[SKETCH ILLUSTRATION FOR THIS STORY](https://www.moltengoldart.com/img/Sketch/YesSir.png)
Ila and Idris are a romantic father/daughter pair with a very large age gap; Idris has gigantism and Ila has albinism. If you’d like to read more stories involving them, or see more art of them, consider taking a peek at at my subreddit, r/moltengolderotica! Or, visiting my website, [www.moltengoldart.com](https://www.moltengoldart.com/)! Thank you very much for reading, I hope you like it! :)
~
The ropes creaked as he pulled them taut around her wrists. She clenched and unclenched her hands as he tied them off, then let out a soft sigh. This was not the first time Ila and Idris had played with rope—but it had been the first time since that fateful night her father demonstrated his skills in shibari for a crowd with her as his model.
“Good, Ila?” He asked, his deep voice a gravel roll on the back of his tongue. They’d been home for weeks already—she didn’t remember why the itch for the rope had come back so strong, and supposed that it didn’t matter now.
“Yes, Sir,” Ila said. She was on her knees on her father’s bed, her body bowed forward. Her arms were tied behind her back with a criss-cross pattern of braided hemp rope. He’d just finished with her wrists, and was checking over the rest of her bonds.
She shuffled her weight on the bed beneath his hands. She loved the feel of rope on her skin, the way it creaked when she moved. How it seemed so simple, and yet so much could be done with it. More than the ropes for their own sake though, she loved the man who wielded them with so much confidence and care.
She felt his weight dip the mattress beside and behind her, his large hand settling on her side. Ila imagined the contrast there; his dark, gnarled fingers on top of her pale, smooth skin.
He leaned over her, his breath hot on the nape of her neck, his wiry silver and black beard dragging over her shoulder. He’d taken the time to help her tame her mane of white curls into twists for this scene in specific, and she shivered as he pulled her hair to the side and kissed her.
“Will you be good for me, *bintii*?” Idris murmured, stroking his hand down her side. His long fingers caught and tugged absently at a couple of the ropes around her torso.
Ila bit her lip, teeth clicking on her labret piercing. “Yes, Idris…”
His hand slid lower, and he rubbed at her bare ass as he kissed at the nape of her neck again. “Comfortable?”
She nodded, and he hummed against her skin. He switched to Arabic as he said, “*Move forward and sit up, my heart.*”
She did as he asked, and as she widened her legs to balance and arched her back, her father settled in behind her and pulled her back to press her shoulders against his nude torso. His silver hair scratched at her skin, and she shivered beneath the scorching heat of his palms on her chest and waist.
Her white lashes fluttered shut and her mouth fell open as one of his hands wrapped the pale column of her throat. His thumb brushed against her cheek, and a a soft moan left her as he pinched one of her pierced nipples with his free hand.
“*Do I make you come, good girl?*” He asked in a throaty, melodic whisper. Ila nodded as much as she could against his hand up under her jaw—then whined aloud as he gave her nipple a sharp tug.
He grinned above her, wrinkling the lines flanking his muzzle and his branching crow’s feet. He laughed, low and soft, and did it again and again, eliciting sharp little gasps from his daughter. He hummed, waiting for her reply, but barely gave her the room to do so.
Finally, he stopped enough for her to moan and say, “Y-yes please, Sir.”
Once bereft of stimulation that bordered on too much, Ila sighed and her skin shivered under his hands. As she flexed her arms in her restraints, she laughed, and he tilted her head back and bowed his body forward to press his lips against hers in a kiss. It was soft but demanding, and it threw the contrast of the rough braid of the rope restraining her into cacophonous, stark relief.
His fingers that had been tugging at her nipples slid lower and stopped above the thatch of white curls on her groin—just as he bit back a low groan of his own against her mouth. He broke the kiss to rock his hips against her tied hands; she’d found his cock straining inside of his jeans, and pet her fingers over the length of it. She gently gripped his shaft through the denim and let him twitch against her palm, biting her lip at the feel of her old man’s prick.
“Will you fuck me?” Ila asked, her voice low and husky, just as his touch brushed finally over her sensitive clit. She sucked in a sharp breath, and he laughed again, rearing back up to his full height on his knees.
