Chapter 3: The Breeding of "Daddy's Little Obsession"
Tagline: He can't stop thinking about me.
Suffix: Obsession
I feel him before I see him. That’s how it always is. The air shifts, grows heavier, charged with the kind of quiet authority that makes my skin prickle and my pulse stutter. I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, knees drawn up, staring at the wall, but my body already knows. He’s here. He’s always here now. Even when he’s not in the room, he’s in my head, in my breath, in the slow, heavy drag of my own need. He can’t stop thinking about me, and God help me, I can’t stop letting him show me exactly how that looks.
The door clicks open. No knock. He doesn’t need to knock. He doesn’t need permission. He just takes what’s his.
He fills the doorway, broad shoulders blocking the hallway light, a silhouette of muscle and controlled tension. He’s wearing a dark shirt that clings to his chest, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms corded with veins that map out every ounce of his restraint. His hair is silver at the temples now, salt threading through the dark, and it only makes him more dangerous. Older. Wiser. Unshakable. He watches me with eyes that burn like he’s memorizing me all over again.
“You’ve been waiting,” he says. It’s not a question. His voice is low, rough around the edges, wrapped in that commanding cadence that leaves no room for argument.
I swallow. “Maybe.”
He steps inside. The door shuts behind him with a soft, final click. He doesn’t rush. He never does. He lets the silence stretch, lets it press against my skin, lets me feel the weight of his gaze tracing every line of my body. He knows I like it. He knows I melt under it. He’s been feeding on it for weeks, and lately, he’s stopped pretending he’s not starving.
“Come here,” he says.
I don’t need to be told twice. I slide off the bed, bare feet meeting the cool hardwood, and walk toward him. My heart hammers against my ribs. I stop just out of reach. He reaches out, calloused fingers brushing my cheek, tilting my face up to his. His thumb traces my lower lip, pressing down just enough to make me part them.
“You think about me,” he murmurs. “Every time you close your eyes. Every time you touch yourself. Every time you breathe.”
I nod, throat tight. “Yes.”
“Good.” His hand slides down my neck, over my collarbone, resting heavy on my breast. He squeezes, possessive, claiming. “Because I’m always thinking about you. About the way you arch when I push inside you. About the way you whine my name when I breed you. About the way your body opens for me like you were made to take me. To carry me.”
My breath hitches. The raw honesty of it, the sheer ownership in his voice, sends heat pooling low in my belly. I’m his. I’ve been his for a while now, but lately, he’s stopped hiding it. He wears his obsession like a second skin, and it’s intoxicating.
He unbuttons his shirt, lets it fall to the floor. I help him, fingers trembling as I undo each button, memorizing the topography of his chest. He’s older, yes, but age hasn’t softened him. It’s sharpened him. Every scar, every line, every hard plane of muscle speaks of experience, of control, of a man who knows exactly what he wants and doesn’t give a damn about waiting for it.
He turns me around, presses me against the dresser. His mouth finds my neck, teeth scraping skin before he sucks hard, marking me. I gasp, fingers gripping the wood. He loves when I make noise. He loves when I break. He loves when I submit.
“Daddy,” I whimper.
The word hangs in the air, and he groans. His hand tangles in my hair, tilts my head back. “Say it again.”
“Daddy,” I breathe.
He kisses my jaw, my ear, the shell of my neck. “You’re mine. Every inch. Every breath. Every drop of cum I spill inside you. You hear me?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
He slides his hand down my back, under the waistband of my sleep shorts, and pushes them down. He doesn’t bother with lube. He doesn’t need to. I’m already slick, already dripping for him, my body responding to his presence like a reflex. He lines himself up with me, the thick head of his cock pressing against my entrance, and I shiver.
He pushes in. Slow. Deliberate. Letting me feel every inch of him stretching me, filling me, claiming me. I cry out as he bottoms out, my back arching, my hands bracing against the dresser. He holds still, chest heaving, forehead resting against my shoulder.
“Fuck,” he rasps. “You feel so fucking perfect. So tight. So ready for me.”
I nod, tears pricking my eyes from the sheer fullness. “Yes.”
He pulls out almost all the way, then drives back in. Hard. The slap of skin echoes in the room. I gasp, nails digging into the wood. He sets a brutal pace, each thrust deep and possessive, his hips snapping forward with animalistic precision. He’s older, but he moves like a predator. Like a man who knows exactly how to break a woman open and fill her to the brim.
His hand finds my hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He’s marking me from the inside out. “You take it so well,” he growls. “Every time. Every fucking time. My little obsession. My perfect girl. Built to carry my seed.”
He leans in, biting my shoulder, hard enough to make me cry out. His thrusts grow rougher, deeper, punishing. He’s not trying to be gentle. He’s not trying to be sweet. He’s breeding me. He’s claiming me. He’s driving into me like he’s trying to plant himself directly in my womb.
I feel it when he comes. A hot, thick flood that spills deep inside me, marking me from within. He groans, body going rigid, hips still pumping through his climax. He holds me down, keeps me impaled on him, lets me feel every pulse, every drop.
“Mine,” he breathes against my neck. “You’re fucking mine.”
I nod, trembling. “Yours.”
He pulls out slowly. I whimper at the loss, but he doesn’t let me go far. He flips me onto my stomach, presses me down onto the bed. Before I can process it, he’s already undressing again, already positioning himself. He doesn’t give me time to catch my breath. He doesn’t need to. He knows I’m already wet again. Knows I’m already aching for him.
