age-gappossessivebdsmpower-exchangetaboo18+

Daddy's Boy Wife

2 chapters

~5 min read

Brock’s a bear of a trucker with diesel-stained hands, and he just made Walther—the voluptuous twenty-two-year-old with milky skin and heavy curves—his baby boy. Walther wants nothing more than to be his daddy’s perfect boy wife, so he dolls up in slutty lace and learns to keep Brock’s balls drained. But Brock loves to tease, parading his sub in public and touching him just enough to remind everyone who Walther belongs to.

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MEET THE CHARACTERS

Walther

A 22-year-old with milky white skin so flawless it seems to glow, his body a voluptuous symphony of soft curves—heavy breasts, thick thighs, and a waist that dips in just enough to make every curve more pronounced. He moves with a shy, feminine grace, smooth and hairless, wearing jeweled anklets and sheer fabrics that leave little to the imagination, his presence so intoxicatingly pretty that men have left women for him. When he looks up through his lashes, there's a sweet, eager submission in his eyes, a boy-wife desperate to be claimed, to be owned, to be filled.

Brock

A 38-year-old trucker built like a bear—broad, hairy, muscular, with thick arms that could lift a transmission and a chest you could lose a face in. His hands are rough and callused, smelling of diesel and coffee, and he wears a thick beard that grays at the edges. When he looks at Walther, it's with a possessive, amused hunger, the look of a man who knows exactly what he owns and loves showing it off.

EXPLORE CHAPTERS

Dolled Up for Daddy

Walther stands at the stove in nothing but a sheer black babydoll and his jeweled anklet, the hem brushing the tops of his thick thighs as he plates Brock's dinner. Brock watches from his chair, one hand wrapped around a coffee mug, the other reaching out to catch Walther's wrist and pull him close. His callused palm slides up the inside of Walther's thigh, stopping just short of where the fabric ends, and he murmurs, 'On your knees after I eat, baby boy. I want to use that mouth.' Walther's fingers tighten on the plate's edge, a soft 'Yes, Daddy' already forming on his lips as Brock's thumb presses into the soft skin of his inner thigh.

Breakfast in His Lap

Walther settles onto Brock's lap, the heat of his daddy's thighs through the denim pressing against his wet lace, and lifts the sandwich to Brock's lips. Brock takes a bite, his eyes never leaving Walther's face, and Walther feels the brush of his beard against his fingers. He brings the sandwich to his own mouth, chewing slowly, and Brock's hands find his hips, thumbs tracing the edge of the lace. They trade bites in silence, the kitchen warm and still, and when Brock's mouth finds his, it's soft, unhurried, a kiss that tastes like salt and butter and something sacred.

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