DevotedSub's Taboo Collection

Daddy's Girls

Vol. 2

Eleven stories of daddies who never waver

Taken

The last thing mamacita saw before the bag went over her head was the parking lot lights going black, one by one, and a man's voice low in her ear saying, "Quiet, little girl. You're mine now."

She was twenty-seven years old. The man who took her was thirty-four, six-foot-two, and he carried her the last fifty feet like she weighed nothing at all.

*

The Locking of the Door

The basement room had no windows. One door, steel, bolted from the outside. A mattress on the floor, a chain coiled on the wall, a bucket, and a single bulb hanging from the ceiling that never went out. Mamacita sat on the mattress with her wrists still bound in front of her, breathing fast, when the door opened and he stepped in and closed it behind him and turned the lock with a sound like a bell tolling.

"Look at me," he said.

She looked. Thirty-four years old, black hair shaved close on the sides, a scar through his left eyebrow, tattoos crawling up his neck and both forearms. His eyes were dark and completely calm, and that was worse than any anger would have been. He was big the way danger is big — not gym big, but lean and hard, shoulders filling the black t-shirt, jeans hanging off narrow hips.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Ma—" Her throat closed. "Mamacita."

He smiled, slow. "That's right. That's what I call you. That's what you'll answer to. Do you know what my name is?"

She shook her head.

"Papicito." He said it like it was a fact carved in stone. "You can also call me domdaddy. Or papi. Those are the only names I answer to from you. Say them."

"P-papicito," she whispered.

"Louder. Like you mean it."

"Papicito." Her voice cracked.

"Better." He crossed the room and knelt in front of her, and she pressed herself back against the wall until her skull hit concrete. He took her bound wrists in one hand, gently, and with his other hand he cut the zip-tie with a pocket knife, flicking it open one-handed. Her hands fell free, red and sore, and she started to sob with relief — and then he caught her chin and tilted her face up, and the tenderness was gone like a slammed door.

"Here's how this works, mamacita," he said. "I saw you three weeks ago at that bar on San Felipe. You smiled at the bartender and I decided. You're mine. I took you. This is the room. There is no lock on your side. There is no window. There is no one coming. And I am going to keep you here until you understand that you belong to me."

"Please," she whispered. "Please let me go."

"No." He stood up and stripped his shirt off over his head in one motion. "And here's the second thing. I'm going to fuck you tonight. I'm going to keep fucking you until you beg for it. And you're going to beg."

Her breath came in short, sharp pulls. "You can't—"

"I can. Watch me." He unbuttoned his jeans.

*

The First Breaking

He didn't touch her right away. He sat on the mattress edge and told her to come to him, and when she shook her head he stood, walked to her, and dragged her by the ankle across the concrete floor until her head was at his boots. Then he crouched and gathered her hair in his fist — hard, enough to sting — and hauled her face up.

"Strip," he said.

She fumbled at her dress with shaking hands. It was a cheap sundress, yellow, and she tore the shoulder seam getting it off. Then her bra, then her panties, and she knelt there naked on cold concrete while he looked at her the way a man looks at a meal.

"Beautiful," he said. "Stand up. Let me see all of you."

She stood. His hands came up — rough, calloused — and cupped her tits, thumbs dragging over her nipples until they stiffened, and then he squeezed, hard, and she gasped.

"These are mine now," he said. "Say it."

"They're — yours." The words felt hot in her mouth.

"All of you is mine. Your mouth. Your tits. Your pussy. Your ass. Your throat. Say it all."

She said it all, stumbling, crying a little, and he nodded, satisfied, and pushed her down to her knees in front of him.

"Open."

He fed her his cock. He was big — thick, veined, the head dark purple and leaking — and he pushed past her lips without ceremony, straight to the back of her throat, and held her head there. She gagged, her throat convulsing around him, eyes watering, and he groaned deep in his chest.

"That's it, mamacita. Take your papicito's cock. Swallow it. Choke on it. I want to feel your throat squeezing me."

She couldn't breathe. Her nose pressed into his coarse pubic hair, her throat full of him, and her hands came up instinctively to push at his thighs — and he grabbed both her wrists in one hand and pinned them behind her back with the other hand still fisting her hair.

"No hands," he growled. "Your hands don't get to touch me unless I say so. Your mouth is mine to use."

He fucked her face. There was no other word for it — long, deep strokes, pulling almost all the way out and ramming back in, her lips stretched wide around his girth, drool running down her chin and dripping onto her tits. Every thrust punched a gag out of her and he rode through it, groaning.

