paris owyang

“Dad? What are you doing here?” She called to him as she descended the stairs, her haste lost in the confusion.

I left her there, naked and bleeding, and the next time I saw her, she was at the base of the west tower, having jumped to her death. Galvin told me not to concern myself with her, that she was simply a broken toy, and that I would find another. But I knew different. She wasn’t a broken toy, and though she made her choice, it wasn’t suicide; it was murder. I killed her. I hurt her, I violated her, and made her life so painful that I might as well have pushed her off that tower myself. I knew it, but I didn’t want to accept it.

She swallowed in preparation and stuck her tongue out and touched it against his sack. Much like the coffee she had this morning, the taste was as strong as the smell, though she would drink this flavour every morning if she could. Salty, smoky, and musky like her dad. She poked her tongue out again and gave it a slightly longer lick on the left nut, and then a longer one on the right. It didn’t take long until she was fondling her father’s balls with her whole tongue. Bathing them in her saliva. Lifting one ball up and down with tongue, she caressed underneath and pulled it closer to her mouth. With how hot her breath and drool were, the skin had softened even more, and she was able to bring one of his balls into her mouth. Her lips clamped down around it, not willing to let it escape. Her tongue swirled around her captive, and she sucked on his nut like a lollipop.