Trigger Warning:
This story contains explicit BDSM dynamics including free use, consensual non-consent elements, age-gap power exchange, and emotionally intense kink scenes. All characters are consenting adults. Read responsibly.
Author's Note:
This is a filthy, emotionally rich one-shot exploring an unexpected collision of desire, submission, and ownership between an aching sub and a long-standing father-figure in her life. It's tender and depraved, soft and brutal, drenched in oral worship and psychological shift. He doesn't mean to take her--but once he does, he won't stop. Expect slow-burn discovery, heavy dominance, ruined orgasms, and the ache of something permanent beginning.
This is Part 1.
It stands alone, but future installments may follow. If you want more, tell me.
Enjoy the filth, darling. I certainly did.
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She didn't plan to be chosen. Not really.
She told herself it was a scene. Something she was trying. Something she could pull out of if it got too big.
But the moment the cuffs clicked shut around her ankles and the blindfold went on, she knew the truth.
She wasn't playing.
She was offering.
The house Dom set it up exactly how she asked--soft ropes, warm lighting, fuzzy pillows. A chaise draped in velvet. A space that felt more like a little girl's secret hideaway than a dungeon.
She was displayed on her knees, elbows resting on the arm of the lounge. Panties tugged just far enough down to humiliate. Bra pulled low. A sweet sign hung gently from her collar on a pink ribbon:
"Free Use: Touch, Penetration + Oral Permitted. Be kind. She belongs to someone, even if he doesn't know it yet."
Her blindfold was strawberry pink. Her gag matched. She was leaking before anyone touched her.
And she hadn't even realized why.
People circled. Watched. Some touched.
One gloved hand stroked her hair. Another pulled the gag down briefly just to coo "good girl" and let her moan. A sweet-smelling femme kissed her hip and whispered, "You're doing beautifully, baby."
No one lingered. No one had claimed her.
Then came the pause.
She felt it before she heard anything. That thick, still heat behind her. A hush just around her.
Not fear. Not even shame.
Just the uncanny hum of something shifting.
And then:
Her heart dropped.
She knew he felt familiar before he even spoke.
Knew by the silence. The heat. The pause.
There were footsteps--then nothing. Just presence. A gravity behind her. Not like the others.
And then the voice.
"...Charlotte?"
That voice. That tone.
She froze. A full-body, electric stillness.
It. Was. Mark.
"Uncle" Mark, even... when she was small. Her father's best friend. Her emergency contact. The man who fixed her screen door last summer and taught her how to bleed the radiators when the pipes knocked.
He was the one who brought wine to holidays, not beer, and always let her sneak some even before she was legal.
Who always smelled like pine and old books. Who looked at her like he was trying not to.
He was kind. Smart. Unfuckwithable.
He'd been in her orbit since she was old enough to know what tension felt like--except the tension with Mark never felt dangerous. Just curious.
He crouched behind her now. She couldn't see him, but she could feel the weight of his stare. The quiet shift in his breath. The careful calculation of a man trying not to lose control.
He didn't touch her. Not yet.
"Jesus Christ," he murmured, more to himself than her. "You were right in front of me."
She whimpered behind the gag. Not a no. Not even a protest.
Just: Yes. You were too.
Mark had caught glimpses of her before... but not like this.
Always measured. Quiet. Controlled.
The way a man watches something just out of reach. Something soft. Off-limits. But breathtaking.
And now, in this room, tied up, blindfolded, gagged and soaking through lace?
She wasn't out of reach anymore.
She was being offered.
He hovered there--one knee on the cushion beside her thigh, a hand trembling just above her hip, not quite brave enough to land.
"I don't even know if I'm mad at you," he whispered. "Or just mad at myself."
She shifted toward him.
He exhaled. Rough and wrecked.
Then, quietly, like a man at the edge of a cliff:
"You want this too. Don't you, little one?"
And she nodded.
That's when his hand settled on her skin.
The protector stepped back.
And Mark--the man who'd always known better--stopped knowing better.
Her whole body locked.
That name. That voice. Not from this world. Not from this room.
She made a sound behind the gag, small and feral.
He was quiet. She could feel him staring.
"...Are you okay?"
The words were soft, but they landed hard.
Not in the panicked sense. Not "oh my god."
It was how he said it. Low. Close. Calm.
Like if she shook her head, he'd burn the building down.
She nodded instead. Quickly.
"Okay," he whispered. A beat. Then, softer:
"Good girl."
Her knees buckled a little at that. At him saying that.
She felt him crouch behind her. One hand hovered near her hip--close, not touching.
"God, I didn't know..." he breathed. "I didn't know *this* was you."
She moaned.
He moved in slowly, gently unbuckling the gag with fingers that shook just slightly. Brushed his knuckles over her cheek once it dropped. Then over her shoulder. Her jaw.
"Talk to me, little one," he said quietly. "You still good for this?"
She couldn't speak right away.
She just nodded. Whimpered. Twisted her hips in the ropes, asking without asking.
"I need more than that," he said, voice thick now. "Can you tell me with your mouth?"
"Yes, Daddy," she whispered.
That did it.
He made a low, strangled sound--half laugh, half groan.
"Jesus. You have no idea what that does to me."
He placed one hand over her lower back, gently. The other slid between her thighs.