"Fuck, your mouth — so fucking tight, so fucking wet. You're going to learn to take all of me, mamacita. You're going to deep throat your domdaddy like a good little slut."

He came down her throat without warning — hot ropes pulsing, filling her mouth, and she tried to pull back and he held her skull locked in place.

"Swallow," he ordered. "Every drop. If you spit, I'll make you lick it off the floor."

She swallowed, gagging, tears streaming down her face, and he kept thrusting through it, milking himself dry in her mouth, and when he finally pulled out she gasped for air, coughing, strings of spit and cum hanging from her lips.

"Look at you," he said softly, wiping her chin with his thumb and pushing it into her mouth. "Suck it clean."

She sucked his thumb, dazed, and he smiled.

"Good girl. My good little devoted. Now turn around. Hands and knees. I'm going to fuck that pussy raw."

She did as she was told — she was shaking too hard to do anything else — and he knelt behind her and ran his hand down her spine, pressing her chest into the mattress, ass high in the air. Then his mouth was on her pussy from behind, tongue lapping through her folds, and she screamed.

She was soaking wet. Terrified, humiliated, furious — and dripping. His tongue found her clit and flicked it, hard and fast, and his fingers spread her open so he could spit directly onto her hole.

"Look at this," he growled against her. "You're fucking soaked, mamacita. Your body already knows who it belongs to. Your cunt is begging for your papicito."

"No—" she moaned, but her hips were rocking back against his face.

He ate her like a starving man — tongue deep inside her, nose grinding her clit, sucking her lips into his mouth, growling into her pussy. Two fingers slid into her, curling, finding the spot that made her vision go white, and his thumb pressed against her asshole, teasing, circling.

"Please," she whimpered. "Please, I—"

"Please what?" He bit her inner thigh, hard enough to bruise. "Please stop, or please don't stop?"

She couldn't answer. He stood, and she heard his jeans hit the floor, and then the head of his cock was at her entrance, hot and thick, and he pushed in with one long, brutal stroke that buried him to the hilt.

She screamed into the mattress. He was so big, so deep, stretching her wide, and he didn't wait — he started pounding, hips slamming into her ass, balls slapping her clit with every stroke.

"This pussy is mine," he grunted, each word punctuated by a thrust. "Say it. Tell me who owns this pussy."

"You do," she gasped. "Papicito owns it—"

"Louder."

"YOU DO! Papicito owns my pussy!"

He reached under her and found her clit, rubbing it in hard circles while he fucked her, and she came so violently her arms gave out and her face hit the mattress. He didn't slow down. He fucked her through it, and when she tried to crawl away he grabbed her hips and yanked her back onto his cock.

"Where do you think you're going, little girl? I'm not done with you. I'm never done with you."

He flipped her onto her back without pulling out — a brutal twist that made her cry out — and drove back into her missionary, her legs shoved up over his shoulders, his full weight pinning her down. His mouth crashed onto hers, tongue forcing past her lips, and she tasted herself and him together.

"You're going to cum for me again," he panted against her mouth. "You're going to cum on your domdaddy's cock and you're going to scream my name."

She did. The second orgasm ripped through her and she screamed "PAPICITO!" into his mouth, nails raking down his back, and he roared and came inside her — thick, hot, flooding her, his cock jerking and pulsing as he filled her pussy full of his cum.

He collapsed on top of her, breathing hard, still inside her, and bit her neck — hard — marking her.

"Mine," he said. "Say it."

"Yours," she whispered into the dark. "I'm yours."

*

The Second Night

He brought food. A plate of rice and beans, a bottle of water. He sat on the mattress and fed her with his fingers, bite by bite, and she ate because she was starving, and because when she hesitated he held her jaw and said, "Eat. I need you strong. I'm going to use you hard tonight."

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, quiet.

"Because you're mine," he said simply. "I saw you and I knew. Some men wait and hope. I'm not that kind of man. I take."

"That's insane."

"Maybe." He wiped her mouth with his thumb. "But your pussy was dripping for me last night, mamacita. Your body isn't insane. Your body knows."

She looked away, shame burning her face, because it was true and she hated that it was true.

"Tonight," he said, "I'm going to teach you how to please your papicito properly. Get on your knees."

She knelt. He stood in front of her, fully clothed, and unzipped.

"Take my cock out. With your teeth."

She leaned in, teeth catching the zipper, tugging it down. Then his boxers, teeth on the waistband, pulling them down until his cock sprang free, hard already, bobbing in front of her face.

"Good. Now worship it. Lick it. All over. Like it's the most precious thing you've ever tasted."

