Daddy's Anal Sex Slave

Daddy’s Anal Sex Slave

Nym Hexel

Cameron Dread sat behind the heavy oak desk in his home office, the late afternoon light cutting through the blinds in sharp stripes across the polished wood. At forty-six he still carried the solid build of a man who had once played college football, shoulders broad under the open collar of his white dress shirt, dark hair silvering at the temples, a neatly trimmed beard framing a firm jaw. His eyes were a cold steel gray that rarely softened. The room smelled of leather, old paper, and the faint trace of the whiskey he kept in the bottom drawer. Stacks of contracts and a glowing laptop sat ignored while he leaned back in the leather chair, one hand resting on the armrest, the other curled loosely around a half-empty glass.

The door opened without a knock. Emma Dread stepped inside, nineteen years old, barefoot, wearing only a thin white tank top that clung to her small, firm breasts and a pair of plain cotton panties. Her long chestnut hair hung loose down her back, a few strands sticking to the faint sheen of nervous sweat on her neck. She was slender, almost delicate, with the soft curves of a body that had only recently finished growing into womanhood—narrow waist, the gentle swell of hips, long legs that still looked a little coltish. Her face was pretty in a quiet way, high cheekbones, full lips that trembled slightly, and wide hazel eyes that darted around the room before settling on the floor.

“Close the door,” Cameron said, voice low and even.

Emma shut it. The click of the latch sounded too loud. She stayed near the threshold, arms crossed over her chest.

“You know what to do.”

She shook her head once, a small, tight movement. “Dad, please. I don’t want to. Not again.”

Cameron set the glass down with deliberate care. “Crawl.”

Emma’s breath hitched. She glanced at the thick carpet, then back at him, protest already forming. “I’m not— I can’t just—”

“Crawl to me, Emma. Now.”

Her shoulders slumped. Slowly, reluctantly, she dropped to her knees. The carpet was soft under her palms as she began to move forward on all fours, the tank top hanging loose, the soft weight of her breasts shifting with each careful advance. Cameron watched without speaking, his gaze tracking the sway of her ass, the way the thin cotton of her panties rode up into the cleft between her cheeks. She kept her head down, cheeks burning, muttering under her breath.

“This isn’t right. You’re my father. You can’t keep making me—”

“Louder,” he said. “I want to hear you.”

She lifted her chin just enough to speak clearly, voice thin and unhappy. “I don’t want this, Daddy. Please stop.”

Cameron’s mouth curved in the barest hint of a smile. He spread his legs wider, the expensive fabric of his trousers stretching over thick thighs. “Closer.”

Emma crawled the last few feet until she was between his knees. The heat of his body reached her even through the clothing. She could smell the clean scent of his skin mixed with a faint trace of cologne and the sharper note of arousal already beginning to rise. Her hands rested on the carpet, fingers curling into the fibers as if she could dig herself ...