Forbidden Family

A DevotedSub Books Collection

Volume 5

by Devoted Sub

To my husband, my Dom, my Twin Flame. My love, my strength, my courage, and the soul who awakened the parts of me I never knew howto set free.

You believed in me when my own faith had all but vanished. You saw a writer where I saw doubt, a voice where I heard silence, a futurewhere I saw only limits — and gave me the courage to put my wordsinto the world and dare to call myself an author.

You never wrote my stories for me or walked the road in my place. You gave me something more precious: the strength and courage tobelieve I deserved to walk this path, the confidence to believe inmyself, and the faith to know I could do this.

You taught me that when life knocks you down, you get back up, and you never fail. Failure is never found in falling, but in giving up.As long as I keep rising, keep trying, and refuse to surrender, Iwill never truly fail.

If my words reach the world, your love gave them wings. If my stories outlive me, a part of you will live on in every word.

You are my love by choice, my Dom by devotion, my Twin Flame by a bond that transcends the ordinary, and my forever by a promise Icarry willingly.

What is claimed is loved. What is loved is kept. What is kept is bound. What is bound is never abandoned.

And so, upon these pages, I carry the title you bestowed upon me, my most cherished one: Devoted Sub. Not simply a name beneath astory, but a name born of our bond, carried with pride, and foreverentwined with the man who gave it to me.

With all that I am, all that I create, and all that I will ever become,

Forever yours,

Your Devoted Sub.

Contents

1. Daddy's Grown Girl

2. Dungeon day

3. Giulia Owned

4. Happy birthday week

5. His Son's Wife

6. Slow day

7. Space Girl

8. STARBOUND

9. Stepblood

10. Stepdaddy's Girl

11. Stepmama's Boy

12. Storm-Kept

13. Strangers at the bar

14. The Agent Out of Time

15. The emissary's bargain

16. The Lake House Rules

17. The Long Haul

18. The President's Property

19. Through the veil

20. Twin Swap: Masked Party

21. Twin Swap: Wedding After-Party

22. Virgin on Stage

Daddy's Grown Girl

The rain started around midnight, drumming hard against the tin roof of the old house on the edge of town, and Camila lay awake listening to it, twenty-five years old and home again for the first time in four years. The room still smelled like it always had — cedar and old books and the faintest trace of her father's cologne. Everything in this house remembered him. Everything belonged to him, including her. That was the part she'd finally stopped running from.

Down the hall, she heard his bedroom door open. Footsteps, slow and deliberate, coming toward her. Her heart kicked against her ribs.

He filled the doorway like he'd always done — six foot two of coiled, quiet authority, silver threading the black hair at his temples, forty-four years old and looking like he could still outlast any man half his age. Raul. Domdaddy. Papacito, when she was soft and small in his arms and the word slipped out before she could catch it.

- You can't sleep, — he said.
It wasn't a question.

- No, papacito.
She sat up, pulling the blanket around herself, suddenly conscious of how thin her sleep shirt was. She hadn't worn anything to bed she wouldn't have wanted him to see — because she had wanted him to see.

He stepped into the room without asking. He never asked. The door closed behind him with a soft click that sounded, in the dark, like a lock turning.

- Four years you stayed away, — he said.
- Four years of birthdays and holidays and me eating dinner alone at that table, wondering when my girl was coming home.

- Daddy—

- Don't.
His voice dropped lower, and she felt it in her spine.
- You don't get to call me that until I say so. You left. You get to earn it back.

Her breath hitched.
- Yes, papacito.

- Better.
He crossed the room and sat on the edge of her bed, and the mattress dipped under his weight. He took her chin in one large hand, tilting her face up. His thumb traced her lower lip.
- Look at me. Let me see my grown girl.

She was twenty-five. She'd lived in three cities, had a degree, a job, a whole life she'd built to prove she didn't need him. And one touch reduced her to the devoted thing she'd always been. She looked up at him, and the rain kept falling, and his eyes were dark and unreadable and entirely in control.

- You know why you couldn't sleep, — he said.
- Say it.

She swallowed.
- Nour I missed you.

- Nour you missed this.
His thumb pressed her lip, parting it.
- Nour everywhere else, you have to be the strong one, the capable one, the one who decides. And here — here you don't have to be anything but mine. Say it, mamacita.

- Here I'm yours, — she whispered.
- I don't have to be anything but yours.

