Emily Is Online Now

All characters are over eighteen. Tags, brat, tease and denial, femdom, findom, F/m, father/daughter, incest, foot fetish, hypnosis.

Part of my "Findom Camgirls" series.

Emily was online. She was chatting with one of her regulars, Jimmy40, who she called "James". The name was easy to remember for her. She liked James, and she felt like she could confide in him. She didn't need to act like a domme; he seemed to enjoy it when she spoke candidly about herself. As long as the session ended with some jerk-off instructions.

"I was like the gaffer tape keeping my parents together," she typed. She hoped James would know what gaffer tape was. She knew that he was from England, like her. In the US they called it duct tape. She'd learned that fact from a U.S. -based client called "TiedupTommy" who was into self-bondage. TiedupTommy liked to seal up his mouth with duct tape.

"yh breakups r a common side-effect of Empty Nest syndrome," James typed hastily, after tearing his gaze away reluctantly from Emily. He looked back up at her, her image filling his monitor. She picked up the keyboard which was lying on the bed beside her and typed rapidly with her delicate, red-nailed fingers: "never heard of empty nest syndrome but i get it".

Emily wiggled her toes close to her camera, which she'd set on the floor, angled upwards. She knew that James loved watching her wiggling her toes in his face. She knew all his kinks, but wanted to found out more about him. She could tell that he was well-educated, for sure; middle-aged, probably fat and ugly, she guessed, and with a small dick, which was why he always refused to open his cam. Or maybe he was super-paranoid about maintaining his anonymity.

James was neither fat, nor ugly, and his dick was nothing to be ashamed of. But he was understandably loath to switch on his laptop cam for her; she'd recognize her own father instantly.

* * * * *

Emily was a popular model on LiveOrchid. Within minutes of coming online she'd have hundreds of guests in her chatroom, demanding her to show her tits, or to flash her perfect, round ass. She maintained a pleasant aloofness, but never obliged them. She knew her type: Submissive men who wanted to be teased and manipulated by a bratty princess. This type of guy would tip well, sometimes hundreds of dollars a night, and would come back to her regularly. James was a typical example, and one of her favourites. She actually found it a slight turn-on that she'd never seen him. Supposing he was actually a celebrity? Or maybe a super-rich banker? Nah, those sorts of guys would do it for real with real women, not jerk off pathetically to a screen. Which was probably what James was doing now; he hadn't typed anything for a while.

But James wasn't jerking off. He was staring at his beautiful daughter, his hard-on bursting under his jeans, with a mixture of adoration, lust and sadness.

Emily switched on her microphone and stood up slowly. She started gyrating, guiding his gaze expertly, running her hands deliciously over her bra, sliding them down her waist, her fingertips finally meeting at her base of her black lace panties, gently prodding and kneading her camel toe. She hooked her thumbs under the elastic, making as if to push her panties down, but not actually doing so.

"This microphone doesn't work properly. Can you hear me?" she asked.

"Yes", James typed.

"Are you on your knees?"

"Yes", James typed. He was sitting in his office chair when he typed that, but got down onto his knees immediately.

"Good. Like what you see?"

"Yes."

"Yes,

Princess Emily

."

"Yes Princess Emily."

"Tip me." James hesitated. He wanted to stay in her private chat for longer, and if he spent his credits on a big tip, he wouldn't have enough for more than a few minutes with her.

"Go on, it's my birthday," she said.

Not until next week, Emily. You'll be twenty-two.

"I don't have a lot of credits left", James typed.

"Top up. Now."

James added another £500 worth of credits. He sent her a gift, using up all of it.

"Happy birthday, princess," he typed, and before she could respond, he closed his Chrome session. He sighed a quivering sigh.

* * * * *

"Em's coming up for her birthday on Tuesday," said Paula from behind the Financial Times. James poured himself a second cup of tea. Paula lowered the newspaper with a snap and glared at him.

"Sorry," said James, teapot in hand. "Did you want another cup?"

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Yes, yes, I know," said James with mild irritation. There was a pause, then he realised why Paula was glaring at him: "I'll move my computer out of her room this weekend," he added.

"It's only for a few days, then you'll have your office back." Paula resumed reading. "Your 'office'..." she snorted quietly behind the newspaper.

Paula rose, lifted her laptop bag from the floor and shouldered it. "Okay, I'll be back around nine tonight. There's a late meeting with New York. They're probably laying on food, so no need to leave me any supper."

