behind Walther, the ceramic clinking against granite. His hand came back to Walther's hip, the other gripping his waist, turning him slowly. "Spin for me."
Walther turned. The sheer apron did nothing to hide his body—the heavy curve of his ass, the dip of his waist, the lace panties riding up between his cheeks. He felt Brock's eyes on him like a physical weight, and his skin broke out in goosebumps.
"Look at that." Brock's voice was gravel and approval. "My pretty boy. Got all dressed up just to make me coffee."
"I wanna be good for you, Daddy." The words fell out of him, honest and raw. "I wanna be—I wanna be the best. The perfect boy wife."
Brock's hand landed on his ass. Not a slap, not yet—just a heavy, possessive palm, curving over the lace, squeezing once. "You're doing a real good job so far."
Walther's eyes fluttered closed. The praise washed through him like warm honey, loosening something in his chest. He leaned back into Brock's touch, letting his head fall back, baring his throat.
"Daddy…"
"Uh-uh." Brock's voice held a warning edge, but his hand stayed warm on Walther's ass. "I got a full tank of coffee to finish before I do anything else. And you're gonna stand here and watch me drink it."
A protest died on Walther's tongue. He nodded, obedient, and turned back to face his daddy. Brock picked up the mug, took another slow sip, his eyes never leaving Walther's body.
"You look so fucking pretty like this," Brock said, almost to himself. "Standing in my kitchen, wearing nothing but that apron and those panties, shaking like a leaf 'cause you want me to touch you."
Walther's cheeks burned, but he didn't look away. He let Brock see it all—the need in his eyes, the way his breath came shallow, the way his hands hung at his sides, trembling with the effort of not reaching out.
"I do want you to touch me." His voice was barely a whisper. "I always want you to touch me."
Brock took another sip. Another long, deliberate swallow. Then he set the mug down, empty, and stepped forward until his body blocked the light, until Walther was backed against the counter, the granite cool against his bare ass.
"Get on your knees."
Walther dropped. Fast. His knees hit the linoleum, the cold floor a shock against his skin. He looked up, his hands already reaching for Brock's waistband, his mouth already watering.
But Brock caught his wrists. Held them. Gave a slow, deliberate shake of his head.
"Not yet." He reached down, his fingers brushing Walther's jaw, tilting his face up. "I want you to stay there. On your knees. While I get dressed."
A whimper escaped Walther's throat. A real, desperate sound. "Daddy, please—"
"I'll fuck you after breakfast." Brock's thumb traced his bottom lip, pressed in just enough to part them. "But first, I want you to know what it feels like to wait. To kneel here, in my kitchen, wearing nothing but lace, knowing I'm gonna take you apart later."
Walther's breath came in short, hot gasps. His cunt was soaked, the lace of his panties clinging to him, the fabric dark and wet. He could feel himself leaking, feel the slickness running down his thigh.
"Yes, Daddy," he breathed. "I'll wait. I'll be good."
Brock's eyes softened, just a fraction. He leaned down, pressed a kiss to Walther's forehead—gentle, almost tender—and straightened.
"That's my perfect boy wife."
He walked out of the kitchen, leaving Walther kneeling on the cold linoleum, his thighs pressed together, his body aching, his heart so full it hurt. The coffee machine clicked off. The bulb hummed overhead. And Walther waited, his hands folded in his lap, his eyes fixed on the doorway where his daddy had disappeared.
The word echoed in his head, warm and sacred. Wife.
He pressed his thighs together tighter, and felt himself smile.
The minutes stretched. The linoleum grew hard under his knees, a dull ache spreading through his shins, but Walther didn't shift. Didn't fidget. He kept his hands folded, his spine straight, his gaze fixed on the empty doorway like a prayer. The sheer apron had fallen open, pooling around his hips, leaving his chest bare to the morning air. His nipples were hard, dark against his milky skin, and he could feel the ghost of Brock's eyes on him still, even though the doorframe held nothing but shadows.