He pushes in from behind. The angle is deeper, harder. He grips my hips, fingers bruising, and sets a relentless rhythm. Each thrust drives the air from my lungs. Each snap of his hips sends shockwaves through my core. He’s not just fucking me. He’s planting himself. He’s breeding me like a prize mare, like a vessel meant for his line.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with lust. “Dripping for me. Taking every inch. You were made for this. Made to carry me. Made to be my obsession.”
I sob out a yes. I don’t even know if I’m speaking. I just know my body is his. I know my soul is his. I know I’ll never be full again until he fills me.
He comes again. Harder this time. He grips my hips like he’s anchoring me, hips pistoning as he empties himself inside me. I feel it. Deep. Thick. Claiming. He holds me through it, breathing ragged, body trembling with restraint and release.
He doesn’t pull out. He stays buried, letting me feel him soften inside me, letting me feel the weight of his possession. I reach back, fingers brushing his thigh. He grabs my hand, presses it against his chest.
“Don’t ever forget this,” he says. “Don’t ever forget who you belong to. Who’s been thinking about you since the moment I saw you. Who can’t sleep. Who can’t work. Who can’t look at another woman without feeling sick.”
I turn my head, pressing my cheek against the mattress. “I know.”
“Good.” He rolls me onto my back. I don’t resist. I never do. He looms over me, covering me with his body, caging me in. He kisses me, deep and slow, tasting himself on my lips. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide.
“We’re not done.”
I swallow. “Daddy—”
He cuts me off with a kiss, then shifts his weight, positioning himself between my thighs. He doesn’t rush. He never does. He strokes me until I’m trembling, until I’m begging, until I’m dripping onto the sheets. Then he pushes in.
This time is different. Slower. Deeper. More deliberate. He’s not just taking. He’s giving. He’s claiming. He’s breeding.
He groans as he bottoms out, head falling back, teeth bared. “Fuck. You’re so tight. So perfect. My little obsession. My fucking masterpiece.”
He moves. Slow at first. Teasing. Then deeper. Harder. Each thrust a promise. Each pull a claim. He’s older, but he has a stamina that defies logic. He moves like a man who knows how to pace himself, who knows how to stretch out pleasure until it breaks him. And he does break me. Again. And again.
I’m a mess. Tears on my cheeks. Sobs in my throat. My nails rake down his back. I’m his. I’m his. I’m his.
He leans in, biting my neck, my shoulder, my breast. “You’re going to carry my child,” he growls. “You’re going to stretch for me. You’re going to bleed for me. You’re going to love me for me. Because I’m not letting you go. Not ever.”
I nod frantically. “Yes. Yes. Please.”
He comes. Hard. Deep. He holds me down, hips locked, cock pulsing inside me as he empties himself. I feel it. All of it. Every drop. Every mark. Every claim. I cry out, back arching, body convulsing around him. He rides me through it, breathing ragged, voice a broken whisper.
“Mine. Mine. Mine.”
He stays inside me for a long time. Long enough for the tension to fade into something heavier. Something permanent. He finally pulls out, but only to drag me into his arms. He wraps me in his body, one arm locked around my waist, the other cradling my head. He presses kisses to my hair, my forehead, my temple.
“You think I don’t see you?” he murmurs. “You think I don’t watch you? You think I don’t lie awake replaying every sound you make? Every time you look at me? Every time you say my name?”
I shake my head against his chest. “No. I know.”
“Good.” He tightens his hold. “Because I’m not letting you go. Not ever. You’re my obsession. My fixation. My fucking addiction. And I’m going to breed you until you’re carrying me. Until you’re drowning in me. Until there’s no part of you that doesn’t belong to me.”
I reach up, fingers tangling in his hair. “I want that. I want all of it.”
He kisses me. Hard. Possessive. Final. “Then you’ll have it. Every day. Every night. Every time I come inside you. Every time I mark you. Every time I tell you you’re mine.”
He shifts, positioning himself again before I can even process what’s happening. I don’t stop him. I don’t want to. I arch against him, already wet, already aching, already his.
He pushes in. Deep. Relentless. I gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. He’s not gentle. He’s not trying to be. He’s breeding me. Again. Again. Again.
He groans, voice rough, commanding. “Take it. Take it all. You’re mine. You’re mine. You’re mine.”
I scream his name. I scream for him. I scream into the sheets, into the air, into the dark. He doesn’t let up. He drives into me like a man possessed. Like a man who’s been waiting his whole life for this. For me.
He comes. Hard. Deep. I feel it. I always feel it. Hot. Thick. Claiming. He holds me down, breathing ragged, body trembling.
“Mine,” he whispers. “Always mine.”
I nod, tears streaming, body wrecked, soul claimed. “Yes. Always.”
He pulls out slowly. I whimper, but he doesn’t let me go. He drags me against his chest, wraps me in his arms, holds me like I’m something precious. Like I’m something sacred. Like I’m the only thing that matters in his world.
He kisses my hair. “You can’t escape me,” he murmurs. “Not that you’d ever want to. You’re mine. And I’m never letting go.”
I close my eyes. I don’t want to escape. I never will. I’m his. I’ve been his. I’ll always be his. His obsession. His breeding. His.
He can’t stop thinking about me. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.