Crickets Release - Part One

Scene 1: The Arrival

The last candle flickers to life as my playlist hums low on the speaker, casting golden shadows across the freshly cleaned room. I’m shirtless, wearing only a loose pair of shorts, nothing underneath. The air feels still, calm. It's been grounding to clear the space—physically and mentally. For once, I’m not chasing anything. I’ve dropped back into myself. Present. Steady. Powerful.

The final glass is drying in my hand when I hear a knock at the door.

Late. Unexpected. But I smirk, already guessing who it might be. A flicker of anticipation coils in my stomach and I feel myself stir—my cock twitching at the thought.

I open the door.

There you are.

Kneeling. Jacket buttoned to the throat. A flash of red hair catching moonlight. The collar nestled against your throat, glinting like a secret shared only between us. Your eyes look up at me, wide and bright and dangerous. No words. We’ve never needed them in this space. That silent connection is louder than anything else.

My breath stills. You’re already there—submerged, surrendered. That headspace of hers, where everything else falls away and you become mine. My little Cricket. My willing, needy, obedient brat.

Without hesitation, I reach into my shorts and pull my cock free—already thickening, already responding to your presence. I know you’re aware of the risk. The neighbours might be just behind the fence. But I also know what that danger does to you. That line between exposure and protection, between humiliation and devotion. It makes your clit throb, makes your whole body ache to serve.

In these moments, you’re not just playing. You’re offering. Yourself. Your need. Your surrender. And I honour that in the way only I can.

You don’t flinch. Your hands slide behind your back, wrapping around your heels. Shoulders pull back. Chest lifts. Lips part.

Your mouth opens for me.

“Good girl,” I think to myself as I step forward.

I slide my cock between your lips. Slowly. Deliberately. The heat of your mouth wraps around me like a velvet oath, your tongue instinctively teasing along the underside. You takes me deeper, inch by inch, until my balls rest softly against your chin.

I watch you fight the urge to gag, swallowing steadily, trying to hold your composure even as spit pools around your lips. It’s a losing battle—and the sight of you struggling only makes me harder.

(Daddy thinks his little princess is most beautiful when her face is a slimy mess of spit, pussy juice, and cum.)

You choke. Gag. Start to pull back—but I grip the back of your head, firmly. My cock plunges back down your throat, and you gurgle around me, sputtering, your eyes welling as I force you to take more than you thought you could handle.

I feel you slipping into the internal battle—sub space warring with brat space. Your body trembles, Your mind trying to wrestle control: Should I give in now? Should I fight? Should I touch myself?

But I know you. I know you won’t give in just yet. You want to earn that orgasm. You want the war inside you to be witnessed. And I’ll give you that gift.

You’re holding on by a thread, locked in eye contact, knees steady, throat spasming with every thrust.

Proud of my little slut, I pull you off my cock by your throat. You gasp, eyes wide, drool painting your chin. In a fluid motion, I lift you—feet off the ground. You wraps your legs around my waist as I crash my mouth into yours. Our kiss is raw and hungry. Your spit, my pre-cum—our mess—drenching my beard.

You’re already gone. Already deep. You melt into the kiss, already shaking, already slipping into that intoxicating space of yes, please, take me.

I carry you inside.

Scene 2: The Unwrapping

I carry you into the house, your thighs clamped tight around my waist, your breath shaky against my neck. You don’t speak. You know better. You know the silence is part of the ritual. Part of the control. Every second that passes without permission sharpens your arousal, stokes the heat pooling between your legs.

Your jacket is still on. Still containing what you’ve hidden underneath.

I place you down gently, but firmly, in the centre of the room. “Eyes closed,” I say.

You obey instantly.

I slide the hood over your head. Blackout. You tremble, thighs rubbing together involuntarily — my little cricket trying to sneak an orgasm before I've even begun. You’re not subtle, but you’re not meant to be. That’s part of what I adore about you. That primal honesty in your body. That transparency of need.

With a single motion, I tear open your jacket — and stop to admire.

Fuck.

You’re in my favourite stockings, clipped neatly to your garter belt. Lingerie that looks like it was designed for you alone. Black. Sheer. Deliciously indecent. The kind of ensemble that makes me want to devour you slowly… but tonight, you’ve already handed yourself to me.

I scoop you up again — not for drama, but because you need to feel carried.

Owned.

Cradled and claimed.

I lay you down on the bed, your body soft and ready beneath mine. I press a single kiss to your lips, then let my hands begin to roam — not touching where you want, of course. Not yet. Just tracing. Teasing. Grazing the edges of your desperation.

You lift your hips toward my hands. Arch your chest toward my mouth. But I keep denying you, letting the tension bloom into something maddening.

Then—your voice breaks through the quiet.

“Please…” you whisper. The first word since the knock. “Please, Daddy. I need your touch. Please, you haven’t even seen how good I’ve been. I’ve been so good for you. Please…”

I pause.

Something in that last sentence flicks a switch.

I trail my hand down your torso. Lower. Teasing your mound through the lace, I feel it. Firm. Present. A perfect gift tucked inside your body — a jewelled plug.

“Good girl,” I murmur, kissing you again as I rub against it gently. Your hips buck at the contact, desperate for more.

“Does my little slut need to cum?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“Please, Daddy, please,” you beg, voice cracking with urgency.

I slide your panties to the side. The pink jewel glints at me, proud and obscene, nestled perfectly between your cheeks. I take a mental photograph — I’ll be teasing you about this for the next few days. But you’ve earned your reward tonight. Earned it the moment you knelt at the door with that collar and this plug inside you.

I bury my face between your thighs.

Your flavour hits me immediately — slick, messy, soaked with need. My tongue presses into your folds, hands gripping your thighs and breasts, your bra still holding those perfect mounds in place. You cry out the second my tongue touches your clit.

“Oh fuck yes! Thank you, Daddy!”

I suck your clit into my mouth and plunge two fingers into you — firm, intentional, no teasing now. I wanted to draw this out, but your obedience deserves acknowledgment. I curl my fingers, working that spot only I can find. You try to squeeze your legs around my head — but I’m already prepared. My free hand keeps you spread wide as I devour you.

Your body starts to twitch. Your voice cracks.

“FUUUUUUCK, Daddy I’m cumming! I’m—”

You don’t finish the sentence.

You explode. You gush. Your body convulses as you squirt on my face, soaking my beard, your thighs, and the sheets beneath you. And then I fold you back, push your knees toward your chest, and switch fingers, pumping harder, deeper, drawing out everything you’ve been holding back. The sound of your pussy squelching is obscene — music to my ears.

I lower my mouth again, drinking in your release.

You’re still panting when I fasten the restraints — wrists, ankles, tight to the harness above you.

And just before you’ve managed to catch breath—

“Good girl,” I whisper. “Now your training begins.”