She licked. Slow strokes up the shaft, tongue swirling around the head, tasting the salt of his pre-cum. He groaned and fisted her hair — not yanking, just holding, guiding.

"That's it. Use your tongue, mamacita. Show your domdaddy how much you love his cock."

She took him deeper, relaxing her throat the way he'd forced her to learn last night, and he slid all the way in, his balls resting on her chin. She breathed through her nose and held him there, throat working around him, and he swore.

"Fuck — you're learning. My little devoted is learning. Now suck. Hard."

She sucked, cheeks hollowing, tongue pressing the underside of his shaft, and he started thrusting gently into her mouth, holding her head steady. Drool ran down her chin. She moaned around him, vibrating him, and he groaned louder.

"Play with my balls," he ordered. "Cup them. Gentle."

She did, cradling them in her palm, rolling them softly, and his whole body shuddered. She looked up at him through her lashes — and saw the raw hunger in his face, and something hot and dark unfurled low in her belly. Power, inverted: she was on her knees, but she was doing this to him. He was at her mercy in this one small way, and he knew it, and he let her have it.

Then he pulled out of her mouth, breathing hard, and yanked her to her feet by her hair.

"Enough. You did too good a job. Now I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk."

He bent her over the edge of the mattress — her torso on the bed, feet on the concrete, ass in the air — and drove into her from behind, standing. The angle was savage, his cock spearing deep, hitting something inside her that made her scream with every stroke.

"Who's fucking you?" he demanded, gripping her hips hard enough to leave fingerprints.

"Papicito!"

"Who owns this ass?"

"You do!"

He pulled out, slick with her juices, and pressed his thumb against her asshole. She stiffened.

"Please— I've never—"

"I know," he said, and there was something almost tender in it, and then it was gone. "Relax. I'm going to take your ass tonight, mamacita. Every hole. You're mine everywhere."

He spat on her asshole, worked his thumb in slowly, stretching her, and she whimpered, clutching the mattress. Then a second finger, scissoring gently, and his other hand reached under her to rub her clit.

"You're so tight," he murmured. "So fucking tight. I'm going to ruin this ass for any other man. Not that there'll ever be another man."

He eased his cock against her, the head pressing in, and she cried out at the burn, the stretch. He went slow — for him — inch by inch, letting her adjust, his hand never leaving her clit.

"Breathe, little girl. Take it. Take your papicito."

When he was fully seated, balls deep in her ass, she was shaking and crying and so turned on she could barely think. Then he started to move — slow, deep strokes — and the pain melted into something else, something full and filthy and overwhelming.

"Oh god — papi —" she moaned.

"That's right. Papi's in your ass. Papi owns your ass." He sped up, pounding into her, the mattress scraping across the concrete. "You like it, don't you? You filthy little thing. You love having your domdaddy's cock in your tight little ass."

"Yes," she sobbed. "Yes, I love it, I love it—"

He came in her ass with a roar, flooding her, and she came with him, clit pulsing under his fingers, her whole body convulsing. He held her pinned, cock buried deep, until the last spasm faded.

Then he pulled out, turned her around, and pushed her to her knees.

"Clean me," he said. "Lick your ass off my cock. Every inch."

She did — tongue licking him clean, tasting herself on him, humiliated and burning — and he watched her with dark, satisfied eyes.

"Good girl," he said. "My devoted. Now get on the bed. I'm not finished."

He fucked her three more times that night — missionary with her legs spread wide and his thumb in her mouth for her to suck; doggy with her face pressed into the pillow, screaming; and finally with her on top, riding him, his hands gripping her hips and slamming her down onto his cock while she rode him to a shattering orgasm, his cum filling her pussy for the third time that night. She fell asleep on his chest, sticky and sore and wrecked, and he held her there, arms locked around her like a cage she was starting to stop wanting to escape.

*

The Collar

On the third day he brought a collar. Black leather, thick, with a steel ring at the front and the word DEVOTED stamped into it in silver letters.

He held it up and she stared at it, her throat dry.

"Come here, mamacita."

She went to him. She didn't even think about not going — her feet just moved. He fastened the collar around her neck, snug, the leather warm from his hands, and clipped a short chain to the ring. He held the other end.

"There," he said, satisfaction rumbling in his voice. "Now everyone who sees you knows. You're mine. My devoted. My little sub. Say it."

"I'm yours," she whispered. "I'm your devoted, papicito."

He yanked the chain, not hard, just enough to pull her face up to his, and kissed her — deep, possessive, tongue claiming her mouth. "Good girl."

Then he led her by the chain to the corner of the room where he'd set up a camping shower — a bag of warm water hanging from a pipe, a drain in the concrete.