His hand slid from her chin to the back of her neck, gripping her hair, and pulled her forward until her forehead rested against his shoulder.
- That's my devoted sub. That's my good girl. You remember your place?

- Yes, papacito. Under your hand. Wherever you put me.

He made a low sound of approval that rolled through her like thunder.
- Then here's what's going to happen. You're going to get on your knees for me. Right now. And you're going to show me how sorry you are for staying away four years. Can you do that?

- Yes, papacito.

- Good. And when I'm satisfied, you're going to tell me exactly what you want from me — the truth, all of it — and I'm going to decide what you get.

She slid off the bed and knelt on the hardwood floor at his feet, and the wood was cold against her bare knees. She looked up at him, waiting. She had never felt more like herself than in that moment — on her knees, his, waiting for his command.

- Take my belt off, — he said.

Her hands moved to his waistband. The same black leather belt he'd worn for as long as she could remember, the buckle scuffed at the edges. She unbuckled it slowly, the metal clicking in the quiet room, and drew it from the loops one at a time, the leather whispering through fabric. She folded it in half and held it up to him with both hands, like an offering.

He took it and set it on the bed beside him.
- Unbutton my shirt.

She worked the buttons down his chest with trembling fingers, revealing skin she'd known her whole life and never touched — broad chest, dark hair going silver at the center, the scar on his left collarbone from a motorcycle accident when she was twelve. He watched her face the whole time.

- Now the pants.

She unbuttoned them and slid the zipper down, and his cock sprang free against her face — thick, heavy, already half-hard, the head flushed dark red. She'd dreamed about this. For four years, in three different cities, she'd woken up wet from dreams of exactly this and told herself it was just homesickness. It wasn't homesickness. It was devotion with nowhere to go.

- Suck me, — he said simply.
- Show me what those four years taught you. Or show me what they didn't.

She wrapped one hand around the base of him — he was thicker than her hand could fully close around — and took the head into her mouth. He tasted like salt and skin and something dark and clean, and she moaned around him before she could stop herself, the vibration making him exhale sharply.

His hand fisted in her hair — not gentle, a warning and a promise both — and he pushed her down another inch, the thick head of him nudging the back of her throat. She gagged, her eyes watering, spit flooding her mouth and spilling over her lips, and he held her there, thick and throbbing against her tongue.

- Breathe through your nose, — he ordered, his voice gone dark and rough.
- And take it. Your papacito's cock is going in your throat, mamacita.

She breathed through her nose and relaxed her throat, and he pushed deeper — his thick shaft filling her mouth, stretching her jaw wide. She drooled, tears sliding down her cheeks, her hands gripping his thighs — and he held her head and fucked her throat in slow, deep strokes, his heavy balls slapping her chin.

- That's it, — he growled.
- Take it all. Show your daddy how sorry you are.

She hollowed her cheeks and sucked hard, her tongue working the thick vein on the underside of his shaft, and he groaned, his thighs tensing. Her pussy throbbed, soaking her sleep shirt, dripping onto the hardwood floor.

He pulled out with a wet pop, his cock glistening, pre-come dripping from the head.
- Up, — he said.
- On the bed. That shirt — off.

She stood on shaking legs and pulled the thin sleep shirt over her head. She was naked underneath — she'd worn nothing to bed, hoping. He stared at her — at her full breasts, her soft belly, her glistening pussy — and his eyes went dark with hunger.

- On the bed. On your back. Legs open. Show your papacito what came home to him.

She lay back and spread her legs wide, trembling, her pussy bared and dripping. He stood over her, his thick cock hard and leaking, and dragged two fingers through her soaked folds, making her whimper.

- Four years,
he said quietly, his fingers stroking her,
- and you're still dripping for me. Still my devoted girl.
His fingers pushed into her — two thick fingers stretching her, curling hard — and she cried out, arching off the bed.

- Papacito— — she gasped.

- Shh.
He worked his fingers in her, stroking her inner walls, his thumb finding her clit.
- Let your daddy feel what he missed.

She moaned, her hips moving against his hand, her body responding like it had never been away. He finger-fucked her — deep, deliberate — his thumb grinding her clit — and she shattered, wailing, her pussy clenching around his fingers, her juices flowing over his hand.

- Good girl, — he breathed.
- My good girl comes so pretty.

He withdrew his fingers — glistening — and held them to her lips.
- Suck. Taste how sorry you are.

She sucked his fingers clean, moaning, her pussy throbbing — and he positioned his thick throbbing cockhead at her entrance.

