Work Text:
Your bedroom is warm with late spring air, honeyed light casting soft shadows through gauzy curtains. It smells like perfume and cherry lip balm and the faint scent of linen detergent. Somewhere down the hall, a record plays something low and slow — vinyl crackling beneath the hum of an old jazz tune. Your sky-blue sundress flutters against your thighs as you shift where you stand, shy under his gaze, the hem swaying like you’re caught in a dream.
Luigi leans against the doorframe, arms folded. A blue linen shirt hangs open below his collarbones, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. Beige shorts, bare legs, warm olive skin. His dark curls are tousled from the breeze outside and there’s the faintest dusting of stubble along his jaw — not sharp, just soft and shadowed, after two days without shaving. His eyes are heavy-lidded and attentive, the steady calm of a man who’s lived a little longer than you — your older boyfriend, quietly patient as always, watching over you like you’re his most precious secret.
You’re still a college student, new to this balance of independence and submission, but here in his presence you feel sheltered — both cherished and carefully guided. He speaks low.
“Take off your dress, baby. Put on the pink lingerie for me.”
You bite your lip, turning your back to him as you pull the sundress up over your head, slow on purpose. The straps slip from your shoulders like silk ribbon. You feel his gaze rake over the line of your spine, the curve of your waist, the smooth backs of your thighs. You’re bare for a moment, clad in only lace panties, the air cool against your skin — then you slip into the soft pink babydoll lingerie, sheer and sugary, the hem kissing the tops of your legs. The lace clings to the swell of your chest, the satin ribbon bow in the centre trembling with your breath.
“Beautiful girl. Come here,” he murmurs, climbing onto the bed. He’s propped against your pillows now, legs spread. “You can get me undressed later, baby. Homework first.”
You climb into his lap silently — arms winding around his neck, your face nuzzled into the crook of it, sweet and warm. He chuckles low in his throat, one hand anchoring at your waist, the other reaching for your textbook from the nightstand.
“Okay, I need you to focus for me now,” he says, flipping the book open. “You need to listen.”
But you’re already rocking — just barely, hips shifting with a thoughtless rhythm. You like the way his thighs feel under you, strong and still warm from the sun. You’re only half-listening as he starts to read, the low hum of his voice vibrating in his chest against yours.
And then — smack — his palm swats your ass, not hard, just enough to make you jolt with a little gasp.
“Sit still,” he says softly, without even looking at you. “Be a good girl.”
You try, you really do. But your body hums with restlessness. His fingers settle under the hem of the babydoll now, warm and firm against your skin — possessive. The problem on the page blurs slightly.
“Explain this one for me,” you murmur, chin on his shoulder.
“Mm.” He shifts the textbook a little. “You isolate the variable here — no, baby, look — here. Good girl.”
Your thighs clench. You’re not even sure what the equation was. He feeds you the explanation slowly, murmuring against your hair, and you start to drift again, your fingers playing with the curls at the nape of his neck, tugging lightly.
“Hey.” His voice turns even softer. “Shh. Come here.”
His hand smooths up your spine, then around, cupping your chest through the sheer fabric. He pulls the cups down, baring your breasts to the room’s golden light — and then he leans in, mouth hot and slow over one nipple, sucking softly. You squirm, whimpering just a little.
“I’ll make it better, baby,” he murmurs, tongue flicking, lips dragging. “You get so restless when we study. Just need me to suck on your pretty tits for a minute, huh?”
He shifts you slightly, adjusting your thighs on either side of him, then leans in again — slower this time, more deliberate. His mouth closes over your nipple, warm and wet, tongue circling in slow, teasing swirls before he sucks deep, pulling rhythmically. One hand stays firm on your waist, the other palms your breast fully, kneading it with just enough pressure to make your back arch.
“You feel that?” he murmurs between kisses, breath ghosting across your damp skin. “How soft you are in my hands? Fuck, baby. You get like this every time I touch you here.”
He switches sides, lips dragging across your sternum, licking lazily up the other breast before pulling that nipple between his lips too, suckling until you gasp. He groans low in his throat like he’s savouring you, mouth wet and open, his teeth grazing lightly — just enough to make your hips twitch.
“Work out the answer on the paper,” he murmurs against you. “You told me you wanted help, baby. I’m helping.”