"Strip the collar stays on," he said. "I'm going to wash you. And then I'm going to dirty you up again."

He undressed her slowly, reverently almost, and then himself, and under the warm trickle of water he soaped his hands and ran them all over her body — her neck, her shoulders, her tits, cupping them, thumbs circling her nipples until she was gasping. His soapy hand slid down her belly and between her legs, fingers working through her folds, cleaning her and teasing her at the same time.

"Spread your legs," he ordered. "Let your papicito wash his pussy."

She spread, water running down her thighs, and he crouched in front of her, face level with her cunt, and washed her with his mouth — tongue lapping through her soapy folds, cleaning every inch, then sucking her clit hard, making her cry out and clutch at his wet hair.

"Papicito — oh fuck —"

He stood, water streaming off his hard body, his cock thick and heavy against his thigh, and turned her to face the wall. "Hands on the wall. Ass out."

He soaped his cock, stroking it slow, watching her, and then pressed it against her asshole — still slick from the soap — and pushed in. She moaned, low and filthy, pushing back against him, taking him deeper.

"That's my girl," he growled, gripping her hips, water pounding down on both of them. "Taking your domdaddy's cock in your ass like you were made for it. You were made for it, weren't you? Made to be fucked by me. Every hole. Every day."

"Yes," she gasped. "Yes, papi, made for you—"

He fucked her ass hard under the water, the wet slap of skin echoing off the concrete, one hand reaching around to finger her pussy, two fingers pumping in and out while his cock pounded her ass. She came screaming, water in her mouth, her whole body shaking, and he kept going, driving into her until he erupted deep in her ass, groaning her name.

"Mamacita. Fuck. My mamacita."

He pulled out and spun her around, shoved her to her knees on the wet concrete, and pushed his dripping cock into her mouth.

"Suck it clean, little girl. Taste your ass on your papicito's cock. You love it. I can see it in your eyes."

She sucked him clean, tongue swirling, throat working, tasting soap and sex and him — and she did love it. The realization hit her like a wave: she loved it. She loved being on her knees for him, loved the collar around her neck, loved the filthy things he made her do.

He pulled her up, kissed her hard, tasting himself in her mouth, and carried her to the mattress — actually lifted her, water and all — and laid her down.

"Now I'm going to eat your pussy until you beg me to stop," he said. "And then I'm going to keep going."

He buried his face between her legs and didn't come up for air for what felt like forever. Tongue lashing her clit, lips sucking her folds, fingers — two, then three — fucking into her, curling, hitting that spot that made her scream. He licked her from clit to asshole and back, rimming her gently while his fingers worked her pussy, and she thrashed on the mattress, the chain of her collar rattling.

"Please — papicito — please, I can't—"

"You can." He sucked her clit into his mouth and flicked it with his tongue, relentless. "Cum for me. Cum all over your domdaddy's face. I want to wear it."

She came with a scream that tore her throat, gushing, soaking his face and the mattress, and he lapped it all up, growling, and then crawled up her body and kissed her, smearing her own wetness across her lips.

"Taste yourself," he said. "Taste how sweet my devoted is."

Then he was inside her — missionary, deep, slow at first, letting her feel every inch — and then harder, faster, the mattress sliding on the wet concrete, her legs wrapped around his waist, nails digging into his shoulders.

"Who do you belong to?" he panted.

"You! Papicito! I belong to papicito!"

"Who's your domdaddy?"

"You are! You're my domdaddy!"

He flipped her onto her stomach without pulling out, yanked her hips up, and fucked her from behind, one hand fisted in her hair, pulling her head back, the other hand gripping the chain of her collar, using it as a rein.

"That's it. My filthy little pet. My devoted sub. Take it. Take all of me."

She came again, screaming into the mattress, and he roared and filled her pussy with his cum — the second load inside her that day — collapsing on top of her, both of them soaked and shaking.

He didn't pull out. He stayed inside her, wrapped around her, and for a long time the only sound was their breathing.

"Tell me," he said quietly, into her hair. "Tell me the truth, mamacita. Are you still waiting to be rescued?"

She was quiet for a long time. Then, in a voice so small he had to strain to hear it: "No."

"No?"

"No," she said, louder. "I'm not waiting anymore."

His arms tightened around her. "Good girl."

*

The Breaking Point

On the fifth day, he left the door unlocked.

She found it by accident — she pushed against it, expecting the bolt, and it swung open onto a dark hallway. Her heart hammered. She stood in the doorway, naked except for the collar, staring at the hallway, at the faint light at the far end that had to be stairs, had to be outside, had to be freedom.