From down the hall, sounds: a drawer opening, the clink of a belt buckle, the creak of the old wooden floorboards under Brock's weight. Walther's mouth watered. He imagined those rough hands buttoning a flannel, imagined the thick beard being combed, imagined the slow, deliberate way Brock moved through the world—like he had all the time in it, like nothing could rush him.
I'm his, Walther thought, and the certainty of it made his chest ache. His to look at. His to make wait. His to fuck after breakfast.
He heard the bathroom door open, the rush of water in the sink. Brock was washing his face, probably, or running a hand through his hair. Walther imagined the water beading on his daddy's chest, dripping through the hair there, and he had to press his thighs together hard to keep from moaning out loud.
More footsteps. Closer now. The floorboards in the hallway announcing Brock's approach with a familiar rhythm.
Walther's breath caught. He straightened his spine further, lifted his chin, let his hands rest open on his thighs. A offering. A display.
Brock appeared in the doorway. He'd pulled on a faded flannel, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the top buttons undone, showing the grey hair on his chest. His jeans sat low on his hips, belt unbuckled still, hanging loose. He was holding a second mug of coffee—fresh, steam rising—and he leaned against the doorframe, looking down at his boy with an expression that made Walther's stomach flip.
"Still there," Brock said. Not a question. An observation, warm with approval.
"Yes, Daddy." Walther's voice came out steady, even though his heart was hammering. "I said I'd wait."
"You did." Brock took a sip of his coffee, his eyes traveling slowly down Walther's body—from his face, to his chest, to the wet patch darkening the lace between his thighs. "You're shaking."
Walther hadn't noticed. He looked down at his hands, and yes, they were trembling, fine little shivers running through his fingers. "I'm not cold," he said quickly. "I just—I want you so much, Daddy. I can't help it."
Brock set the mug down on the counter. He crossed the kitchen in three slow strides, his boots heavy on the linoleum, and stopped directly in front of Walther. Close enough that Walther could smell him—coffee and sleep and the clean soap he'd used on his face. Close enough that if Walther leaned forward an inch, his forehead would press against Brock's thigh.
"Look at me."
Walther looked up. Brock's brown eyes were dark, hooded, the hunger in them banked but burning. He reached down, his rough fingers finding the bow at the center of Walther's lace panties, the one that sat just above his cunt. He tugged it gently, once, and the fabric pulled tight against Walther's wet skin.
"You're soaked," Brock said, his voice low. "Just from kneeling. Just from waiting."
Walther's breath stuttered. "Yes, Daddy."
"You like being told what to do."
"Yes, Daddy."
"You like being made to wait."
"Yes, Daddy."
Brock's thumb traced the edge of the lace, following the curve of Walther's hip, dipping into the soft hollow where thigh met pelvis. Walther's whole body jerked, a desperate little sound escaping his throat.
"Please," he whispered. "Daddy, please, I've been so good—"
"You have." Brock's hand slid lower, cupping him through the wet lace, his palm pressing against the heat of Walther's cunt. Walther's hips bucked into the touch, a helpless, animal motion. "You've been so fucking good, baby boy. And I'm gonna take care of you."
His fingers pressed harder, the lace grinding against Walther's clit, and Walther's vision went white at the edges. He grabbed Brock's forearm, his nails digging in, his mouth open in a silent gasp.
"But first," Brock said, his voice dropping to a rough whisper, "I want breakfast. And you're gonna make it. Just like this." He stepped back, his hand leaving Walther's body, leaving him empty and aching and trembling on the cold floor. "Get up, pretty boy. I want eggs."
Walther rose on unsteady legs, his thighs slick, his cunt throbbing, the lace of his panties clinging to him like a second skin. He turned toward the stove, his hands shaking as he reached for the skillet, and he felt Brock's eyes on him the whole time—watching, waiting, owning.