You reach for the pencil again with trembling fingers. You don’t even know how you manage to form the numbers. His mouth is hot and wet and steady, the pull of it turning your limbs to syrup. You feel yourself sliding lower in his lap again, body greedy, breath stuttering. Another light smack to your ass, this one firmer.
“What did I say? Keep still for me.”
You whimper softly into the pillow beside him, breath catching as Luigi’s other hand trails down your thigh, anchoring you still. The fruit on the nightstand catches his eye. With a quiet hum, he pulls away to pick up a slice of peach. He holds it to your lips.
“Open,” he whispers.
You obey, and the sweetness floods your tongue. He feeds you slowly — peach, then a strawberry, then a grape — wiping your mouth with his thumb, smirking when you bite into the fruit.
“My girl,” he says softly. “So spoiled — so pretty in pink.”
You blush and reach again for his hair, tugging at a curl. “Don’t wanna do math anymore,” you murmur.
He tsks quietly, mouth moving back to your breast. “I know, baby. Just a few more. I’ll suck on you 'til you finish.”
You’re writhing in his lap by the time you finish the next problem. His body is a furnace under you. You press your cheek against his collarbone, breathing harder, the edges of you all frayed and molten.
“Daddy…” you whimper, lips brushing his throat. “I’m so hungry…”
Luigi lifts his head, raises an eyebrow. He pulls the fabric up over your breasts. “I just gave you all this fruit, baby.”
You pout, shifting again. He catches your hips in both hands this time, holding you still. His grip is firm, expression unreadable. And for a long, still moment, the only sound in the room is the soft thud of your heartbeat and the fluttering turn of the fan overhead.
“You want some more?” he asks at last, voice low. “Or are you just trying to get out of your homework?”
You blink up at him, doe-eyed, breathing unsteady against the curve of his throat. Luigi’s fingers tighten where they rest on your waist, still anchoring you in place.
“Ask,” he repeats, softer now. “Be polite to your daddy.”
You squirm on his lap, pink lace brushing the tops of your thighs, the hem of your babydoll caught beneath you. Your cheeks are flushed with heat, lips slightly sticky from the fruit, and the math workbook lies forgotten between you and the soft hush of linen sheets.
“Please, daddy,” you whisper, barely audible. “I want… um…”
He hums, pleased, and leans in to kiss along your jaw. You feel the tickle of his curls against your forehead, the warmth of his breath. “You want what, baby?” he coos. “Use your words properly.”
You swallow, heart hammering. His patience makes you ache more than any punishment. You shift your weight again, pressing your body tighter to his, your arms snaking around his shoulders, hands lacing together at the nape of his neck like a ribbon drawn tight.
“Want your cock,” you murmur, shyly. “In my mouth, please.”
He chuckles softly, one hand sliding up to cradle your jaw. “Mmm, not yet, baby.” His thumb brushes your lower lip. “But I’ll give you my mouth again. Let me kiss those pretty tits like you need. Is that okay?”
You whine. “Yes, daddy.”
“There she is.” He presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss just under your ear. “Now stay still for me. You’ve been moving too much. I don’t like that, baby.”
You nod, and he guides you gently back upright, settling the math workbook on your lap like a test of focus. The pencil finds your fingers again, trembling slightly. You want to behave. You want to be his good girl. And still, your body pulses where his thighs cradle yours, where his mouth left your breast damp and tingling, where his hands promise more.
He pulls something from his pocket then — glossy and red, unwrapped with a practiced flick of his fingers.
“Here,” he says, slipping the lollipop past your lips. “Cherry. Something to help you think. And you can stay quiet with this in your mouth, yeah?”
You blink, surprised, and obediently close your mouth around it. The sweetness hits your tongue with a slow burn, artificial and sticky, and your lips close around it as Luigi watches you suck gently, a low sound catching in his throat.
“That’s it, my pretty baby.”
He shifts again, just enough to bring your chest back within reach. He doesn’t ask this time, just slides the cups of the babydoll down your shoulders, exposing you again to the warm evening air. Your nipples are already hard from his earlier attention, peaked and pink in the filtered light, and he takes one back into his mouth without hesitation.
You moan softly around the lollipop, hips twitching as his mouth moves hot and slow against your skin. His tongue circles, then flicks — his stubble brushing lightly, sending shivers through you. His other hand braces at your hip, fingers curling to steady your wriggling form.