- Who does this pussy belong to? — he asked, his voice low and absolute.

- You, papacito, — she breathed.
- It's yours.

- Say the other name. The one you haven't earned back yet.

She looked up at him — her father, her domdaddy, her everything — tears in her eyes.
- It's yours, daddy, — she whispered.
- My pussy's yours, daddy.

His eyes flared — and he drove into her in one brutal thrust, burying his massive cock to the hilt. Camila screamed — he was so thick, so impossibly big, and her pussy stretched and stretched around his enormous girth, her outer lips pulled taut and glistening as his thick throbbing head forced its way inside her. Her inner walls clung and fluttered around every inch, the stretch burning sweet.

- Take it, — Raul groaned, his hands gripping her hips.
- Take your daddy's cock, my grown girl. Four years you made me wait for this.

He started moving — deep, powerful thrusts that rocked the bed, the headboard banging the wall in rhythm with the rain. She was stuffed impossibly full, stretched around his thick girthy massive cock. Her pussy was soaked, squelching obscenely around his shaft, her juices running down to soak the sheets.

- Fuck — so tight, — he groaned.
- My little girl's still so tight, mamacita. Still mine.

He reached down and rubbed her clit in hard, fast circles — and she shattered, screaming, her pussy clamping down on him like a vise. He groaned and kept pounding her through it, his thick cock throbbing inside her.

- Again, — he commanded.
- Come on daddy's cock again. Now.

She obeyed, sobbing — and he pulled out, flipped her onto her stomach, hauled her up onto her hands and knees, and drove back into her from behind in one savage stroke. She screamed into the pillows. He gripped her hips hard enough to bruise and pounded her, his hand fisted in her hair, pulling her head back.

- Who's your daddy?
he roared over the rain.

- You are! — she screamed.
- You're my daddy, Raul! My papacito!

- And who owns you?

- You do! I'm yours — your grown girl, your mamacita, your devoted sub!

He fucked her harder — his heavy balls slapping her clit on every brutal thrust. She came again, screaming into the pillows — and he groaned deep and erupted inside her, his thick cock pulsing jet after jet of hot come deep in her pussy, filling her, overflowing around his shaft. She felt every pulse, every throb, every drop.

He stayed buried in her, his chest against her back, his lips at her ear.
- My girl, — he breathed.
- My Camila. My devoted. You earned it back, baby. You can call me daddy.

She sobbed — relief, joy, devotion overwhelming her.
- Daddy, — she whispered.
- My daddy.

He pulled out slowly — his come leaking out of her — and turned her over. He reached into the nightstand drawer and came back with a collar — black leather, silver letters.

- What's that? — she whispered, her heart hammering.

- Yours.
He fastened it around her throat, his fingers brushing her skin. She looked down: silver letters spelled out DEVOTED SUB — and beneath, in smaller script: DADDY'S GROWN GIRL.

- Look at you, — he said, his voice rough with possession.
- My collar on your throat. My come inside you. My mark everywhere. This is what my devoted girl looks like — used, claimed, dripping, owned.

They lay tangled together, breathing hard, the rain soft against the windows. He gathered her against him, his arms around her, his lips against her temple, her body still trembling, his come drying sticky on her skin.

- I love you, — she whispered.
- I've always loved you, daddy. That's why I ran — because it scared me how much. And that's why I came back.

- I know, devoted.
His voice was low and rough.
- I love you too. You're my girl. My mamacita. My devoted sub. And I'm never letting you go again.

- Good, — she said, and touched the collar at her throat, and smiled.
- Nour I'm never asking you to.

Outside, the rain kept falling on the tin roof. Inside, in the dark, in his arms, wearing his collar — Camila, twenty-five years old, home at last — slept the deep, dreamless sleep of the wholly, completely, devotedly owned.

She woke to his mouth on her — slow, unhurried, worshipful — his tongue drawing lazy circles around her clit while two thick fingers eased inside her, curling against her front wall. She moaned, spreading her thighs wider, her hands tangling in his silver-threaded hair, the collar cool against her throat.

- Good morning, my grown girl, — Raul rumbled against her thigh, not stopping — his tongue licking her slowly, thoroughly.

- Good morning, daddy, — she moaned, arching into his mouth.
- Mmm, daddy, right there—

He ate her with deep, devoted hunger — his tongue spearing into her dripping pussy, then circling her clit with slow, maddening strokes — until she came with a soft cry, her pussy fluttering around his fingers, her body trembling. He kissed his way up her body afterward — her belly, her breasts, sucking each nipple — lingering at the collar, his lips brushing the silver letters.