She took one step. Then another.

And then she heard his voice behind her, calm as still water: "Going somewhere, mamacita?"

She froze. Turned. He was sitting on the mattress, watching her, his expression unreadable.

"The door's open," she whispered. "You left it open."

"I know."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to see." He stood, slowly. "I wanted to see if my devoted would run."

Her breath came fast. The hallway was right there. Freedom was right there. All she had to do was run —

She didn't move.

"Why aren't you running?" he asked, walking toward her.

"I—" Her voice broke. "I don't know."

"Yes, you do." He stopped in front of her, so close she could feel his heat. "Say it."

Tears spilled down her cheeks. "Because I don't want to go."

"Why not?"

"Because—" She choked on it. "Because I belong to you. Because when I'm with you I feel — I feel like I'm finally where I'm supposed to be. Because you see me. Because you want me like no one ever has. Because I'm yours, papicito. I'm yours and I don't want to be anyone else's."

He stared at her for a long moment. Then he smiled — the first real smile she'd ever seen on him, wide and fierce and triumphant — and he grabbed her, lifted her off her feet, and kissed her like he was drowning and she was air.

"My girl," he growled against her mouth. "My devoted. My mamacita. You chose me."

"I choose you," she sobbed, wrapping her legs around his waist. "I choose you, papi. Please — please take me. Take me now. I need you inside me."

He carried her back to the mattress, still kissing her, and threw her down. She spread her legs wide for him, shameless, desperate, arching her back, offering herself.

"Please, papicito. Fuck me. Fuck your devoted. I need your cock. I need it so bad—"

"Beg for it," he said, stripping fast, his cock already rock hard. "Beg like you mean it."

"Please, papi, please fuck me, please put your big cock inside me, I need it, I need you to fill me up, please, I'm begging you—"

He drove into her in one brutal stroke and she screamed with pure pleasure, her back bowing off the mattress. He fucked her like a man possessed — hard, deep, relentless — and she met every thrust, hips bucking up, nails clawing his back, screaming his name.

"Yes! Yes, papicito! Fuck me! Fuck your mamacita! Harder! Harder, domdaddy!"

He pulled out, flipped her over, yanked her up onto her knees, and took her from behind, one hand gripping her collar chain, pulling her back against him with every thrust.

"You chose this," he grunted. "You chose me. Say it."

"I chose you! I chose you, papi! I'm yours! I'm yours forever!"

He reached around and rubbed her clit hard and fast, and she exploded, screaming, her pussy clenching around his cock like a fist. He held her hips and pounded through it, and then he was coming too — roaring, flooding her pussy, his cock jerking inside her, filling her so full his cum leaked out around him and ran down her thighs.

He collapsed beside her, pulled her into his arms, and she curled against his chest, trembling, crying — not from fear, not anymore, but from the overwhelming, shattering relief of finally, finally surrendering completely.

"Shh," he murmured, stroking her hair. "I've got you. I've always had you. Now you know it too."

*

The Longest Night

On the sixth night he didn't feed her dinner. He fed her himself.

He came into the room naked, cock already half-hard, and pointed at the floor in front of him. "On your knees, mamacita. You're not eating food tonight. You're eating your papicito."

She dropped to her knees instantly, mouth already watering, and he grabbed a fistful of her hair and dragged her face to his cock.

"Open wide, little girl. I'm going to fuck your throat until you cry, and you're going to thank me for it."

He shoved in deep — no warmup, no mercy — his cock hitting the back of her throat so hard she gagged instantly, eyes watering, nose buried in his pubes. He held her there, grinding, letting her throat convulse around him, and then pulled back just enough to let her gasp one breath before ramming back in.

"That's it. Choke on it. Fuck, your throat is so tight — so fucking tight around my cock — you're my perfect little cocksucker, aren't you?"

She couldn't answer — her mouth was stuffed full — so she moaned around him, the vibration making him groan, and he started really fucking her face: brutal, deep strokes, his balls slapping her chin, drool pouring out of her stretched lips and running down her neck onto her tits.

He pulled out suddenly, strings of spit connecting his glistening cock to her swollen lips, and slapped her cheek with it — once, twice — leaving wet streaks on her face.

"Lick it," he ordered. "Lick the head. Swirl your tongue. I want to see how bad you want it."

She licked like her life depended on it — tongue swirling, lapping at the slit, tasting his salt — and he groaned and shoved back into her mouth, deeper than before, until his balls rested on her chin and her throat was stretched wide around him.

