Ryosuke Handa

Things I Need:

1. An orgasm 2. Attention 3. $50,000

Settle the Score

18+

After a hard day at work Callum wants to watch his team score, you want to score something else, so he makes you wait, patiently warming his cock until the game ends. 

Daddy kink, lap sitting, edging, cock warming, orgasm denial, spankings, girl in top, orgasm, cream pie

DT @kulturalismellektermek

Settle the Score

Callums living room is dim lit only by the flickering glow of the massive flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. Chelsea’s blue jerseys clash against Arsenal’s red and white, the roar of the crowd spilling through the speakers. 

It’s a crucial match, Champions League semi-final, ‘do or die’ for Callum’s beloved Blues. He’s sprawled on the plush gray couch, his broad frame sinking into the cushions, those wonderful thick thighs spread wide in his tailored black trousers. 

His tie is loosened, the top button of his crisp white shirt undone, and a glass of whisky sits within reach on the coffee table, the amber liquid catching the light.

His dark hair is slightly rustled from running his hands through it during a tense moment in the game, and his sharp jaw is set, blue eyes locked on the screen with an intensity that makes your stomach flutter.

You’re curled up beside him, legs tucked under you, wearing one of his old Chelsea jerseys that’s too big for you, the hem grazing your thighs. 

You’re bored out of your mind. Football’s never been your thing, and Callum’s obsession with it is the one thing about him that drives you up the wall. He’s been ignoring you for the past forty minutes, only humming in response to your attempts at conversation. 

You get it, he’s had a brutal day at work, some nightmare on the set of his latest film, and all he wanted was to come home, pour a drink, and lose himself in this game. 

But those thighs, straining against the fabric of his trousers, and the way his large hands rest on his knees, fingers twitching with every near-miss on the pitch, it’s doing things to you. Things you can’t ignore.

You shift closer, pressing your side against his, and trail your fingers lightly over his forearm. “Callum,” you murmur, your voice soft and teasing, “you sure you don’t want to take a break? Just for a minute?”

His eyes don’t leave the screen. “Love, it’s 1-1, and we’re in the 70th minute. Not a chance.” His deep British accent is clipped, distracted, but the way he leans into you, just a fraction, tells you he’s not completely immune.

You pout, resting your chin on his shoulder, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “But I’m so bored,” you whisper, letting your breath fan over his skin. You feel him tense, just for a second, before he exhales sharply through his nose.

“Behave,” he says, low and firm, but there’s a warmth in it, a warning that sends a shiver down your spine. He reaches for his whisky, taking a slow sip, and you watch the way his throat works, the bob of his Adam’s apple. 

Callum is gorgeous, even when he’s being infuriating and you can’t help yourself, sliding your hand onto his thigh, fingers tracing the hard muscle beneath the fabric. 

His thighs are a work of art, thick and powerful, and you squeeze gently, biting your lip as you imagine them flexing under you in an entirely different manner. 

“Callum,” you say again, voice dropping to a sultry purr, “I could make this so much more fun than the game.”

He finally glances at you, one brow arched, his expression a mix of amusement and exasperation. “You’re trouble, you know that?” But his hand covers yours, stopping your wandering fingers, and he gives them  a don’t test me squeeze. “I’m watching this. You’ll survive another hour without my undivided attention.”

You huff, pulling your hand back, but the heat pooling low in your core isn’t going anywhere. You nuzzle into his neck, lips grazing the sensitive spot just below his ear, and you feel him shift slightly, his breath hitching. “What if I don’t want to survive?” you whisper, letting your tongue dart out to taste his skin.

“Christ,” he mutters, gripping the armrest of the couch. “You’re not making this easy, are you?” His voice is rougher now, and you know you’re getting to him, chipping away at his focus.

You smile against his neck, emboldened, and slide your hand back to his thigh, higher this time, dangerously close to where you know he’s sensitive. “Just trying to help you relax, Daddy,” you whisper, the word slipping out as your secret weapon. He loves when you call him Daddy it always gets his attention, and sure enough, his head turns toward you, eyes darkening.

“Careful love,” he warns, voice low and gravelly, the kind of tone that makes your thighs clench. “You keep that up, and you’re not gonna like the consequences.”

But you’re past caring about consequences. You’re aching, restless, and the sight of him so composed, so in control only makes you want to unravel him. 

You climb onto his lap, straddling one of those glorious thighs, the jersey riding up to expose more of your skin. “Please, Daddy,” you say, pouting, your hands sliding up his chest to tug at his tie. “I just want to make you feel good.”

His hands settle on your hips, gripping hard enough to make you gasp, and he pulls you closer, his eyes flicking back to the screen for a split second before locking onto yours. 

“You’re pushing it,” he says, but there’s a heat in his gaze now, a hunger that wasn’t there before. “If you can’t behave, I’m going to have to find a way to keep you occupied, aren’t I?”

Your heart races, and you nod, biting your lip. “Yes, please.”

He smirks, slow and dangerous, and leans back, patting his lap. “Alright, love. Come here. You’re gonna sit on Daddy’s cock and keep it warm while I watch the game. But you’re gonna be quiet, yeah? Don’t want to hear a peep.”

Your breath catches, arousal spiking at his words, and you scramble to obey, fumbling with his belt and zipper. He helps you, lifting his hips just enough to free cock, and you nearly whimper at the sight of him—thick, hard, and already flushed a deep pink. 

You position yourself over him, sliding your panties aside to sink down on it slowly, and the stretch is exquisite, making your eyes flutter shut as you take him inch by inch.

“Fuck,” you breathe, unable to stop yourself, and his hand comes down on your ass with a sharp crack, the sting blooming across your skin.