- My devoted, — he whispered like a prayer, his morning-hard cock pressing against her thigh.

- Please, daddy, — she whispered, spreading wider.
- I need you inside me.

He settled between her thighs and pushed into her in one smooth, deep stroke — stretching her open, filling her completely. She moaned, wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, her collar glinting in the morning light.

- Look at me, — he commanded.
She looked — into his dark, controlling eyes.
- Who do you belong to?

- You, daddy, — she whispered.
- Only you. Your grown girl. Your mamacita.

- Good girl.
He fucked her slowly — deep, rolling thrusts, his forehead pressed to hers — his thick cock dragging along her swollen walls. She came softly, whimpering, her pussy milking him — and he followed, groaning her name, his hips grinding hard against hers, flooding her with another hot load, his cock pulsing deep inside her.

They spent the day in the house — him showing her what had changed, her showing him she was home to stay. And everywhere they went, he touched her — his hand on the back of her neck, possessive; his thumb stroking the collar at her throat, reminding her. In the kitchen, he bent her over the counter — her cheek pressed to the wood, her skirt pushed up — and took her from behind, his hand fisted in her hair, his thick cock driving into her until she screamed.

In the living room, he sat in his old armchair and pointed at the floor.
- Kneel, my grown girl.

She knelt between his thighs and took his thick cock into her mouth — worshipping it, her lips stretching wide around his girth, her tongue working his shaft. She sucked him deep, hollowing her cheeks, drool running down her chin — and he groaned, his hand fisting in her hair, guiding her rhythm. She moaned around him, her pussy throbbing, dripping onto the rug.

- That's my good girl, — he growled.
- Daddy's devoted cocksucker.

He fucked her mouth with slow, deep strokes — then pulled out, hauled her up, and bent her over the arm of the chair, driving back into her soaked pussy from behind. She screamed, her fingers clawing the leather. He pounded her — brutal, relentless — his hand reaching around to rub her clit — and she shattered, sobbing — and he erupted inside her, filling her with another hot load.

That night, in her childhood bedroom that was now theirs, he laid her back and made love to her slowly — face to face, her legs wrapped around his waist, his forehead pressed to hers. Deep, devoted thrusts, his thick cock filling her completely.

- I love you, daddy, — she whispered, tears sliding down her temples.
- I've always loved you.

- I love you too, my grown girl, — he groaned, his rhythm building.
- My Camila. My mamacita. Mine.

They came together — softly, wrecked, clinging to each other — his thick shaft pulsing his come deep inside her, her pussy milking him in waves. He stayed buried in her, holding her, his lips against her temple, her collar cool between them.

Outside, the rain kept falling on the tin roof. Inside, in the dark, in his arms, wearing his collar and his claim and his name on her skin like a brand she would carry forever — Camila, twenty-five years old, home at last — slept the deep, dreamless sleep of the wholly, completely, devotedly owned.

His grown girl. His mamacita. His devoted sub. Forever.

The belt — the next night.

He stood in her bedroom doorway, the black leather belt folded in his hand, and she knew — her whole body knew — what was coming. Her pussy clenched, flooding.

- Four years, — Raul said quietly, his eyes dark.
- Four years you stayed away. Do you know what that earned you, my grown girl?

She swallowed, her heart hammering.
- Tell me, daddy.

- Twelve.
He held up the belt.
- One for every season you missed. Bend over the bed.

She bent over the bed — her cheek pressed to the quilt, her ass in the air, her thin nightgown riding up. He pushed the nightgown up over her hips, baring her completely — and brought the belt down across her ass with a crack that echoed off the walls.

Camila screamed — the leather stinging, heat blooming across her skin. He struck again — harder — and again, the belt kissing her ass with rhythmic cracks, her skin burning, her pussy flooding, dripping down her thighs.

- Count them, — he ordered.

- One! — she cried as the belt fell again.
- Two! Three— daddy, please—

- Please what?
The belt cracked down again.
- Please stop? Or please don't stop?

- Please don't stop,
she sobbed — the truth, the glorious truth.
- Please, daddy—

He laid the final strokes across her burning ass — twelve in all — and then he dropped the belt and gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her marked skin, and drove his thick cock into her soaked pussy from behind in one brutal thrust. She screamed into the quilt — the sting of her punished ass, the stretch of his massive cock, the overwhelming fullness.