"Hold it," he growled. "Don't breathe. Just hold your domdaddy's cock in your throat."

She held it, eyes streaming, throat working convulsively, and he counted — "One... two... three..." — all the way to ten before he let her pull back, gasping, coughing, spit flying.

"Again," he said.

He face-fucked her until her jaw ached and her throat was raw and her face was a mess of drool and tears — and she loved every second of it, moaning around him, her pussy dripping onto the concrete floor beneath her knees.

"Please," she whimpered when he pulled out to let her breathe. "Please, papi, I need more—"

"More what? Say it filthy. I want to hear how dirty my devoted is."

"Please fuck my mouth more, papicito — I need your big hard cock in my throat — I want you to use my mouth like your personal fucktoy — please—"

"Good girl," he snarled, and rammed back in, and this time when he came he held her nose shut — she had to swallow or suffocate — and she swallowed, great convulsing gulps, his cum shooting down her throat in thick ropes, and he kept thrusting through it, pumping every last drop into her.

When he finally pulled out she collapsed forward, gasping, cum leaking from the corners of her mouth, and he crouched down, grabbed her chin, and kissed her — deep, tasting himself on her tongue.

"You're a mess," he said, wiping her face with his hand and pushing his cum-slicked fingers into her mouth. "Suck them clean. My filthy, beautiful mess."

She sucked his fingers, dazed and burning, and he stood and hauled her up by the arm.

"Get on the bed. On your back. Legs spread. I'm going to destroy that pussy."

She scrambled onto the mattress and spread wide, and he was on her in seconds — no foreplay, just lining up and driving in to the hilt in one savage stroke that made her scream.

"Fuck — you're so wet — so fucking wet for me —" He pounded her, the mattress banging against the wall, her tits bouncing with every thrust. "This is what you wanted, isn't it? This is what your filthy little cunt has been begging for all day."

"Yes! Yes, papicito! Fuck me! Fuck me hard!"

He grabbed her legs and shoved them back, folding her nearly in half, driving deeper — impossibly deep — and she screamed, nails raking his arms.

"Who's your daddy?" he roared.

"You are! You're my domdaddy!"

"Who owns this pussy?"

"You do! Papicito owns my pussy!"

He pulled out, flipped her onto her stomach, yanked her hips up, and slammed back into her — doggy, brutal, his hand cracking down on her ass, hard. She screamed at the sting, and he spanked her again, harder, leaving red handprints.

"Count them," he ordered, spanking her again.

"One!"

Another crack. "Two!"

"Three!" She was sobbing, her ass burning, her pussy throbbing. "Please, papi, more—"

He laughed, dark and pleased, and spanked her until she was counting through tears, her ass glowing red, and then he fisted her hair, yanked her head back, and fucked her harder — punishing strokes that drove her face into the mattress.

"You like being punished, don't you, you filthy little slut?" he growled. "You like your domdaddy being rough with you. You like being used."

"Yes! Yes, I love it! I'm your filthy slut, papicito! Use me! Use me however you want!"

He pulled out of her dripping pussy and shoved into her ass — no warning, one hard thrust — and she screamed, the stretch burning, and he didn't wait, just started pounding her ass while his fingers found her clit and rubbed it viciously.

"Take it! Take your papi's cock in your tight little ass! You're going to cum for me — you're going to squirt all over this bed —"

She came with a scream that shook the walls — gushing, squirting, soaking the mattress — and he roared and pulled out and shot his load all over her ass and back, thick white ropes striping her red, spanked skin, dripping down her thighs.

"Don't move," he ordered. "Stay right there, covered in my cum. Let me look at you. My perfect, filthy, devoted little whore."

She stayed — ass in the air, dripping, shaking — and he stood over her, stroking his cock back to hardness just looking at her.

"Turn over," he said. "I want to see my cum on your tits."

She rolled onto her back, and he straddled her chest, feeding her his cock again — she sucked eagerly, tasting herself and him — and then he pulled out and finished with his hand, pumping hard, aiming down at her tits, shooting thick ropes across her breasts and neck and chin, marking her.

"Rub it in," he said. "Rub your papicito's cum into your tits."

She did — hands slicking his cum over her breasts, over her nipples, moaning at how filthy it felt — and he watched with burning eyes, and then he bent down and licked it off her — tongue lapping his own cum from her tits, sucking her nipples clean, growling.

Then he kissed her, pushing the taste into her mouth, and she swallowed it, whimpering.

"You're mine," he said, lying down beside her and pulling her sticky, wrecked body against his. "Every drop of you. Every hole. Every scream. Mine."

