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When Daddy asked him to play a game, this wasn’t what Stiles had in mind. He thought that meant ropes and restraints, maybe experimenting with clamps or a new toy. He didn’t think it would mean being dressed in floral lace and a silky skirt, had no clue it would involve . . . this. 

But Daddy hasn’t steered him wrong yet, so he plays along. And when he slides the lace bralette on, his dick perks up, which he also didn’t expect, but definitely isn’t complaining about. He goes fully hard when Peter bends him over the dining room table, and flips the skirt up to bare his behind. “That’s my good girl,” Daddy murmurs, and that’s. Um.

He wants to protest, except he’s opening and closing his mouth and no words are coming out. Also, his cock is throbbing.

“Can’t wait to eat you out.”

And that, that lets him pipe up, because they’ve talked about this and Stiles has always been hesitant to talk about it, let alone try. “Daddy, wait, I—”

But Daddy does not wait, cupping his cheeks and pulling them apart before breathing hotly into the crease. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. You just have to be a good girl and come for Daddy. You can do that, can’t you, baby?”

Maybe—probably—but just—

But Daddy just starts licking at him, soft laps over puckered flesh, and Stiles squirms. There’s nowhere to go, bent over with Daddy’s hands holding him in place, his cock trapped between his body and the table, rubbing against the silky fabric of his skirt.

The next pass of tongue makes a drop of pre-come ooze out and smear against the skirt. Daddy pulls away with a hum. “Yes, that’s what I thought. It’s okay, baby, you’re allowed to enjoy it. That’s the whole point.” Daddy licks again, the tip of his tongue pressing insistently at Stiles’s rim. “You going to be a good girl and let me get my tongue inside your little cunt?”

He jerks, whining, so turned on he can’t think straight. Nothing about this is fair.

Daddy doesn’t wait for an answer, sucking and licking, getting closer and closer to pushing his tongue right through the loosened ring of muscle that’s gone soft under the attention about five times faster than Stiles thought it would. It’s always been anxiety-inducing, every time they’ve talked about it, and he knows that if he safewords, Peter will stop, but now that he’s actually got a tongue in his ass, he can’t do anything but make increasingly desperate noises as he ruins the skirt with all the pre-come he’s leaking.  

He holds out as long as he can before it gets to be too much. “Daddy, need to come.”

Daddy’s tongue stops, but he rubs his stubbled cheek against the crease where butt meets thigh. “So come, baby.”

Stiles gasps wetly, trembling with the urge to wrap a hand around his cock, to rut against the silky fabric and streak it with come. He doesn’t have permission. “Can’t, not like this.”

Daddy chuckles. “Of course you can.” He squirms his tongue inside, and Stiles makes a noise only dogs and werewolves can hear. “And you’re going to.”

Daddy has that no-nonsense tone, the one that’s as scary as it is hot, because it means what I say goes. And, sure enough, when he presses a thumb against the skin behind his baby’s balls, pushing up as he flutters his tongue against Stiles’s rim, that’s exactly what happens.