charlotte-offered
ADULT BDSM

Charlotte Offered

Charlotte Offered

by canibeyourprincess
18 min read
4.65 (14900 views)
adultfiction
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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.

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"Oh, baby," he murmured. "You're a mess."

She twitched. Moaned.

"Did someone else do this to you?" he asked. "Make you this wet?"

She shook her head violently. No one had touched her like that.

He kissed the back of her neck, slow and warm.

"So this is for me, then. All this sweetness."

He kissed her again. Lower this time. Then again. Working his way down her spine.

"You've been sitting across from me for years.

Wearing your little sweaters, biting your lip like you don't know what it does to me.

And all this time... this was in you?"

She felt him smile against her skin. And then:

His breath ghosted over her slit before his mouth ever made contact. She was soaked, dripping down her thighs, her folds glistening in the low light--already swollen from the teasing and the blindfold and the unbearable tension of being watched, touched, but not taken.

He hovered there, so close she could feel the heat of his mouth and the hum of his restraint. It vibrated through her like a tuning fork. His hands--broad, warm, decisive--gripped the meat of her ass, thumbs pulling her open. She whimpered into the cushion as the air touched places it shouldn't, her cunt glistening, her hole twitching with every desperate clench.

Then his tongue was on her.

Not a flick. Not a test. He dived in. Like he'd missed meals for this. Like she was the cure for something chronic in him. His whole face buried between her thighs, mouth open, tongue wide and wet and relentless. He licked up everything--every drop, every spill, every slick line that had run down her pussy lips and pooled where her ass met the bench. He slurped, moaned, sucked like he couldn't help himself. His groan rumbled against her cunt as he buried his nose right into the seam and inhaled.

She gasped, hips jolting, but he held her steady with strong arms, spreading her even further, two fingers digging into the crease where her thighs met her pelvis.

He licked up her slit again, slow and possessive, then pressed the flat of his tongue over her clit and circled. Not delicate. Not harsh. Just deliberate. Over and over. Long strokes, patient pressure, the kind of focused attention that ruined.

She tried to wiggle, to shift, overwhelmed already--but he growled into her and pulled her tighter against his face. She could feel his breath against her hole when he spoke, voice rough and reverent, "Stay still. I'm not fucking done."

His tongue speared her again, dipping inside her slick heat, then back up to her clit. He alternated--fucking her with his mouth, then punishing her with soft, rhythmic suction that had her sobbing.

And when he slipped two fingers into her dripping hole, curled them just right, and sucked her clit like he owned it? She shattered.

Her orgasm tore through her, long and violent, body spasming in place. Her hips bucked into his mouth, thighs trembling. Her own moans were muffled by the cushion but high-pitched and broken, wet sobs of relief and overstimulation.

But he didn't stop.

He held her through it--mouth still working, tongue circling, fingers fucking her through the twitching spasms. One hand slid under her to palm her belly, pressing down so she could feel everything. Her whole body was locked in a state of ruined tension--still climbing, even as it fell apart.

She cried out again, nearly feral, and he pulled off just long enough to kiss the back of her thigh, licking his lips like she was the first meal he'd ever earned.

"God, look at this pussy," he murmured against her skin. "Look what you give me."

Then he shoved his fingers back in--wet, thick, curling up as he leaned in to suck her clit again, harder this time, rougher, messier. His beard was slick with her, chin shiny, nose brushing the spot that made her sob again.

She came a second time without warning. Not like the first--this one was messy, raw, her body jerking against the restraints, her breath coming in shallow gasps that made her dizzy. Her whole body was shaking. Her knees wanted to give out.

She could hear herself begging, half-aware: "Please... please, Daddy... please..."

But he didn't stop. Just slowed down, sucking her softly, using the pad of his tongue to draw figure-eights over her clit until she whimpered like a rag doll, twitching and broken, cunt still clenching around nothing but air and need.

He kissed her one more time between the thighs. Tender. Devastating.