"Yours," she whispered, licking cum from her own lip. "Forever yours, papicito."

He held her until she slept — covered in him, marked by him, completely, utterly his. And in the dark, half-dreaming, she whispered his names like a litany — papicito, domdaddy, papi — and he answered by pulling her tighter against him, his hand possessive on her hip, his breath hot in her hair. Even in sleep she arched into him, her body seeking his, her lips parting for his kiss. He kissed her deeply, tasting the salt and sex on her mouth, and she moaned in her dreams and spread her thighs for him, wet and ready even unconscious, and he slid two fingers into her slick heat just to feel her clench around him, just to remind her sleeping body who it belonged to. "Mine," he breathed against her lips, and in her sleep she whispered back, "yours."

*

Devoted

After that, everything changed — and nothing changed. He still locked the door. She still wore the collar. He still took her whenever he wanted, however he wanted. The difference was that now she wanted it too — craved it, begged for it, lived for it.

He woke her on the seventh morning with his head between her thighs, tongue already working her clit, and she moaned and spread wider, threading her fingers through his hair.

"Good morning, mamacita," he said against her pussy, the vibration making her gasp.

"Good morning, papicito," she sighed. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."

He didn't. He ate her slowly, luxuriously, taking his time — licking, sucking, nipping — until she was whimpering and writhing, and then he slid two fingers into her and curled them, and she came on his face with a cry, and he licked her clean, every drop.

"My turn," she said, and he grinned, and she pushed him onto his back and took his cock into her mouth — deep, enthusiastic, worshipful. She'd learned exactly how he liked it: slow at first, tongue swirling the head, then deeper, taking him to the throat, humming around him. She cupped his balls, massaged them gently, and he groaned, hands fisting the mattress.

"Fuck, mamacita. Fuck, your mouth is perfect. You're perfect."

She sucked him harder, bobbing fast, drool running down her chin, and when he warned her he was close she didn't pull back — she took him deeper, and he erupted down her throat, thick hot pulses, and she swallowed every drop, milking him with her throat, and then licked him clean, looking up at him with shining eyes.

"Good girl," he breathed. "My good devoted girl."

That afternoon he chained her to the wall — not as punishment, but because she asked him to. She'd whispered it that morning, shy even now: "Papi... would you chain me up? Like... really restrain me? I want to feel completely helpless. Completely yours."

So he cuffed her wrists to the ring on the wall, spread-eagle, naked and exposed, and he stood back and looked at her — his collar around her neck, her body flushed and trembling — and his eyes went dark with hunger.

"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he said. "My captive. My devoted. Mine."

Then he worshiped her with his mouth — her neck, her tits, sucking her nipples hard, biting gently, licking down her belly — and then he was on his knees in front of her, face buried in her pussy, eating her with deep, hungry groans. She couldn't touch him, couldn't move, could only hang in the chains and take it, screaming, and it was the most erotic thing she'd ever felt.

He uncuffed one wrist, spun her to face the wall, recuffed her, and took her from behind — her cheek pressed to the cold concrete, his cock driving into her pussy, his hand gripping her hair. Then he pulled out and pressed into her ass, slow and deep, and she moaned, pushing back, taking him.

"Papi," she gasped. "Papi, I love it. I love your cock in my ass. I love everything you do to me."

"You're such a filthy little slut for me," he growled, pounding into her. "My filthy devoted slut. Tell me how much you love it."

"I love it so much! I love being chained up for you! I love being your captive! I'm your slut, papicito, your devoted slut, fuck me harder—"

He obliged — harder, deeper, rougher — until she was screaming, until she came so hard her legs gave out and the chains were the only thing holding her up, and he followed her over the edge, filling her ass with his cum, groaning her name like a prayer.

He uncuffed her, carried her to the mattress, and held her while she trembled.

"I love you," she whispered into his chest. "I know it's crazy. I know how this started. But I love you, papi."

He was quiet for a moment. Then: "I love you too, mamacita. I took you because I had to have you. I'd burn the world down before I'd let you go."

*

Claimed

On the tenth day, he brought her upstairs.

She blinked in the daylight streaming through real windows — a normal house, a kitchen, a living room — and she laughed, a little hysterical, because it was all so ordinary. He led her to the bedroom — a real bed, clean sheets — and laid her down on it like she was precious.

"Tonight," he said, "no chains. No collar —" he unfastened it, set it aside "— no orders. Just us. I want to make love to my devoted."

"Papicito," she whispered, tears in her eyes, "I don't know if I remember how to do it gentle."

"Then I'll teach you," he said, and he kissed her — slow, tender, devastating.