He clicked his tongue at her, one large hand still wrapped snugly—possessively—around her throat. “*My life, by the time I am finished making you come you will have no choice. You will submit to my cock, and I will fuck you until I am satisfied.*”
She tilted her head back until it pressed against his bare, sinewy chest and bit her lip. She rocked her hips up against the gentle motions of his fingers and felt his dick twitch again in her hands.
“Thank you, dad…”
~
Idris rolled her onto her back soon after, knelt in front of her on the floor, and pulled her hips up to his seeking mouth. She was already wet from the experience of his binding of her, and so the first few strokes of his tongue on her clit made her buck up and whimper.
He huffed, his nostrils flaring as he took in her scent. His long, knobby fingers dug into the swell of her hips, and it took all of Ila’s willpower not to shriek the moment he sucked her aching clit between his lips. He rumbled low in his chest and wrapped his sinewy, rose-tattooed right arm over her torso, dragging her closer to his face. She wished she could dig her nails into the corded muscle of his flexed forearm, wished she could grip a fistful of his coiled mane of silver hair. The ropes that scratched her skin reminded her that neither of those things were possible, and she almost sobbed at how she couldn’t touch the only man she’d ever loved.
“Oh my f-fucking god, *abii*,” Ila whined, biting her lip and tossing back her head. Her father got her so close so fast sometimes that it was almost ridiculous, but it was rote for him. Practiced, predictable, precise. After a half-decade of marriage, of course he’d know how best to please her—he dove in with gusto at every opportunity, listening intently to what she told him to do. The fact that he listened at all, that he didn’t pretend he knew how she worked, drove her insane with desire.
She’d never liked cunnilingus—never liked the way her boyfriends at college in years past would ignore her clit or handle her too roughly. Even when she asked for something else, or tried to show them how, it was a toss up on whether or not they’d become offended and less enthused. Even when they didn’t, the experience was soured regardless just from her anticipation of a shitty time for both of them.
Not with Idris, though. Her old man had no bravado, no machismo—a man in his mid-70s with a calm, calculated demeanor with no tolerance for bullshit. He was too old to be offended, and too considerate to be stupid. A man who was, currently, keeping her on the edge of her first orgasm with long, slow laps of his tongue over her flushed and aching cunt.
Ila braced the balls of her feet on his shoulders and whimpered, desperate to get that last little shove over the edge and into ecstasy. His hand squeezed her thigh in warning, and he pulled his face up from between her thighs, his black eyes glittering in the fading sunlight from the half-curtained window across the bedroom.
“Mmhh you do not get to come,” he said, smoothing his hand up her thigh, scratching his long nails over her ribs.
She breathed deep, then blinked in a haze of pleasured confusion. “You said you’d make me come—”
He laughed, and the sound vibrated the air between them. “I did not say I would make you come so easily, *bintii*.”
She huffed, softly, and just as she opened her mouth to retort, he resumed his feast. She braced against the ropes that bound her and cried out, almost knocking her knee against his head. He dug his nails in and held her still, his tongue tracing slow, even circles around her firm, throbbing clit, then dipped between her wet folds to slip into her clenching cunt. In this fashion, he held her on the edge of orgasm for another twenty minutes, until Ila was a keening, thrashing mess beneath him.
“P-please, dad—please make me fucking come,” she whimpered, her breaths animal and ragged and deep.
Idris lifted his head until the tip of his pierced tongue just barely touched the hood of her clit and looked down at her from beneath dark lashes. He grinned, showing crooked teeth and the cute little gap in the front that made her heart ache. He retracted his tongue, then said, “Hmm. You do not sound very convincing, *hayaatii.*”
She had to pause to listen to his words—he was excited, she knew, because his accent had become so thick she could barely parse that he was speaking English anymore. She let out a slower, more measured breath. He was toying with her, baiting her, trying to guide her into saying exactly what she wanted. “Please, please *baba*, I need to come—I need you to make me come *now*.”
He reached up his hand and let it rest on her stomach, his light thumbpad barely touching the base of her sensitive, aching clit. “Hmmm…”
He was dragging it out, of course. Even when she begged and pleaded and screamed, he would drag it out for as long as he wanted. She didn’t mind it, but at times like this, it made her wish her old man would have a modicum of mercy for her. “Please make me come with your tongue, please Sir,” she whispered, breathing hard through flared nostrils. An honest-to-god tear streaked down the side of her head, and she blinked pale lilac eyes up at him. “*Abii*, please, I need your fucking cock now—*please* make me come so I can have your cock inside of me.”