“Hold still,” he murmurs. “You can bounce when daddy tells you to. Not before.”
You nod again, glassy-eyed, trying to keep your pencil steady as he sucks on you harder. You feel his teeth graze lightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to make your thighs clench. Your body arches toward his mouth with every instinct.
“Focus,” he reminds you gently, releasing your breast with a soft pop and glancing at the open book. “What’s the next step in the problem?”
You squint down at the numbers, the lollipop in your mouth keeping you quiet. He watches you suck on it lazily, like you’re savouring every drop of sugar — and he knows exactly what that mouth can do. You feel the flush rise hotter in your cheeks as you point to the problem, your voice muffled but obedient.
“Divide both sides…”
“Good girl,” he says, and kisses your sternum. “Keep going.”
His praise melts through you like syrup. You write slowly, clumsily, your breath catching as he begins kissing a trail lower, the tip of his nose nuzzling the valley between your breasts. The textbook shifts, slipping sideways off your thighs, forgotten once more.
“You smell like strawberries and sun,” he murmurs. “Like warm sugar. You know what that does to me?”
You giggle around the lollipop. “Mhm.”
“Makes it difficult to keep my patience,” he says, but he’s smiling as he leans back and reaches for you — one arm slipping around your waist to pull you snug against him, the other running down your bare thigh and back up, smoothing over every inch of your skin.
Your chest presses to his, skin against fabric, and you shiver at the contrast — your bare breasts rubbing against the textured linen of his shirt, nipples catching slightly on the weave. The friction is maddening, delicate and raw, and you arch instinctively, needing more, needing closer.
“But I’d do anything for my baby girl when she’s resting on me like this. Let’s just finish one more problem, and I’ll give you what you want — okay, sweetheart?”
You nod, biting down gently on the candy stem. One more problem, one more line of numbers, and then you’ll earn the rest.
You shift in his lap, slow and wanton, the lollipop resting on your tongue as your hips roll over him in a rhythm that’s barely there, just enough to tease. He’s hard beneath you, obvious through the fabric of his pants, but he makes no move to rush — just holds you there, lets you grind while he teaches.
One hand stays firm on your waist, guiding the pace, while the other returns to your chest, bare and sensitive against the textured linen of his shirt. His fingers trace the underside of your breasts, featherlight. He palms you slowly, thumbs brushing over your nipples, back and forth in lazy circles, until they’re tight and aching, teased to tight peaks.
"Okay," he breathes, his voice a murmur of heat just beneath your ear. "We’re doing limits now. Look — watch how it behaves as x approaches infinity. You remember that from last time, yeah?"
You nod, barely — the lollipop shifts between your lips as you moan softly, the wet sound muffled by the candy.
“Good girl,” he says, and dips his head, kissing the swell of your breast. “So when we simplify the top and bottom, cancel out the x’s…”
His lips trail lower. He sucks gently at first, just around the edge of your nipple, dragging his tongue slowly across the sensitive skin. Then he takes it fully into his mouth, lips sealing hot and wet, sucking with languid pressure while his hand cups the other breast, kneading it, rolling the nipple between his fingers.
You moan around the lollipop, your hand shaking slightly as you lift the pencil.
“See?” he murmurs, pulling off your breast with a soft pop before switching to the other, licking slow and broad across the tip. “You cancel those terms, and you’re left with the coefficient. Three, in this case. That’s your horizontal asymptote.”
You tremble, grinding a little harder against him as he suckles again, deeper this time, tongue curling around you like he can’t get enough.
“Write it down for me,” he whispers, breath hot against your skin. “Come on, baby. You’re so smart when you focus. Just write ‘y equals three’ and I’ll give you my cock.”
You moan, helpless, hips rolling, the wet sound of your mouth on the candy mixing with the soft, rhythmic suck of his lips on your breast. Somehow, dizzy with heat and pressure and praise, you manage to scribble the answer across the page: y = 3.
He sees it, then lifts his head, eyes dark with something wicked and warm. “Told you,” he says, kissing the spot between your breasts. “Smartest girl I know.”
“Daddy,” you whisper, voice honeyed and pleading. “It’s almost ten… I want your cock.”