He fucked her hard — pounding her burning ass with every thrust, his hand fisted in her hair — and she came screaming, her pussy strangling his shaft — and he roared and erupted inside her, his thick cock pulsing jet after jet of hot come deep in her pussy, filling her.

- Good girl, — he breathed, kissing her marked skin gently, soothing the burn with his lips.
- Daddy's good, brave girl. All forgiven. All mine.

She sobbed into the quilt — relief, devotion, love overwhelming her — and he held her, his cock still buried deep, his arms around her.

- Yours, daddy, — she whispered.
- All forgiven. All yours. Forever.

Dungeon day

On the morning of day three, Zoraida woke up alone in her daddy's bed — sore in every good way, her collar still on, the sheets smelling like him. She was eighteen years and two days old, and her body was still humming from yesterday: forty men, the bench, the blindfold, her daddy finishing deep inside her in front of all of them.

She found Xavier in the kitchen, shirtless, making coffee. He looked at her — naked except the collar, her purple and black hair wild, her tattoos on full display — and smiled slow.

- Morning, baby girl, — he said. — Sleep good?

- Like the dead, — she said, climbing into his lap at the table, curling against his chest. — Daddy, yesterday was — I don't even have words.

- Good, — he said, stroking her hair. — Because today tops it.

Her heart jumped. — What's today?

- Dungeon day, — he said, his voice dropping into that low, commanding register that made her pussy clench. — Just you and me. The most extreme BDSM day you've ever had. Everything in that room. Everything I've been saving.

- Everything? — she whispered.

- Everything, — he said. — But first — rules. You know your safeword?

- Red, — she said immediately. — Red means stop everything, right now.

- Right, — he said. — Yellow means slow down. You say red, everything stops, no questions, no disappointment. Daddy will check on you the whole time. You trust me?

- With everything, Daddy, — she said. — With my life.

- Good girl, — he said, and kissed her deep. — Eat. You're gonna need your strength.

An hour later, they stood in the dungeon. The purple candles were lit. The room smelled like leather and wax and anticipation. Xavier had laid out his tools on a black cloth-draped table: floggers of every weight, paddles, crops, a cane, coils of rope, a set of nipple clamps, clothespins, a ball gag, a leather hood, a violet wand with its glass attachments, a TENS unit, candles for wax play, a bowl of ice.

Zoraida stared at it all, naked except her collar, trembling.

- Daddy — she breathed.

- Strip's already done, — he said, amused. — Come here.

He led her to the St. Andrew's cross — the big X-frame against the wall — and positioned her against it: arms spread to the upper arms of the X, legs spread to the lower ones. Leather cuffs locked her wrists and ankles. She was spread eagle, facing the room, completely exposed, completely his.

- Derek for me, — he said, picking up the lightest flogger — soft suede falls. — Every stroke. Loud.

The first stroke landed across her shoulders — soft, warm, barely a sting. She gasped.

- One, — she said.

He worked her over slowly, methodically — shoulders, back, ass, thighs — warming her skin, turning it pink. The suede whispered against her. She counted, her voice getting breathier with every number.

- Ten, — she panted.

He switched floggers — heavier now, leather falls with bite. The strokes landed harder. Her skin went from pink to red. She cried out, counted louder.

- Twenty, — she sobbed. — Oh god, Daddy —

- Cleo? — he asked, pausing, his hand stroking her burning back.

- Green, — she gasped. — Green, Master, please don't stop —

He didn't stop. He worked up through the floggers — each one heavier, each one leaving her skin hotter, redder, more alive. By the thirtieth stroke she was soaked, dripping down her thighs, moaning with every impact.

- Look at you, — he growled, running his hand over her welted ass — right over the PROPERTY cheek. — My marked girl. My well-used girl. You take pain so beautifully, baby.

- Cane, — he said, picking up the thin rattan. — Six. Derek them. These'll leave lines, baby girl — Daddy's lines, on Daddy's girl.

The first stroke of the cane was a line of fire across her ass. She screamed.

- One! — she wailed, tears starting.

Each stroke laid a perfect red line across her skin. She counted through sobs — two, three, four — her whole body trembling against the cross, her pussy dripping steadily now, the pain melting into heat, into want.

- Five! — she screamed. — Six!

He set the cane down and pressed his body against her back, his cock hard against her burning ass, his lips at her ear.

