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Daddy's Boy Wife

by @walther

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3 chapters

~8 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 h

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 Wal

Parking Lot Eyes

Brock stands at the pump, one hand on the nozzle, the other resting on the small of my back, his thumb tracing the waistband of my shorts. Across the lot, two men in dusty caps have stopped mid-conver