Your words are sugar-laced sin, whispered into the dark hush of your pretty bedroom. Your hips shift again, grinding down against the firm muscle of his thigh — slow and rhythmic, needy. The wet heat of your panties leaves a dark stain against the beige fabric of his shorts, and you gasp as the friction hits just right.
Luigi smiles — that low, patient smile. His hand curves protectively around the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair. The other holds your ass with easy strength, grounding you as your body moves on instinct.
“My needy baby,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth against your temple. “You always get this restless when it’s bedtime.”
You whine, high and helpless, and he chuckles softly as you rut against him like a spoiled thing. Your giggle tumbles out half-mad with want, lips parted as you nuzzle into his shoulder. You’re soaked through, the babydoll clinging to your sticky panties. Luigi adjusts you gently, settling you higher on his thigh so your clit hits perfectly — and you keen, clutching at his shirt.
Then he’s tugging the pink fabric up, slowly, reverently, tucking your breasts back into the lace cups.
“Nooo,” you whimper, squirming harder.
“Shh, I know,” he coos. “But look how pretty you are all tucked in for me.”
His hand slips beneath the babydoll again, palming your soaked panties. His thumb presses lightly at the centre, and you twitch in his lap. You feel him — rock hard under you now, heat and length thick and heavy beneath his shorts. His cock strains against the fabric, nudging up between your thighs as you grind down like you’re trying to fuse your body to his.
“You’ve made such a mess on daddy,” he murmurs, eyes dragging over the wet patch you’ve left on his shorts. “You’re leaking through, baby. Dripping everywhere.”
You bury your face against his neck, whimpering. He pets your hair softly now, fingers combing through the strands in long, gentle strokes. The contrast makes your chest ache.
“Shh. You’re okay. You just want daddy’s cock, yeah? I know. Just wait a minute for me. Be good.”
You bounce gently in his lap now, small rocking motions that press your core down onto his thigh, dragging your slick across the damp cotton. He groans low, hand tightening on your ass.
Then his palm cracks against you again, and you jolt with a soft yelp.
“Calm down, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice fond. “You’ve been like this all week. Grinding on me every night before bed, like it’s the only thing that soothes you.”
You nod into his neck, mouthing softly at his skin. “It is…”
He cups your jaw then, tilts your face up, eyes dark and gentle at once. “You want me to soothe you, baby?”
You nod again, lips glossy, eyes dazed.
“Then come here.”
He lifts you off his lap with ease, setting you gently between his outstretched legs on the edge of the bed. You sink to your knees on the rug automatically, spine arching prettily, head tilting to look up at him.
His thighs are spread, and he leans back on his elbows just slightly, watching you with heavy eyes. Slowly, he undoes his belt — each metal clink deliberate — and pushes his shorts down to reveal the outline of his cock, thick and long beneath the dark fabric of his boxers. The wet spot at the tip darkens the cotton.
You swallow.
Luigi pulls the waistband down and his cock springs free — flushed pink with need, the tip glistening. He’s thick and veined and beautiful, as always, and your breath catches with hunger.
He strokes himself once, slow from base to tip, precum leaking over his knuckles. Then — so casually it makes your heart race — he runs the thick head along your cheek, dragging it softly over your skin, smearing precum along your jaw.
“Pretty baby,” he murmurs. “Look at you, drooling for me already.”
You whine, leaning into the weight of him, mouth parting. He rests the head of his cock against your lips, gently tapping.
“Open,” he says.
You do, slowly, and he slips just the tip into your mouth. Your tongue curls under him instinctively. He brushes your hair back with one hand, the other cradling your cheek as you close your lips around him.
“That’s it,” he whispers, voice tight with restraint. “Daddy’s baby…”
You take him deeper, working slowly, letting your mouth stretch around the girth. His scent overwhelms you — clean skin, sweat, a warm musky sharpness from the curls at his base. His pubic hair is earthy and masculine, spiced like pine and clove soap clinging to his body from earlier in the shower. You moan low around him.
He strokes your cheek with his thumb, wiping a smudge of mascara as your eyes water slightly.
“You’re so good for me,” he breathes, rocking gently. “Taking this big cock so deep. You love making daddy feel good before bed, don’t you?”
You nod with your mouth full, hollowing your cheeks. Tears prick your lashes as you sink down further, your throat fluttering. His hand stays at your jaw, thumb rubbing soothing circles under your cheekbone, anchoring you in his touch.