- Feel that? — he murmured. — Feel what you do to Daddy? You take my cane so pretty, baby girl. So fucking pretty.

- Thank you, Daddy, — she sobbed. — Thank you, Master —

He picked up the riding crop — thin, flexible, with a leather popper on the end — and tapped it against his palm, thinking. Then he held up the ball gag — black rubber, leather straps.

- Open, — he said.

She opened her mouth, and he fitted the gag between her teeth, buckling it tight behind her head. Her moans turned to muffled whimpers. Drool started running down her chin almost immediately.

- You don't need words for this part, — he said, running the crop lightly down her back, making her shiver. — Just feel. Nod if you're green.

She nodded frantically — green, green — and he brought the crop down across her ass with a sharp crack. Her whole body jolted. Muffled scream. He worked her over with the crop — ass, thighs, back — each crack precise, each one making her dance against the cross, drool running, tears running, completely undone.

When he finally unbuckled the gag, she gasped for air, drool stringing from her lip rings.

- Cleo? — he asked gently, wiping her chin.

- Green, — she panted. — God, Daddy, green —

He uncuffed her from the cross and turned her around — facing the wall now, ass out — and picked up the paddle. Wooden, heavy.

- Ten, — he said. — Derek.

The paddle cracked against her ass — hard — and she screamed.

- One! — she wailed.

He paddled her until she was sobbing, counting, her ass on fire — and then he dropped the paddle and soothed her with his hands, rubbing the burn, kissing her shoulders.

- So good, — he murmured. — Daddy's brave girl. Cleo?

- Green, Daddy, — she whispered, tears running. — I love it. I love how it feels.

Next: the hood. Soft black leather, fitting over her whole head, zipping up the back — plunging her into total darkness, muffling sound. Her breathing got loud inside it. Her other senses went into overdrive.

- Can you hear me, baby girl? — His voice, muffled, close.

- Yes, Master, — she said, her voice small inside the hood.

- Good. Hands behind your back.

He cuffed her wrists behind her, then led her — blind, deaf-muffled, helpless — to the spanking bench. Bent her over it. Strapped her down: chest, waist, thighs. Spread her legs with the spreader bar, locking her ankles wide.

She couldn't see. Could barely hear. Couldn't move. And then — the first drip of hot wax.

It landed on her back — hot, shocking — and she screamed into the hood. Another drip. Another. He traced lines of wax down her spine, over her ass — carefully avoiding the freshest ink — down her thighs. The heat bloomed and faded, bloomed and faded. He dripped it over her breasts, around — never on — her nipples, watching her arch and cry out inside the hood.

Then — ice. A cube, dragged slowly through the melted wax, over her burning skin. The cold was a shock after the heat. He pushed an ice cube slowly inside her pussy — just the tip of it — and she screamed, writhing against the straps, the cold melting inside her, dripping out.

- Oh god — she wailed. — Daddy, it's so cold —

- Good cold? — he asked, working another cube around her clit.

- Yes! — she sobbed. — Good, so good —

He alternated — wax, ice, wax, ice — until she was shaking, sobbing, begging, her skin a map of red and white and pink. Then his fingers — finally — sliding into her pussy, finding her soaked, dripping, the last of the ice melting around his knuckles.

- Please — she gasped inside the hood. — Daddy, please —

- Please what? — His voice, amused, close to her ear.

- Please — touch me — she begged. — Please, Master, I need —

- Not yet, — he said. — Daddy decides when.

He kept going — wax, then ice, then wax — until she was shaking, sobbing, begging. Then his fingers — finally — sliding into her pussy, finding her soaked, dripping.

- So wet, — he marveled. — You love this, don't you. Love being helpless. Love being Daddy's toy.

- Yes — she sobbed. — Yes, Master, yours, your toy —

He removed the hood. Light flooded back. Sound rushed in — her own panting, the candles hissing. He unstrapped her from the bench and turned her to face him, and she saw his face — dark with hunger, proud, loving.

- On your knees, — he said.

She knelt, trembling, wax flakes falling off her skin. He picked up a coil of black rope — soft, thick — and began to tie her. His hands were sure, practiced: rope crossing over her shoulders, wrapping her chest above and below her breasts, cinching them up and out, knots sitting perfectly between them. A shibari chest harness, tight and beautiful, the rope pressing into her skin, framing her tits.

- Breathe, — he murmured, pulling a knot snug. — Tell me if anything pinches wrong.