Then he stood, hands trailing up her back, thumbs digging into her hips.

She heard the slow zip of his pants.

He pressed the head of his cock between her lips--slick and flushed and heavy with want--and rocked once, just the tip.

"Do you know," he said, voice low and wrecked and tight, "how long I've been pretending I didn't want this?"

He slid deeper. Inch by inch. Her pussy swallowed him, hot and desperate, still fluttering from her orgasms, and he groaned from somewhere deep in his chest.

"You're still so fucking tight."

He bottomed out, slow and steady, groaning her name like it hurt. Like she'd broken something loose inside him.

And when he pulled back and thrust again--deeper this time, rougher--he wrapped a hand around the base of her throat and whispered, "You better be ready to come on my cock next. I'm not finished showing you what it means to be mine."

She nodded, trembling. But he still didn't move.

"Need to hear you say it. No guessing, no games. Say it."

"Please, Daddy. I want you. I want your cock. I want you to fuck me."

He hissed like she'd struck him. There seemed to be a crowd forming around them. It smelled like sex.

"Fuck her hard like a good little slut!" a man shouted from somewhere to her left.

"Take a breath," he whispered. "Just like that. Good girl.

You're doing so fucking well."

Clearly not taking direction from anything but her body... her moans, micro-movements.

Then he rocked his hips.

Long, slow strokes. No rush. Just claiming.

He fucked her like he was letting go of something he'd been holding in too long. Like each thrust was a confession.

"You feel that?" he said low. "How deep I am? How much I want this?"

She whimpered again.

"You're mine now, Charlotte. You get that?"

"Yes, Daddy."

He pulled her up by the hair. Kept her arched. Fucked her deeper.

"No one gets this but me. Say it."

"No one gets this but you, Daddy."

"Good fucking girl."

She came again before he did.

He held her through it. Called her baby. Praised her. Bit her shoulder. Told her she was perfect.

And when he spilled inside her with a groan like surrender, he didn't pull away. Just held her against him. Forehead to her neck.

"You were meant to be ruined by someone who loved every second of it," he whispered. "And now you are."

He didn't leave her body right away.

Just stayed buried inside her, holding her still. Letting their bodies breathe together. Letting her float.

"Hey," he murmured after a moment, brushing a hand over her back. "You still with me, little one?"

She nodded, whimpering. Too soft to speak.

"Good. That was a lot," he whispered. "You did so well."

He pulled out gently. Caught the mess between her legs with a towel someone had left nearby. Cleaned her without fanfare. Without shame.

Just a man taking care of what's his.

He untied her cuffs, but left her collar on.

"I like this on you," he said softly. "You look kept."

He scooped her up in his arms--ignored the blanket. Carried her to the quiet room off the main hall where aftercare stations were set up like little nests. Pillows, snacks, low lighting, fleece throws.

She curled up in his lap like she'd done it before. Like it was hers.

He wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, pressed a bottle of water to her lips, and whispered, "One sip at a time, babygirl."

She drank.

They didn't talk for a while.

He just stroked her hair and whispered now and then.

"You're safe."

"I've got you."

And then finally:

"You know we can't go back, right?"

She looked up, eyes wide and damp.

"This changes everything, Charlotte. You don't get to walk away now. You're mine."

Her breath caught. Her lips parted.

And then, softly:

"...Good."

✨✨✨

He held her in the passenger seat the whole ride home. One hand on her thigh, thumb brushing gentle circles into skin still flushed from play. The streets passed in a haze, the soft ache between her legs spreading like warmth through her chest.

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He walked her to her front door. Didn't ask to come in. Didn't have to.

She turned the key, trembling. Stepped inside.

But when she turned back to say goodnight, he was already crowding her against the wall--slow, steady, all heat and gravity. His hand slid into her hair. His mouth found hers.

A kiss that said:

You don't get to pretend this was just a scene.