“There you go,” he whispers, a strained groan escaping his throat. “Such a good girl.”
You’re choking softly around him now, throat fluttering, lips stretched wide. He’s deeper than before, guiding your rhythm with the firm curl of his hand at the back of your head, but never forcing — just gently coaxing, caressing, holding you steady.
“So pretty like this… drooling all over my cock, mouth full of me.”
His thumb strokes your cheek again as your eyes water and your lashes flutter. You can feel your own slick pooling in your panties, heart pounding wildly, the friction of the lace babydoll against your nipples keeping you teetering between need and surrender. The head of his cock presses to the back of your throat, and you gag softly — he moans low in response, his whole body tensing.
You blink up at him, mouth still full, eyes shining with tears. He groans, hand moving from your cheek to your throat, feeling the shape of himself inside you.
“Fuck… look at you. Taking it so well. My filthy, perfect baby.”
Your hands grip his thighs, nails digging slightly into his skin as you try to keep yourself grounded, try to breathe around him. He tilts his hips just a little and your nose presses into the dark curls at the base of his cock — the scent of him flooding you again. Warm, earthy, masculine. Your eyes flutter closed.
Then he gasps, hips twitching.
“Don’t move — just like that… Gonna give it to you, baby—”
You feel it spill before you taste it — hot, thick, pulsing against your tongue. It fills your mouth, overflows onto your chin, down your throat. He exhales shakily, cupping your face as you blink up at him, letting him finish, letting him use you until his hips still and he pulls out slowly.
The mess clings to your lips, smeared over your cheek and jaw, dripping down your neck.
But he’s not done.
Luigi leans forward, cock still heavy and half-hard, and drags the slick head across your cheekbone, your lips, painting you with the last drops. The touch is reverent, almost ceremonial — like he’s marking you with himself. His thumb smears it gently into your skin as you smile up at him, blissed-out and dazed.
“I wanna keep it,” you murmur, voice breathless. “I like how it feels.”
You’re sticky, glowing, undone — flushed and trembling in the candlelight — and he smiles, warm and knowing. But then he sees the way your expression flickers, just slightly. The lingering tension in your shoulders, the way you fidget when a drop slides too close to your collarbone.
He knows your body, knows the fine line between what you tell him when you’re horny and the reality of your sensory issues. “No, baby,” he says softly, brushing your hair from your face. “You can’t stay like this. I know how you get.”
You whimper, but he’s already reaching for you. He stands up, arms sliding beneath your thighs and back as he lifts you off the floor effortlessly. You melt into him, arms looped around his neck, face pressed into the open collar of his blue linen shirt. His cock, still warm and twitching, brushes against the curve of your ass as he walks, cradling you close.
“I’ll clean you up, princess. Just let me take care of you.”
You cling tighter, feeling his heartbeat through his shirt. The fabric smells like him — salt, soap, warm cotton. The bathroom lights are low, and he nudges the door open with his foot, kissing the crown of your head.
Then he shifts his hold slightly, bouncing you just enough to make you giggle. Your legs tighten around his waist.
“Shh,” he murmurs, grinning. “Settle. Daddy’s pretty baby needs a clean face.”
He leans down, still holding you, and grabs a warm cloth from the sink. You’re weightless in his arms, fingers mindlessly drifting up to play with his curls again. Your other hand is tugging at the first button of his shirt — slow, distracted, ever so horny.
“Stay still,” he warns, amused. “You can get me undressed in a minute.”
You pout but obey, letting him wipe your face. The cloth is warm and soft, and he takes his time — first the corners of your mouth, then your chin, then your cheeks. Gentle, practiced strokes.
“There she is,” he says quietly. “All clean and beautiful.”
You smile as he finishes, still curled against his chest in your sheer little babydoll.
When he carries you back into the bedroom, you cling to him tighter, squirming slightly — and he chuckles low in his throat, his cock already hardening again, nudging your thigh with a teasing insistence.
He lays you back on the bed and kneels beside you, brushing your hair from your face with both hands. “Pick out your favourite bows, baby.”
You blink up at him. “Yeah?”
“Mhm.” He smiles. “Want my girl to feel her prettiest.”
You blush, and reach for the small velvet-lined box on your vanity, fingers trembling slightly from the afterglow. You choose two — pale pink silk, with tiny gold stitching at the edges. He watches you with a softness.