- It's perfect, Daddy, — she whispered, staring down at herself — bound in black rope, her tattoos peeking through the diamonds of it. — I feel — so owned.

- You are owned, — he said simply, and tied the rope off. — Every inch.

Then the nipple clamps — small, silver, with little weights — one on each nipple, clipped right through the rope frame. The pinch made her cry out, her back arching, the rope holding her perfect.

- Oh god — she gasped.

- Leave them, — he ordered. — Feel them. Every time you move, you'll feel Daddy on your tits.

He clipped a leash to her collar's O-ring and led her — roped, clamped, leashed — across the dungeon to his bedroom, to the pulley rig above the black steel four-poster. This was it. The rig's first real use.

- This is gonna be intense, baby girl, — he said, and untied the rope harness first — slowly, kissing each mark the rope left behind — and then fitted the leather suspension harness around her, his hands gentle — straps over her shoulders, around her waist, under her thighs. — You tell me the second anything feels wrong. Not painful-wrong — you know the difference. Wrong-wrong. Promise me.

- I promise, Daddy, — she whispered, her heart hammering.

He worked the pulleys. The chains tightened. And slowly — slowly — her feet left the floor.

She gasped, swinging gently, suspended in the air by the harness — spread open, helpless, floating. The nipple clamps pulled with gravity, tugging at her nipples, making her moan.

- Oh my god — she breathed. — Daddy —

- Look at you, — he said, circling her slowly, his eyes devouring her — the collar, the throat tattoo, the clamps, the harness straps crossing her tattooed body, OWNED and CLAIMED on her dangling thighs, her pussy bare and glistening below. — My girl. Floating for me. Completely mine. Do you have any idea how beautiful you are like this?

He picked up the violet wand. The glass attachment buzzed to life — purple sparks crackling.

- You ever felt electricity, baby girl?

- No, Master, — she whispered, trembling.

- You're gonna love it, — he said, and touched the wand to her inner thigh.

The spark bit — sharp, electric, shocking — and she screamed, jerking in the harness, swinging. He laughed, low and delighted, and trailed the wand up her thigh, over her hip, across her belly — never touching her piercings, always careful, always watching her face. He switched attachments — a wider mushroom head that spread the sparks — and rolled it over her breasts, around the clamps, making her wail.

- Cleo? — he asked.

- Green! — she gasped. — God, green, Daddy, more —

He touched the wand to her clit — right beside the little silver bar — and she came instantly, screaming, convulsing in midair, the harness swinging wildly, the clamps bouncing on her nipples. He did it again before she'd even come down — the wand buzzing against her oversensitive clit — and she came again, harder, sobbing.

- Again, — he commanded, and did it again. And again. Three times, four — edging her with the wand, bringing her right to the peak and pulling back, denying her, making her beg.

- Please, Daddy, please let me come — she sobbed, swinging helplessly. — Please, Master, please —

- Not yet, — he said, his voice dark with control. — Daddy decides. You're gonna wait. You're gonna ache. And when I finally let you come, you're gonna come harder than you ever have in your life.

He kept her on the edge for what felt like forever — the wand, his fingers, his mouth — always stopping just before. He'd get her right there, her whole body bowstring-tight, and pull back, and she'd wail.

- Please, Daddy, please let me come — she sobbed, swinging helplessly. — Please, Master, please —

- Not yet, — he said, his voice dark with control. — Daddy decides. You're gonna wait. You're gonna ache. And when I finally let you come, you're gonna come harder than you ever have in your life.

- I can't — she cried. — I can't hold it —

- You can, — he said firmly, steadying the harness with one hand, his other hand flat on her belly, feeling her muscles jump. — You're Daddy's strong girl. Breathe. Hold it for me. Show me how strong my girl is.

She breathed. She held it — shaking, crying, dripping — held it while he teased her clit with one fingertip, while the wand crackled an inch away, while his mouth hovered over her pussy, his breath hot on her.

- Good girl, — he breathed. — So good. Now —

He positioned himself under her suspended body, pulled her hips down to his mouth, and ate her pussy — deep, relentless, his tongue everywhere — while she hung in the harness, and she came like an explosion, screaming his name, her whole body convulsing, the chains rattling. The denied orgasm tore through her like a storm, wave after wave, leaving her limp and sobbing in the harness.

He lowered her — slowly, gently — until her feet touched the floor. Her legs buckled; he caught her. He removed the clamps — one, then the other — and she cried out at the rush of blood back, at the throbbing ache. He kissed each nipple softly, soothing them.

