Any remaining self-control I may have has gone.
"Baby girl," I say. Kitchen. "Right now," I snarl.
She rushes from the couch, as if stung, and I follow her into the gloomy kitchen, close on her heels. Only a sliver of light enters from the living room.
Arlene looks at me, anxiously shuffling from foot to foot. She volunteered to level the score, but she's so inexperienced that she doesn't know how, which makes my job much more difficult.
I urge calmly, "Undo my pants." She does, although with trembling fingers. "Get my c**k out. "Baby daughter, take Daddy's c**k in your hands." I purposefully use obscene language—I adore the way her breath catches and she meets my gaze with eyes full of astonishment and want. But she follows my instructions. When she sees how huge I am, her eyes dilate