You crawl back to him and kneel between his thighs.
“Can I undress you now?” you whisper.
“Yeah, baby. Take your time.”
Your hands slide to the waistband of his shorts first — already half-pushed down, cock flushed and hard again, resting against his abdomen. You slide them all the way off, palms dragging down his legs. Then, slowly, deliberately, you begin to unbutton his shirt.
Each one takes a moment. You press soft kisses to his collarbone, to the patch of olive skin revealed beneath each undone button. You mouth over his sternum as your hands explore the warmth of his torso. Slowly, you pull his shirt off of him completely.
“You look so beautiful in your babydoll,” he whispers. “You always do. This one’s my favourite.”
Your lips part against his skin, breath catching. He cups the back of your neck and leans in, brushing your nose with his.
“You want me before you go to bed?”
You nod, doe-eyed.
Luigi smiles, and pats his thighs, motioning you to straddle his lap again. You settle on him, breathing unsteady as the heat of his body presses up into the soaked centre of your panties. His cock is flushed and firm against you, the weight of it resting perfectly where you need it most. You giggle helplessly at the pressure — at the raw, aching throb between your thighs, at the way his hands slide automatically to your hips.
Luigi tilts his head as he watches your face. You shift your hips forward — slow and sweet — grinding your slick folds over the length of him through your panties, and whimper at the contact. His pubic hair tickles your skin in the most delicious way, coarse and warm and masculine beneath the soft silk of your babydoll.
“You’re so big,” you whisper, still rocking. “I could come just like this.”
“I know,” he murmurs, thumbs stroking lazy circles into your thighs. “You’re always so sensitive on daddy’s lap, huh? All needy and whiny.”
You nod, lashes fluttering. Your breath hitches as he hooks one finger under the band of your panties and pulls them aside — just enough for the cool air to kiss the heat of your soaked centre. He hums in approval, eyes dark.
“Messy already. I thought so.”
You melt into him.
Then he shifts slightly, dragging the head of his cock through your folds — not entering, just pressing, guiding, letting you feel it, letting you react. You moan, breath shuddering, and instinctively lean closer, hands gripping his shoulders as you bury your face in his neck.
“You ready for me, baby?” he whispers into your hair. “It’s always such a stretch, hm? That perfect body has to work so hard to take daddy’s cock.”
You nod again, voice too soft to answer.
He kisses your temple, then reaches toward the nightstand, and pulls one of the pink silk bows from where you left them. “We’ll take our time like always. So slow, princess.”
You feel his fingers slide into your hair gently, expertly — parting and tying, arranging the strands with care as you hold yourself still in his lap. The silk slides over your scalp as he smooths it into place, his other hand never leaving your waist.
“You look beautiful in your bows, baby. So pretty for me.”
You whine softly, burying your face in his collar again as he finishes the second bow, tying it slowly into the other side of your hair. Your thighs are trembling now — the anticipation of being filled, the soft drag of Luigi’s cock teasing you open, the hum of his voice making your whole body ache.
Finally, he lifts your hips, guiding you with both hands. “Take it slow. Daddy’s got you.”
You feel the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and you breathe in sharp and shaky, clinging to him. He kisses your jaw, your cheek, your temple — all while gently lowering you down, inch by inch, the stretch almost too much, just like always. It burns in the sweetest way, and you gasp.
“I know, baby, I know… that’s it, let me in,” he murmurs. “Taking me so well. Just like that.”
Your thighs shake as you sink lower, the head slipping past, then another inch, then another — your body straining around him. He keeps talking, keeps cooing, voice like velvet.
“Mmm, that’s my girl. Look at how full you are already. Gonna make room for all of it, huh? You always do.”
You nod, dazed, body fully moulded to his. His cock throbs inside you, thick and hot, and you can feel every heartbeat between your legs. You’re stretched tight, and you haven’t even taken him all yet.
“Almost there,” he says, and you cry out — the fullness overwhelming. “Shh… breathe for me. Pretty little thing, you’re doing so well.”
When he’s finally seated deep inside you, your knees go weak. You collapse against his chest, breath hot and ragged. He wraps his arms around your waist and holds you there — skin to skin, his heartbeat thudding strong under your ear.
And then you start to move. Slow, instinctive rolls of your hips. A tiny bounce, testing. His hands don’t stop moving — one glides down your back to your ass, the other slides up, cupping your breast through your babydoll and squeezing gently.
