Training His Daughter

for my daddy. 👸

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I still hate this part.

The pretending. The fucking charade.

It's easy when we're alone. When his hands are on me, when his voice is low and rough in my ear, when his body is pressed against mine and I can feel how much he needs me.

When I can hear it.

When he whispers mine as he fucks me so deep and slow it makes my head spin.

That's when I know the truth.

That's when I know I own him just as much as he owns me.

But then morning comes.

And suddenly, I'm just his daughter, in his house.

Suddenly, we're just playing normal.

Suddenly, he's standing in the kitchen, pouring her coffee first.

He's tucking her hair behind her ear.

He's kissing her on the cheek.

Like it's nothing.

Like it's real.

And I have to sit there and pretend it doesn't kill me.

⸻

I know the rules.

I know I'm not supposed to want more.

I know I'm supposed to be good.

I know I'm supposed to keep my mouth shut, play nice, not let my jealousy show.

But some days, it burns too hot.

Some days, I can still feel his lips on my skin from the night before.

Some days, I watch the way he touches her, and all I can think is--

He should be touching me like that.

⸻

I don't mean to brat.

Not really.

But I can feel it building, sharp and ugly inside me, every second I have to watch him be himself with her.

Not the real him.

Not mine.

But the version of him that still belongs to the world.

The version of him that still acts like he doesn't crave me the second she's gone.

The one I fucking hate.

⸻

It starts small.

A pout. A sharp look. A little dig over breakfast.

Nothing major. Just enough to remind him that I see.

Just enough to remind him that I know what's under his skin better than anyone.

That I know he aches for me too.

That no matter how much he pretends, he'll always come back to me.

He catches my eyes across the table. His gaze darkens.

I smirk.

⸻

By midday, I'm worse.

I don't answer when he calls.

I roll my eyes when he tells me what to do.

I leave the room when he walks in, just to hear the way his breath stutters like he wants to drag me back.

I test him.

I make him wait.

I push.

And push.

And push.

Because I want him to snap.

Because I want him to show me who I belong to.

Because I want to see just how much he can take before he loses control.

⸻

By the time she's gone for the night, my chest is tight with it.

The jealousy. The resentment. The fucking hunger.

I hear the front door click shut, and my whole body thrums with anticipation.

I should be good now.

I should let it go.

But I don't.

Instead, I strip down to nothing and wait for him.

Because I don't just want him to take me tonight.

I want him to break me.

I want him to ruin me.

I want to feel the fury in his touch.

I want to feel the jealousy in his teeth on my throat.

I want him to fuck the brat out of me until I can't think, can't move, can't breathe without knowing exactly who I belong to.

Even if it hurts.

Even if I beg.

Even if I cry.

Especially if I cry.

⸻

It starts with restraint.

I don't expect it, but I should have.

I've been teasing him all day, pushing, bratting, testing the edges of his patience just to see how far I can go before he snaps.

Sometimes pretending we don't love each other makes me bitchy.

I'm naked and bound, wrists tied above my head, my legs spread wide and secured to the bedposts.

She just left and he's just sitting there.

Watching me.

Not touching.

Not speaking.

Just waiting.

Like he knows I'm not ready yet.

Like he knows I'll only get worse if he lets the silence stretch long enough.

And fuck--he's right.

I try to move, try to shift my hips, try to get any kind of friction. But the ropes keep me still.

I huff, glaring up at him, knowing I'm about to regret my next words before they even leave my mouth.

"Are you gonna do something, or just sit there like a little bitch?"

The change is instant.

One second, he's calm, controlled, perfectly composed.

The next, his hand is on my throat, squeezing just hard enough to make my pulse jump.

I gasp.

His grip tightens.

And then he leans in, voice low and dark and so fucking certain.

"You really don't know when to quit, do you?"

My breath stutters.

I should stop.

I should.

But I don't.

Because this is the game.

I push, he pulls.

I brat, he puts me in my place.

And that place?

Is right here.

Tied down. Open. Waiting.

His.

So I smirk. "Maybe you should teach me, Daddy."

His jaw tics.

His fingers flex against my throat.

And then he lets go.

Just like that.

Not because he's letting me win.

Because he's about to drag this out just to make me pay for it.

He unbuttons his shirt slowly, rolling up the sleeves, his movements deliberate, controlled, measured.

Like he has all the time in the world.

Like he's not in a rush.

Like he knows the moment he finally touches me, I'm going to fall apart completely.

I bite my lip, shifting again. "You know, Daddy--"

Crack.

The first slap lands right between my thighs, his palm meeting slick, aching heat.

I jerk, moaning, struggling against the restraints.

"Fucking--"

Crack.

Another.

Harder.

The sharp sting fades into heat, the kind that makes me shudder, the kind that makes my head go fuzzy.

The kind that makes me drip for him.

But it's not enough.

Not nearly fucking enough.

"Is that all you've got?" I pant, lifting my chin. "Because I thought you were supposed to be in charge."

His eyes darken.

And then he moves.

Fast.

He grabs the vibrator from the nightstand, presses it right against my clit, and turns it on high.

I scream.

My back arches off the bed.

The rope bites into my wrists as I jerk, struggle, sob.

"Oh, what's wrong, Babygirl?" His voice is mocking, sweet, cruel. "I thought you wanted more."

I can't think.

I can't breathe.

It's too much, too fast, too strong--

And then--

He lifts it away.

I choke on a sob, blinking up at him, panting, desperate, fucking wrecked.

"Daddy, please--"

He clicks his tongue. "You don't get to beg yet."

His fingers trail down my stomach, slow, teasing.

Then--

Crack.

Another slap.

Right on my clit.

My whole body jerks, pleasure and pain mixing until I can't tell the difference.

Until I don't want to.

"Do you still think you're in charge, sweetheart?"

I shake my head frantically.

He smirks. "Good girl."

The vibrator presses back against me.

I sob.

"Now," he murmurs. "You're going to cum for me. But you're not going to speak. Not going to move. Not going to do a single fucking thing unless I tell you to."

I nod wildly, already so fucking close.

"Good," he breathes. "Now show me who you belong to."

And then--

He pushes me over.

I shatter, fall apart completely, screaming for him, because of him, coming so hard it hurts.

I barely feel the bed dip as he releases my wrists.

I barely register the warmth of his body when he gathers me in his arms, holding me tight.

All I know is that he owns me.

And I never want him to stop.

I didn't know it then.

Didn't realize.

But looking back, I should have seen it.

Because this wasn't just punishment.

This wasn't just control.

It was training.

⸻

I wasn't supposed to be in here.

Not in his office.

Not alone.

But the door was open. Just a crack. Just enough to make me wonder why he always told me not to.

I tell myself I'm just being curious. That I'll take a quick look and leave. But as soon as I step inside, I feel it.

The weight of it.

Like I shouldn't be here.

Like I've just crossed some invisible line.

And then I see it.

His laptop.

Still open.

A single browser tab, just slightly minimized.

I shouldn't.

I should turn around, pretend I never saw it, pretend I don't feel this pull, pretend I don't need to know.

But I do.

I need to know.

So I click.

And the moment the screen brightens, my breath catches.

A bookmarked folder.

Training.

Diagrams. Rules. Techniques.

Lessons.

He's been learning how to make me his.

And now, I understand.

This whole time, I thought I was breaking.

But he's been building me.

Piece by piece.

And I think... I want more.