What followed was the most intense night of all, because it was chosen — every touch, every kiss, every thrust given freely and taken freely. He kissed every inch of her body, worshiping her with his mouth and hands, and she did the same to him — licking down his chest, taking his cock into her mouth with love in every stroke, tasting him, savoring him.

When he entered her, it was slow and deep, their eyes locked, and she wrapped her legs around him and held him close, and they moved together like they'd been made for each other.

"I love you," she gasped, as he filled her. "I love you, papi. I'm yours. I'll always be yours."

"And I'm yours," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "Your papicito. Your domdaddy. Forever."

She came with his name on her lips, soft and shattering, and he came inside her, deep, holding her tight, and they stayed locked together, breathing each other in.

After, lying tangled in the sheets, she traced the scar through his eyebrow with her fingertip.

"Will you ever let me leave?" she asked quietly.

He caught her hand, kissed her palm. "The door's been unlocked for three days, mamacita."

She stared at him. "What?"

"I stopped locking it after you chose me. You've been free to walk out every day." He smiled. "You never even checked."

She thought about it — and realized he was right. She hadn't checked. She hadn't wanted to. The room, the collar, the chains — they weren't a prison anymore. They were home.

"I'm not going anywhere," she said, and curled into his chest. "I'm exactly where I belong. With my papicito. His devoted. Forever."

"Forever," he agreed, and he reached for the collar on the nightstand, and fastened it around her neck once more — not as a shackle, but as a promise.

"Mine," he said.

"Yours," she whispered. "Always."

And when he took her again that night — slow, then hard, then slow again, in every position, his mouth on her and her mouth on him — she gave him everything, freely, completely, devotedly. He had her on her knees at the foot of the bed, her mouth stuffed full of his cock, drool running down her chin, and she looked up at him with pure worship in her eyes and moaned around him. He pulled out and bent her over the bed, drove into her dripping pussy from behind, one hand gripping the collar he'd fastened back around her neck, the other spanking her ass raw, and she screamed his name until her voice broke. Then he turned her over, spread her wide, and ate her until she squirted across his face, lapping it all up, growling, before sliding back inside her and fucking her deep and slow, their eyes locked, his cum filling her for the final time that night as she came apart beneath him, whispering "papicito" like a prayer. His captive no longer. His by choice. His mamacita. His devoted sub. His — forever.

The End

Storm-Kept

Chapter One — The Inheritance

The storm had taken her grandmother's roof and given her everything else.

Mamacita was twenty-eight years old when the letter arrived — a solicitor's envelope, cream and stiff, smelling faintly of salt and mildew — informing her that Casa Marejada, the sprawling cliffside estate on the far edge of the coast, was now hers. Her grandmother, the formidable Widow Solana, had died in her sleep at ninety-one, and had left the whole battered, beautiful ruin of a house to the granddaughter who had once spent a single summer there and never stopped dreaming about the sound the waves made against the rocks below the terrace.

She drove there in the rain. Of course it rained. It had rained every day that week, the kind of sideways autumn rain that soaked through coat seams and found every weakness in a windshield. The estate road narrowed to a single lane of gravel and gorse, and then the house appeared between gusts of mist like something risen from the sea itself — three stories of weather-grayed stone, shutters hanging crooked, a wraparound terrace wrapped in dead wisteria, and behind it, nothing but the cliff and the gray-green fury of the ocean.

Mamacita parked the little rental car, pulled her coat tighter, and stepped out into the wind.

The key was heavy iron, black with age, and it turned in the lock with a groan that sounded almost alive. Inside, the air was cold and smelled of dust, old books, and the sea. Sheets draped the furniture like shrouds. A grand piano squatted in the corner of the drawing room, its lid closed, a single candelabrum still standing on top of it.

She stood in the middle of the entrance hall and laughed — a small, startled, happy sound that the high ceiling threw back at her.

"Don't laugh too loud," said a voice behind her. "The house has been sleeping. You'll wake it."

She spun. A man stood in the open doorway, rain streaming off a long black coat, tall and broad-shouldered, his dark hair wet and curling against his collar. He was perhaps forty — no, she would learn later he was thirty-eight — with a face that looked carved rather than made: strong jaw gone rough with stubble, deep-set dark eyes, a mouth that seemed to have forgotten how to smile. The hand holding the doorframe was large, scarred across the knuckles, a plain silver band on his ring finger that he turned slowly with his thumb.

"I didn't hear you come up," she managed.

"You wouldn't. Wind takes the sound." He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, dripping onto the flagstones, and looked around the hall with an expression she couldn't ...