You giggle, the sensation making your whole body tremble. “Daddy,” you moan, helplessly. “It’s so much.”
“I know it is, baby,” he murmurs. “But you can take it. Look at you. Bouncing on my cock already.”
You start to ride him properly now — up and down, a rhythm too eager to maintain. His cock stretches you with every thrust, brushing deep inside with dizzying pressure. You squeal, breath catching on each descent, your babydoll bouncing with you, bows fluttering in your hair.
You almost lose your balance — the pleasure tipping you too far forward — and he catches you easily, linking his fingers with yours.
“Hold my hand, baby. That’s it. Let daddy help.”
You squeeze it, eyes shining, cheeks flushed. Your moans are getting louder, mixing with the slap of skin and the rustle of fabric. The scent of him surrounds you — sweat, clean linen, something smoky and warm from his cologne. Your thighs are soaked.
His hands slide to your hips, guiding your pace. “Fuck, look at you,” he breathes. “My baby girl’s body working so hard to get off on me. You’re soaked, sweetheart. I can feel you dripping down my cock.”
You can feel everything — the heat, the pressure, the friction. The brush of his pubic hair on your clit, the way his balls bounce against your thighs when you drop too fast. You’re breathless, body coiled tight, whimpering his name between every giggle and gasp.
He leans up to kiss you — full and wet and deep — his tongue sweeping into your mouth. You’re a mess of moans and lipstick and sweat and bows, still riding him, still chasing that high like it’s the only thing you need in the world.
Your babydoll is slipping from your shoulders now, thin straps tugged down by his fingers with that same reverent touch he always uses with you — as though you’re something soft and breakable, something to be handled with care. Your breasts spill free, nipples flushed and pebbled from the cool air and the heat of his body so close to yours. He bends forward, lips brushing against your skin as his breath fans over you, and then he’s suckling gently, slowly, tugging at you with his mouth in a rhythm that matches the lazy rock of your hips.
Your bows flutter in your hair, loose from all the movement, strands sticking to your dewy temples. Your makeup has smudged — mascara shadowed beneath your lashes, lipgloss long gone — but you look radiant, undone, a picture of devotion and desire. You smell like vanilla and summer skin, something faintly sweet from your perfume and something even sweeter from between your thighs.
“‘M tired, daddy…” you murmur, lips brushing his temple as your head droops toward his shoulder. Your hips keep working, just barely now, a tired little grind that makes your thighs tremble. “My legs…”
“I know, baby,” he coos against your hairline, voice husky and low. His arms close around you, anchoring you to his chest. “You’ve had a long day. Worked so hard for daddy, didn’t you?”
You nod, eyes fluttering. Your head nestles into the crook of his neck, where his scent is strongest — warm skin, a hint of sweat, cedar, the faint spice of cologne clinging to the collar of his linen shirt. You’re melting into him now, every part of you soft and pliant. Your legs ache. Your hands slide to the back of his neck, fingers winding into his curls as you rest completely against him.
“Shh, I’ve got you,” he murmurs, kissing your hair. He pulls your body tighter against him, cradling you in his strength as he shifts. He plants his feet on the mattress, bends his knees, and thrusts up into you in one smooth, powerful motion. You cry out, startled, the sudden stretch making your whole body jolt.
“Fuck, daddy—”
“Shh, I know,” he says, kissing your shoulder, voice low and steady. “Let me take care of you.”
He rocks up into you again, rougher this time, cock driving so deep you can feel the blunt head against the back of your walls. Your fingers tighten in his curls. His hands have slipped beneath the babydoll again, gripping the swell of your ass, pulling you down onto him as he pounds up into you. You gasp, your breasts pressing into his chest, nipples rubbing against his bare skin with every thrust.
Your whimpers fill the room, quiet and broken. He’s relentless — but commanding, steady, overpowering. His thumb finds your clit beneath the fabric and circles slowly, deliberately, just enough to make your eyes roll back.
“You’re doing so good, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice dark and sweet. “So beautiful, bouncing on my cock like this.”
You can only moan in response, overwhelmed, overstimulated, needy and soft. He tilts your face up gently with his hand, thumb brushing your cheek, catching a smear of mascara. You blink at him through the haze.