“I said quiet,” he orders, his voice vibrating through you. “You gonna be a good girl for Daddy, or do I need to remind you again?”

“I’ll be good,” you whisper, cheeks flushing as you settle fully onto him, your hands gripping his shoulders. He feels so satisfying, filling you completely, but he’s still, not moving, his attention already drifting back to the game. 

His large hand rests on the back of your head, pulling you against his chest so your face is tucked into the crook of his neck, his other hand steadying your hip.

“Now be still,” he murmurs, “and let me watch the game. Make Daddy proud.”

You try, you really do, but the pressure of him inside you, the heat of his body, the faint scent of his cologne, it’s overwhelming. You start to move, just a subtle rock of your hips, chasing the friction, and a soft moan slips out before you can stop it.

Another crack against your ass, harder this time, and you yelp, the sound muffled against his skin. “I said be quiet,” he snaps, his hand tightening in your hair. “You’re testing my patience, love.”

“I’m sorry,” you whimper, biting your lip hard to keep silent. You force yourself to still, but it’s torture, the ache between your legs growing with every second. You can feel him twitching inside you, and you know he’s not as unaffected as he’s pretending to be.

Minutes pass, agonizingly slow, and you’re trembling with the effort of staying still. The game’s getting intense Chelsea’s pressing for a goal, the crowd’s roaring and Callum’s grip on you tightens, his thigh muscles flexing under you. 

You can’t take it anymore and you lift your head, eyes meeting his, and the desperate need in your expression must hit him hard, because his jaw clenches.

“Alright,” he says, voice rough. “You want to move? Fine. Kneel over Daddy’s thighs and ride me. But you do all the work, and you keep your eyes on me. I’m still watching the game.”

You nod eagerly, scrambling to reposition yourself, straddling him properly now, your knees sinking into the couch on either side of his hips. 

You start to move, slow at first, savoring the drag of his cock inside you, and his hand returns to the back of your head, holding you close your foreheads are almost touching, his eyes flicking between you and the screen.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, “just like that. Keep it steady, love.”

You bite your lip, fighting to stay silent as you pick up the pace, your hips rolling in a rhythm that has you teetering on the edge. 

It feels so good, too good, and despite your best efforts, a soft moan escapes.

His hand cracks against your ass again, and you gasp, tears pricking your eyes from the mix of pain and pleasure. 

“What did I say?” he demands, voice low and dangerous.

“I’m so sorry…” you whisper, your voice shaking. “It’s just… it feels so good.”

He grins darkly, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. “I know it does, baby. But you’re here for Daddy’s pleasure, not your own. You gonna behave, or do I need to stop you?”

“No, please,” you beg, desperation creeping into your voice. “I’ll be good, I promise.”

“Then keep going,” he says, his hand guiding your hips now, controlling the pace. “But don’t you dare come until I say so.”

You nod, swallowing hard, and focus on moving, your muscles burning with the effort of pleasing him while holding back your own release. You’re so close, every grind pushing you closer to the edge, and you can feel him watching you, his breath hot against your skin.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he mutters, almost to himself, his eyes flicking back to the screen as Chelsea’s striker lines up for a shot. 

“Keep going, love. Don’t stop.”

But it’s too much. Your rhythm falters, your body trembling as you teeter on the brink. You stop at the top of his cock, gasping, your hands clutching his shoulders. “I’m sorry,,” you whimper, “but if I keep going, I can’t—”

He cuts you off, his hands guiding you back down on his cock, rough and unrelenting. “I wasn’t asking,” he rasps, his hips bucking up to meet you, sending a jolt of pleasure-pain through your core. “You don’t stop until I tell you to.”

“Yes, Sir,” you choke out, tears spilling down your cheeks as you force yourself to move again, your body screaming for release. You bite your lip until you taste copper, determined to stay silent, to make him proud.

He senses how close you are, his eyes narrowing as he watches you struggle. 

“Don’t even try it,” he warns, his voice a low command. “Not until the games finished,”

You nod, a broken whimper escaping as you fight to obey. The game’s reaching its climax Chelsea scores, the crowd erupts, and Callum’s grip on you tightens, his own control fraying. “Fuck, that’s it,” he mutters, whether to you or the team, you’re not sure. 

“Keep going, baby. Almost there.”

You’re a mess, shaking, gasping, but you don’t stop, your body moving on instinct now, driven by the need to please him. 

His hand slides between you, his thumb finding your clit, and you nearly scream, the sensation pushing you right to the edge.

“Callum Daddy, please,” you beg, your voice barely a whisper. “I can’t hold it—”

“Not yet,” he snaps, his thumb circling faster, deliberate, cruel in its precision. “You wait for me.”

The game ends and Chelsea wins, 2-1—and the second the final whistle blows Callum’s attention is fully on you. 

His eyes are piercing , his breath ragged, and he thrusts up into you, hard and deep, his thumb still working you. “Now,” he groans, “come for Daddy.”

You shatter, your vision whiting out as your orgasm crashes through you, wave after wave of pleasure that leaves you sobbing your head tilting back. He follows a moment later, his grip bruising as he spills inside you, a low groan rising from his throat.

For a moment, you’re both still, your bodies pressed together, the only sound your ragged breathing and the distant hum of the TV.

He strokes your hair, gentle now, and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Good girl,” he praises, his voice soft, warm. “You did so well for me.”

You smile, exhausted but sated, and nuzzle into his neck. “Worth it?” you ask, breathless. 

He laughs, low and rich, and pulls you closer. “Absolutely worth it.” He grins.

END

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