She kissed him quickly, and left.

James worked from home. He was a writer, once prolific, now, less so. In fact he'd had writer's block for the last two years. But the royalties from his previous works still provided a reasonable income. Paula was earning really well, so his royalty payments went straight into their pension fund. Or so Paula thought. In fact, he was secretly diverting them into a personal bank account, which paid for his sessions with cam models.

A few weeks ago James had been browsing LiveOrchid; his rapid, impatient scan through the many pages of images stopped abruptly when he noticed the profile picture of a sultry-looking model he hadn't seen before; she was wearing black nylons and high heels, facing away from the camera, with one foot on the floor, and her knee resting on a sofa. This presented what the model had clearly seen as her best features: her firm round ass and her long, well-toned legs. Her face wasn't really visible, but gave a hint that she was very pretty, and quite young. She claimed to be twenty-one years old, which looked about right. She called herself "BrattyPrincessM". This girl was his type, for sure. And she was online now. He clicked the image, and...

...there she was, perched at the foot of a bed in a bright, anonymous room, smiling happily. She wasn't wearing nylons, her legs were bare, and she wore a short red dress. He stared in shock. Emily's doppelganger? Then he knew for sure it was her. He recognised her dress, which Paula had got for her for a ball that the family had been invited to last Christmas. She looked demure, and sweet; she looked innocent, charming and intelligent. She looked like... his beautiful daughter.

He lurked in her free chat, along with a few dozen others. She typed "welcome jimmy40". James didn't notice. He was trying to come to terms with what he was witnessing. Why was Emily doing this? Then he realized; it was his fault. It was that row he'd had with her, shortly before she'd left for university last year. They'd ended up screaming at each other. He recalled the last words he'd shouted before Emily had run out of the house, wheeling her suitcase behind her:

Find someone else to mooch off, you ungrateful brat. That's it! You hear? No more fucking money for you. You're on your own now. Now piss off, and start fucking learning about the real world!

James slumped on his seat, fingers over his mouth, breathing heavily. He glanced up at the chat log; a few people had typed lewd appreciations of her sexiness, someone asked her if she did CBT, and there were a number of "want to fuck u hard" type of comments.

The last message on the log was hers: "How's your day jimmy40". He'd got her attention, because she'd seen that he had credits in his account, and was therefore worth pursuing.

"not so great," typed James.

"come in pvt i'll make it better," she typed. Then she looked into camera with a flirtatious smile. She was looking straight at James, and she knew it was him. Or so it felt to him.

James returned her gaze. Emily switched on her microphone: "

Now

, Jimmy."

Unthinkingly he entered private chat with her. She switched off her background music.

"Good boy Jimmy. Can you hear me ok?"

"Yes", James typed.

"I'm Emily. But you can call me 'Princess Emily'."

"Ok Princess Emily."

"And you're Jimmy?"

"Yes Princess Emily."

"I'll call you James. Okay, James?"

"Yes Princess Emily".

"Switch on your cam, James."

"I can't".

Emily didn't insist, to James' relief. He stared at his daughter. But it wasn't his daughter, it was someone else. Yes, she wasn't his little princess Emily, she was --

-- His dick uncurled rapidly, and with a heart-stopping thrill, he took in the sheer perverse eroticism of the situation. What a story! What a story he could write about this! He almost felt like ending the session and starting to write it immediately.

"Tell me about yourself. What are you into?" She asked. Before he could respond, she unzipped her dress and stepped out of it. She was wearing black lace underwear. She danced, turning round and round slowly, hypnotically.

"Do you like my ass, James?"

"Yes"

"Show me." James knew what that meant: She was demanding a tip. He tipped her, twenty dollars.

"Yes. You like it." Emily pushed her panties down, and moved close to the camera, gyrating her ass. James could see the downy pale hairs on her skin. He grunted with pleasure. Her hands stroked her buttocks, then she gave her ass a loud, playful slap, which jerked his dick full of blood.

"Start stroking -- if you haven't started already."

James began to stroke, and came quickly. He suddenly felt sick and disgusted with himself. He covered his face with his cum-covered hands and rocked back and forth. Emily, oblivious to this, continued to give him jerk-off instructions for some minutes, then asked, "did you come?"

"Yes Princess".