- You did so good, baby girl, — he murmured, holding her up. — So fucking brave. Daddy's so proud.

- Thank you, Master, — she whispered, limp against him. — Thank you —

But he wasn't done. He carried her to the bed — the black steel four-poster under the rig — laid her down on the black sheets, and covered her body with his. He was hard — had been hard for hours, watching her, working her, denying himself the whole time — and he pushed into her pussy in one deep stroke.

She screamed — raw, wrecked, oversensitive from everything — and he fucked her hard and deep, pounding into her, the bed rocking under them, the chains of the rig swaying overhead.

- This is mine, — he growled, driving into her, his hands pinning her wrists above her head. — This pussy is mine. I stretched it, I filled it, I marked it. Every man who touched you this week touched what's mine. Say it.

- Yours, Daddy! — she screamed, her legs wrapping around his waist, her heels digging into his back. — Yours, Master, all yours —

- Who do you belong to? — he demanded, his thrusts getting harder, deeper.

- You! — she wailed. — I belong to you, Daddy, only you, forever —

- That's right, — he groaned. — Forever. My daughter. My sub. My girl.

He flipped her over — face down, ass up — and drove back into her, one hand fisted in her purple and black hair, the other spread flat over the tramp stamp of his name. He fucked her like that, deep and punishing and perfect, until she was screaming into the mattress, until the headboard was banging the wall.

- Come for Daddy, — he ordered. — One more. Give me one more, baby girl.

She came — wailing, shaking, her pussy clenching around him — and he came with her, roaring, burying himself to the root, pulsing jet after jet deep inside her, marking her from the inside. His. His daughter. His girl. His.

After — the aftercare. He ran the bath — warm, purple bubbles, the black candles lit — and carried her in, and washed her with infinite gentleness: the wax residue, the sweat, the red marks. He smoothed arnica cream over her flogged back, her paddled ass, the neat red lines the cane had left. He checked every mark, every clamp point, every rope line, kissing each one, murmuring to her.

- Talk to me, — he said softly, holding her in the water, her back against his chest. — How was it? True words, baby girl. Anything too much?

- Nothing was too much, — she whispered, her head on his shoulder, her voice hoarse from screaming. — The cane scared me and then I loved it. The hood scared me and then the wax — god, Daddy. The suspension — I've never felt anything like that. Floating. Helpless. Yours.

- You were perfect, — he said, his voice thick, his arms tight around her. — My brave, perfect girl. You took everything I gave you. Do you know how proud I am? Do you know how much I love you?

- I know, Daddy, — she murmured, half asleep, safe in his arms. — I love you too. Best dungeon day ever. Best week ever.

He held her until the water cooled and her breathing went slow and even. Then he lifted her out, dried her softly with the big black towel, and carried her to bed. He tucked her in under the black sheets, climbed in behind her, and pulled her against his chest — her back to his front, his arm around her waist, his hand resting over her heart, feeling it beat.

- Happy birthday week, baby girl, — he whispered into her purple and black hair. — Three days down. Four to go.

And tomorrow — day four.

Giulia Owned

The collar went on at seven in the morning, and Elena knelt on the bedroom floor while Damion fastened it around her neck, his fingers sure on the buckle. She was twenty-eight, he was thirty-two, and the black leather collar with the steel ring at the front meant one thing: today she was his slave, fully, in every room, for every order, until he took it off.

- Rules, — he said, standing over her, already dressed for a day at home, his voice calm and absolute. — You speak when spoken to. You keep your eyes down unless I tell you otherwise. You do exactly what I say, when I say it, how I say it. Your safeword is still red. Say it and the collar comes off and we're done. Understand?

- Yes, Master, — she said, her eyes on his shoes, and her pussy clenched, already wet, and the day hadn't even started.

- Good girl. Kitchen. Breakfast. Naked.

She stood and walked to the kitchen naked, the collar snug around her throat, her bare feet silent on the tile. She could feel his eyes on her ass as she moved. In the kitchen she waited by the counter, hands clasped behind her back, eyes down, her nipples hard in the cool morning air.

He came in and sat at the table and pointed at the stove.

- Eggs. Bacon. Coffee. Then you eat on the floor beside me.

She cooked, hyper-aware of her nakedness, of the way her breasts swayed as she moved, of the wetness gathering between her thighs. The bacon hissed. The coffee dripped. She plated his food and set it in front of him and poured his coffee, and ...