Waiting for Daddy

Kelsi Monroe stays home from spring break and waits. She wears nothing but a tiny thong that disappears between her ass cheeks. She stands by the window, back to the door, hips tilted, one hand flat on the glass. When Christian Clay steps in, she doesn’t turn. She only bends lower, spreading her knees, letting him see the wet spot darkening the fabric. He walks over, runs both palms over the swell of her ass, squeezes, spreads, lets it drop. No words yet. He hooks the thong with two fingers and pulls it aside. Kelsi pushes back, greedy. He feeds his cock into her mouth first, slow, until her throat tightens and spit runs down his shaft. She gags once, swallows, takes him deeper. When he pulls out, strings of saliva stretch between her lips and his head. He spins her around, bends her over the arm of the couch. The first thrust is deep and steady. He holds her hips, thumbs digging into the meat of her ass, watching the way it ripples every time he bottoms out. She moans into the cushion. He pulls out, drags the head up and down her slit, then sinks back in harder. She reaches back, spreads herself for him. He fucks her in long, unhurried strokes, the wet sound of her cunt loud in the quiet room. When he’s close, he pulls out, strokes himself, and paints her face—thick ropes across her lips, her cheek, one across her lashes. She licks what she can reach, eyes half-lidded, breathing through her mouth.