You're mine now. And you feel it.

He pulled back just enough to murmur:

"Don't shower. Don't wipe it away. Don't even close your legs when you sleep."

And then he was gone.

She collapsed into bed still dressed--panties damp, collar on, thighs still trembling.

And the moment her head hit the pillow, she knew.

She wasn't going back to before.

✨✨✨

She woke up to voices.

Soft laughter. Mugs clinking. The smell of coffee.

She blinked at the ceiling.

And then she heard it again.

Her father.

And Uncle... *Daddy Mark.

Her blood turned carbonated. Her pulse hit her throat.

She sat up fast, her body aching deliciously everywhere--hips sore, cunt tender, lips chapped from gag straps and kissing. The collar had left a faint pink impression on her neck.

She was still wearing him.

And now he was in her living room.

She threw on a robe, hands shaking. Took a deep breath and padded down the hallway barefoot.

The doorway was open.

Mark sat casually on the couch, coffee in hand, one ankle crossed over his knee. Still in yesterday's shirt, sleeves rolled. Hair a little messy. Like he belonged in her house. Like he owned the space.

And across from him, her dad--smiling, oblivious, chatting about who-knows-what.

Then Mark looked up.

Eyes locked.

And he smiled.

Not cruel. Not smug.

Just calm. Intimate. Knowing.

"Morning, Charlotte."

The way he said it made her knees want to fold.

Her dad looked over. "Didn't mean to wake you, sweetheart. Look who I found at the diner! Thought we'd have a little catch-up."

Mark stood. Walked toward her slowly. His hand brushed hers as he passed her the mug.

"I got you your usual," he murmured. "Still warm."

She took it in both hands. Could barely breathe.

His voice dropped as he passed by, just for her:

"Still sore?"

✨✨✨

It was later. Her dad had gone off to do some yard work.

She was rinsing mugs when she felt him behind her.

His chest against her back. One hand settling low on her hip. The other trailing the edge of the robe where it dipped over her collarbone.

"I could smell you the second you walked in," he said quietly.

She froze.

Mark pressed a kiss to her neck. "Still wearing me like a good girl."

Her breath stuttered.

"I bet if I checked," he whispered, "you'd still be dripping."

He slipped his hand under her robe. Found bare skin.

Then lower.

No panties.

She whimpered.

"Oh, Charlotte," he said, mouth against her jaw. "You really did do everything I told you."

He bent her forward over the sink. Spread her legs with his knee. Let his fingers drag through the mess between her thighs.

"Still leaking," he confirmed, pleased. "Attagirl."

She braced herself. But he didn't fuck her.

He just dipped two fingers in, curled them, and pressed them back in.

"Just a reminder," he whispered. "You're open because I opened you. You're wet because I ruined you. And you liked it."

She gasped. Shivered.

"Tonight," he said, pulling back with a slow stroke, "you're going to beg for it.

But not because you're needy.

Because you remember."

He kissed the side of her throat.

"Clean yourself up, little one. I'm not done with you."

He left an hour later with a wink and a kiss to her temple.

A minute after the door closed, her phone buzzed.

Daddy Mark:

Show me what I did to you.

She bit her lip.

Tugged the robe down. Pulled the collar back into place. Turned on the front-facing camera and took a picture--pink skin, faint bite mark, eyes glassy.

Then another. Her fingers between her thighs. Still slick. Still open.

I haven't showered yet.

Daddy Mark:

Good girl.

Keep that mess right where it is. I want my mouth to be the first thing that touches it.

Later, I want to see you kneel.

Hands behind your back. Mouth open.

The way you looked right before I made you mine.

Her heart thundered.

She texted back:

Tell me when.

The reply was immediate...

Daddy Mark:

Sunset. Your parents will be out because I'm buying them dinner.

Door unlocked. Collar on. Nothing else.

And if you're not kneeling when I walk in, your neighbours are going to hear what happens when my good girl gets greedy.

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