"Good. Tip me, James. Let me know how much you enjoyed that. And rate me."

But James didn't tip her, and didn't rate her. He closed his browser and ran from the room to the bathroom, and vomited, crouching over the toilet bowl.

"No more. No more," James gasped. He'd never do that again, ever. His own daughter... But by nine PM that night, he logged back in to see if she was online. She wasn't. He considered calling her, out of the blue, just to say "Hi". But what was there to say to her now?

He didn't join Paula in their bedroom that night, but slept on the single bed in his 'office', Emily's room. Paula knew he did this often, and she didn't really care anymore. She'd guessed a while ago that he was probably watching porn in there.

The next morning, after Paula had left for work, he logged in again. Emily was online now. His heart raced and he felt himself becoming quickly aroused. Within seconds of entering her free chat she'd noticed his presence there. She looked at him (it was definitely at

him

), and beckoned with a finger. He entered her room immediately, grateful that she hadn't reproached him for his curt exit yesterday.

This time, James just wanted to "talk", he said. And Emily was happy to. She got to know that he was from England, and revised her image of him appropriately: He'd more likely get her humour. British humour didn't travel well, and her irony often went over people's heads. He asked her a few questions, but was polite, and, being British, very respectful of her privacy. But she wanted to know more about his fetishes, and kept pressing him on them. It was very important, she'd learned, to know how to keep her clients coming back. She found out that he was into legs and heels, and had a foot-fetish. And that he got turned on when he tipped her. That was what she really wanted to find out:

Paydirt

: Another weak-willed and easily drained sugar-daddy, just what she was hoping he'd be.

She knew how to play the game, she realized, because she'd had years of practice. She'd been able to manipulate her own parents, her father in particular, into buying her stuff for years. Until last month, that is, when Dad had finally stood up to her, forcing her to find other sources of revenue.

After three or four sessions, "Jimmy40" became a regular in her room, good for anything between a hundred and five hundred dollars each time. Sometimes he wanted to jerk off, and she'd let him -- but she'd make the session last at least thirty minutes. Other times it felt more like when she used to chat with her parents' friends at their dinner parties: Slightly awkward and polite, across an unbridgeable generation gap, with an undercurrent of flirting from the men, who clearly wanted nothing more than to fuck her young tight pussy.

But there was something different about "Jimmy40" from her other regulars, which both unnerved her and excited her. She couldn't put her finger on it, but she felt that he was a bit creepy -- no, that wasn't it... not creepy, but, he was

after

something. Not just sexual. Weird. Weird how she could read between the lines, even though he'd revealed almost nothing of himself.

* * * * *

"Hi Dad."

Emily had lost her key somewhere and had to ring the doorbell.

"Hi," said James, with what he hoped was a smile of greeting.

"I'm sorry-" they both began to say, and then they laughed.

"You first," said James, his smile sincere this time.

"I'm sorry I left on such a sour note, Dad."

"Me too. I've been feeling shitty about it ever since."

"Well, don't feel shitty. Actually what you said did me good." Emily wheeled her suitcase into the hallway and dumped her backpack onto the floor. She ran past him, to the toilet. James walked past the toilet door on the way to the kitchen. She hadn't closed the door, and he caught a glimpse of her pushing down her leggings and sitting down.

"Tea?" he called, flicking the kettle on.

"Great," she shouted, entering. "Where's Mum?"

"She's away this weekend, in New York. She'll be back for your birthday."

Emily opened the fridge door, looking for something to eat. She opened a container of cold leftover shepherd's pie and rummaged for a spoon in the drawer.

"Don't you want to heat it up?"

"No, s'ok," she said with her mouth full.

"You were saying, what I said did you good."

Emily dumped the container and spoon in the sink, but didn't wash them. "Yeah. It prompted me to get a job."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I'm waitressing at a cool cocktail bar."

You liar.

"Yeah? How's the pay?"

Emily didn't answer. She sat down on the sofa, and picked up her phone. She scrolled through messages. James wondered if she was checking her feed from LiveOrchid.

"Well? How much does it pay?" he repeated.

Emily looked up. "Well, Dad, it's not much, but the tips are great. It's all about the tips."

James opened his mouth, and then closed it. What could he say to that? He stood over her behind the sofa, trying to see what she was looking at on her phone. She sensed it, and changed position, so that she was laying along the length of the sofa. Now all he could see were a pair of long, sexy legs. Her leggings were shiny black. She was still wearing her trainers.