“Open for me,” he says softly, thumb brushing your lips.
You part them, and he presses the pad of his thumb into your mouth. You suck instinctively, clinging to it for comfort as your body tenses and rolls with pleasure, giggling softly through the haze. Your lashes are heavy with tears, cheeks flushed with exertion, lips smudged.
“That’s my girl,” he breathes. “You wanna shower with daddy after this?”
You nod around his thumb, lips soft and pouty. “Yes, daddy…”
You’re barely bouncing now — you don’t have to. He’s doing everything, using the strength in his thighs to thrust up hard and fast. You’re pressed down against his chest, folded into him, nothing left but the rhythm of his body and the sound of your breathy whines.
Your lips graze the warmth of his skin as each thrust rocks you in his arms. Your muscles are taut and aching around his hips, your babydoll bunched up around your waist. Every inch of your skin tingles with sensation. Luigi’s arms are wrapped tightly around you — one hand cupping the back of your head, fingers threaded into your soft hair, the other gripping your ass, fingertips kneading into your skin beneath the sheer hem of pink lace.
He doesn’t slow — just pounds into you with protective intensity, hips slapping against yours, your slick arousal soaking the hair at his base, glistening between you. Your nipples drag against his chest with each bounce, hard and aching, the babydoll sheer and useless now, clinging damply to your back.
“There’s my sweet girl,” he murmurs against your temple, voice like honeyed velvet. “Taking daddy so well. So soft and pretty in your little bows… this sweet, tight body made for me, huh?”
You mewl, rocking helplessly with each thrust. “Mhm…”
He shushes you gently, kisses your hair. He’s close, and you can feel it in the way his rhythm stutters, the way his grip tightens, the way his breath comes faster against your cheek. Your body responds in kind, clenching down around him, desperate and wet, pleasure building in slow, overwhelming waves.
“I’m gonna come—” you gasp.
“That’s it,” he groans softly, possessive, reverent. “Let go, baby. Come on my cock. Let me feel you.”
You sob against his neck, your body breaking apart as your orgasm crashes over you, limbs trembling, mouth open in a silent cry. And he follows you seconds later, grinding deep inside, groaning low and long in your ear as he spills into you, heat pooling deep in your belly.
You collapse against him, still panting, body slack in his arms. He holds you close, one hand stroking your back, the other brushing damp hair from your forehead. The room is quiet but for your shared breathing, hearts beating in sync, skin clinging together in the soft post-climax glow.
“Daddy…” you murmur with a sleepy pout, eyes fluttering open. “You came inside… I wanted it in my mouth again.”
He kisses your forehead. “I know, baby. But I needed to come in my girl tonight. Needed to get you full.”
You hum, sleepy and satisfied, arms still draped around his neck. Your lashes flutter against his throat, lips brushing his skin as you mumble. “M’gonna leak everywhere.”
He chuckles, tucking your hair behind your ear. “You’ve been leaking on me all night, beautiful.”
You both lie there with the hum of the fan above, stirring the air scented with sweat, perfume, and sex. Your body feels boneless, dazed, skin still tingling with the aftershocks of being claimed. Luigi’s arms are solid around you.
“Come on,” he says after a few minutes, easing you gently from his lap. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
You whimper faintly at the stretch as he slips out of you, knees wobbling when you try to stand, and he steadies you instantly with both hands.
“Easy, baby,” he coos, helping you to your feet. “You did so good. Look at you, all fucked out and pretty.”
You blink up at him, lips parted. “Can I… taste you again?” you ask sweetly, voice a little raw. “In the shower?”
His eyes darken. “Ask politely, and you can.”
Your cheeks flush. “Please, daddy?”
He groans softly, cupping your jaw in one broad hand. “That’s my good girl.”
Then he scoops you up bridal-style, carrying you through the golden dusk of the apartment, your pink babydoll hiked up around your hips, his release already starting to slip down your thighs.
“I’ll wash your hair too,” he murmurs against your temple as the bathroom light flickers on. “Get those pretty bows out, soap you up nice and slow while you take my cock in your mouth.”
You smile, eyes dreamy as he switches on the water. “I love when you take care of me,” you whisper.
He kisses the words right off your lips, slides off your babydoll with your panties, and carries you into the shower.
There, beneath the hot water and his patient hands, you let yourself dissolve.
All softness. All his.