Apparently, she’d hit the sweet spot that granted her his mercy. His black eyes held hers as he lowered his leonine face, his hooked nose twitching as he let out a low, slow breath. She bit her lower lip and felt another tear streak down the side of her head—she was so overstimulated that they were inevitable, but they were not a cause for concern. They were not her safe word, not Red.
“Please, please *baba*…” She whispered it as a mantra, barely audible in the stillness, barely audible above the quiet creaks of the rope as she rocked her hips up in offering to her Master. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d wanted to come so badly—couldn’t remember the last time she’d wanted her father’s cock with so much desperation.
When his lips brushed over her clit again, she inhaled a sharp, startled breath. She’d been so focused on his eyes—so focused on the restriction that wound tight around her. He used the flat of his tongue to lick the whole of her vulva long and slow. A steady, measured pace that would bring her back to the brink of orgasm again. He hunched forward, wrapping both of his sinewy arms around her hips, his gray arm hair tickling over her skin; another contrast to how much the ropes scratched her.
“Yes, thank you, thank you Sir, thank you Sir.” Her mouth fell open, and she hardly registered what she said. All she knew was the encompassing thrall of his steady eye contact, of the expert way he used his lips and tongue to bring her so mind-numbingly close. She imagined how his thick, veiny cock would feel inside of her after this, and felt her cunt clench at nothing as she tossed back her head, white lashes fluttering.
And again, he brought her to the edge and held her there. She sobbed, breathless and betrayed as he lifted his face away from her cunt—but unlike before, his head dipped back and his breath fanned over her wet, aching flesh. “*Look at me.*”
Idris grabbed the back of her head, cradling it in the palm of his huge hand. She breathed hard, each exhale it’s own soft whimper as her eyes locked with his again. His lips hovered above her, and he growled so low and deep she nearly came regardless of what he did next.
“*Look at me while I make you come, my love*,” he said in low, throaty Arabic.
Ila nodded, the frenetic energy of it subdued by his hand gripping her head. He swiped his tongue once, and her foot twitched. Again, and she let out a soft, staccato whimper. Again, and she felt the pressure and heat coil tight and low in her belly. The intensity of his eyes both repelled and attracted her, pushed her farther away and pulled her closer to what she sought and what he was giving her.
“Oh—oh fuck, fuck, *baba*, I’m—”
He barely had time to breathe as he murmured between licks and sucks, “Come for me *hayaatii*, come for me…”
There was a laugh held somewhere in his throat as she tensed beneath him, taut as a drawn-back bowstring. The pressure finally broke, and she shrieked as her orgasm ricocheted through her, spiraling out from her pulsing clit and aching cunt, zipping under her flushed skin like every nerve was a sparking live-wire. His voice and his hands and his predatory, hungry gaze made her entire body ache, and she sobbed at every successive, gentle caress of his mouth and dexterous tongue.
Everything went blank, white and colorful and filled with a hazy static all at once. And when she came back to her senses, she felt his hand over her mouth, muffling her shouts of pleasure. When they died down to soft whimpers, she panted and kissed his palm, and he slid it up her face and back through her twists. He was looking at her with an expression that held concern, and it was her turn to laugh.
“Wh-what, *abii*?”
He eyed her, and pursed his lips as he gently set her back down on the bed, using his discarded shirt on the floor to wipe his mouth and beard. “You came much harder than I was expecting. Are you okay? Do I need to take the ropes off—”
“Dad, please stop mother-henning me,” Ila said. He frowned at her, and she laughed again. “I’m fine, I promise, just—please kiss me, please come kiss me.”
He said nothing else as he leaned over her prone, tied body and pressed his lips to hers. It was so gentle that another unbidden tear streaked down her face, and in lieu of the ability to cradle his gaunt, craggy face in her hands, she broke the kiss and rubbed her soft cheek against his rough, furred one. “Th-thank you so much.”
“Do not thank me yet,” Idris murmured, curling a hand beneath her head and twisting his fingers into her white hair. “I am still going to fuck you until I am satisfied. Then you can thank me.”
She smiled so wide it made her face hurt. It was going to be a long night, and she couldn’t wait. “Yes, Sir.”
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/tt30fu/yes_sir