"Take your trainers off the sofa, Emily," said James, to distract himself from her shiny legs. She shuffled along the sofa until her ankles were resting on the armrest, her shoes dangling beyond it.

"Why don't you just take them off? Lazy girl."

"My feet stink, that's why."

"Then for Christ's sake, go and have a bath."

"I will. Later."

James walked round the sofa to her feet, and pulled off her trainers one by one. Emily neither helped nor resisted. Her feet didn't stink, but they definitely smelled. He tickled the sole of her left foot; she jerked it back. He tickled her right foot and she giggled, jerking it back too. "Dad, stop."

Suddenly she put the phone down and stared at him intensely, suspiciously. "Why did you do that? Are you..."

"I was just playing, Emily. And they don't stink. But you have a bath anyway, after that journey."

For a terrifying moment Jamie thought she'd guessed his secret. He'd have to be really careful.

While Emily was upstairs in the bathroom, James sat on the sofa, thinking. What if he pressured her into revealing that she was cam modelling, without letting on that he already knew? Then she'd stop suspecting him. And maybe, just maybe, he'd have a hold on her... he could even blackmail her, into...

Stop it. What's happening to me?

Emily came downstairs, in her bra and panties, carrying a bundle of dirty clothes in her arms. He watched her as she kneeled on the floor by the washing machine feeding them into it.

"Remember how to use it?"

She started the cycle and stood up. "Yep. So what are we eating?"

"You order something. Anything."

"Still only Mum who does the cooking, I see," said Emily, padding over to James and sitting beside him on the sofa. James began to feel an erection growing under his jeans. He stood up hastily and went over to the dining table, and opened his laptop. He pretended to look at emails. Emily played with her phone.

"Here's what I want for my birthday," she said, getting up and standing over him, showing him her phone.

"Is that a microphone?"

"Yes, it's a Rode."

"Jesus, four hundred quid?"

"Yeah. It's the best one you can get for podcasting."

"Podcasting? When did you start doing that?"

"I haven't yet. Well, not really."

James seized his chance: "What do you mean 'not really'?" He looked up at her. She took a step closer to him and ran her fingers through his hair.

"You're going grey, but you're not losing your hair," she said, stroking his hair gently. "How old are you, Dad?"

"Forty-seven. What do you mean 'not really'"?

"You're quite the silver fox." Her abdomen was an inch from his face.

"Thank you, I guess." Unable to control his desire, he kissed her firm, young belly; a gentle, unambiguously sensual, lingering kiss. She didn't recoil. Instead, she held his head close to her.

With his face pressed against her warm, smooth skin, he felt himself losing control of himself... he wanted her. "Dad, this feels, a little weird," she said, but without letting go.

"I love you, Princess Emily" James whispered...

She pushed his ahead away roughly: "What did you just call me??"

He was weeping. "Princess Emily..."

"How, how did you...oh shit..."

James wiped his eyes and sat up straight. "I... saw you. On LiveOrchid... I didn't know it was you, so.. I checked. I mean I entered your chatroom. Just for a minute, I swear. Just to check. Of course, I was shocked, and so I left immediately. But afterwards I didn't know what to say, what to do..."

Of all the responses he expected, it wasn't her sudden burst of laughter.

"Oh my God, if Mum ever found out!"

"I promise I'll never say a word to her about you."

"No, I mean, if she ever found out what

you

did!"

James was too confused to respond. Emily stroked his shoulder and sighed, "Poor Dad. Busted."

"What??"

"Yeah. Poor Dad. Poor Jimmy40." She burst out laughing a second time.

"Jimmy40..." echoed James weakly.

"It's you, isn't it? I knew there was something familiar about you."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Look, I can trace the IP address. So just tell me the truth. Or tell me your laptop password."

James suddenly stood up and hissed, "Okay. Stop it. Let's just... forget it."

"Sure. Let's forget it. Shall I text you a link to the mic?"

James looked puzzled. Emily held the phone up. "Rode Broadcaster. Four hundred quid."

James tried to process her reaction to what he thought would be a bombshell revelation. "Emily, I know you must hate me, despise me. And that's why you're behaving like this. But I promise you, I hate and despise myself even more. I've never, I mean, I never once thought of you that way... I'd never do anything to hurt you, or..."