Claiming Daddy Ch. 19
“Let her see what I do with you. She can’t reach you here, not anymore.”
There are days when the space between work and home is a mere blip, a window of silence in which I can almost pretend I’m a normal daughter coming back to a normal life. Today was not one of those days. Today, the world bled at the edges, every streetlamp a witness, every stranger’s face a threat coded in the shape of a mother’s scowl. I unlocked the apartment door with a measured breath, braced for the sound of him, half-dreading, half-needing to find my father exactly where I’d left him: here, raw-nerved, already stripped down to the trembling animal that was all he could be, now that I’d remade him.
Dad was standing in the kitchen, back rigid, arms folded so tightly it looked like he was trying to crush his own ribcage. He didn’t hear me come in. His focus was absolute, zeroed in on the window over the sink, as if the view out to the parking lot contained a message only he could decrypt. I dropped my bag, didn’t bother with shoes, didn’t bother with “hello.”
He startled when I spoke his name, the shock a visible jolt that ran from his scalp to his fists. “Dad,” I said, but there was no softness in it, not anymore. Not after everything we’d done, everything we’d decided. “You’re going to snap your own spine if you keep that up.”
His mouth was too dry to answer, the words sticking like half-chewed gristle. I moved closer. Only then did I see the sweat darkening his hair at the temples, the raw scrub of his face where he’d obviously been rubbing it too hard and too often. His eyes flicked to the window again, then to the deadbolt, then back to me. Always cycling. Always returning.
I took in the scene. Drawn blinds, the wastebasket full of ripped-up envelopes, the fact that every single chair had been pushed awkwardly into a corner as if he were clearing space for an emergency he couldn’t name. Something had happened.
He noticed me watching. “I thought I heard someone,” he said. “This afternoon. Or maybe it was morning. I lost track.”
Breath escaped through my nose, fighting the urge to chide him. Instead, I reached for the tap and poured him a glass of water. “You haven’t been out all day?”
Dad shook his head. “Didn’t want to—” He stopped, the words breaking off. “I thought… Never mind.”
I stepped in, using my body to block his access to the window. “What did you think?” I asked, soft, coaxing. “Tell me.”
His jaw worked, but his eyes never left the glass of water in my hand. “She was here,” he managed. “Your mother. I saw her. She didn’t come up at first. Just stood down by the curb, looking up at the building. Then, I think she circled around the back. I kept waiting for the buzzer, but it never rang. She just… waited.”
He sounded more like a child than ever, and it made something ache deep in my chest, something almost cruel in how much I relished it. I wanted him dependent on me, and here was the proof. I owned him, heart and soul.
“Did you see her leave?”
He nodded, but his hands said otherwise: clenching, unclenching, the tips of his fingers almost white from the force. “I heard her on the stairs about an hour ago. Maybe less. She tried the handle…” His breath caught, the memory of it enough to draw his arms tighter, as if he could fold himself in half and become invisible. “I locked myself in the bedroom. I didn’t know what else to do.” Panicked eyes met mine. “Jesse, if she finds out what we’re doing. That we’re… That we’re…”
“Shh,” I said. I put the glass in his hand and let my touch linger, just long enough to still the trembling. “You did the right thing. She’s not going to get in. She’s not going to hurt you.” I reached for the hem of my shirt, the stiff cotton still warm from the last rays of office sun, and blotted the sweat from his forehead. “You’re safe here. Do you believe me?”
His head nodded slowly, but I could see the old reflex, the impulse to hedge, to second-guess, to offer some new reason why the world would always bend toward the maternal yoke and never, ever break free. I had no patience for it. Not now. Not after everything.
I led him to the couch, not as a daughter guiding her father but as a lioness ushering the wounded into shade. His whole body was rigid, but he followed without resistance, sinking into the cushions with an exhale so ragged it bordered on a whimper. I stood over him, still in my slacks and sensible flats, and waited until he looked up at me. When he did, the need in his eyes was so obvious it made my pulse skip: protect me, own me, never let her take me back.
Kneeling so we were eye to eye, I took his jaw in my hand. Gently, but with a firmness that left no doubt who was in charge. Let my calm assurance fill the shaky void my mother had carved inside him.
“You will not open the door to her,” I said. “Not ever. Not unless I’m here. Do you understand?” He looked away, but I snapped his gaze back to mine with a touch, a tiny application of force. “Say it,” I told him. “I want to hear it.”
He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “I won’t open the door. Not unless you’re here.”
“And if she tries to call?” I pressed. “If she leaves a note, or a message?”
“I’ll give it to you,” he said. The words were shaky, but they were there, and I watched his hands unclench for the first time since I’d entered the room.
I let his jaw go, but kept my palm pressed to his cheek, as if I could draw the fear out through the skin. “Good,” I murmured. “That’s my good boy.”
His posture collapsed, all the scaffolding of tension slumping at once. I saw him shrink into the couch, not just in defeat but in relief, in the knowledge that he was finally, fully mine to protect and to use. He pressed his face to my palm, eyes closing as if he could will the world away and exist only in this circle of warmth.
When I stood, and the loss of contact made him flinch, but I smoothed it with a hand to his hair. “I’m going to make dinner,” I said. “You stay here. I’ll bring you something.”
Daddy nodded, a small and grateful movement, and I watched him settle back, the color returning to his face by slow degrees. The apartment felt safer, heavier, as if the act of claiming him again had woven a spell that no mother could break. I left him there, surrounded by the fortress of my rules, and went to the kitchen to make food, listening for the soft, rhythmic sound of his breathing as it finally, finally steadied.
Night came in stages, like the slow curling of a fist. I watched it seep through the city, softening the skyline, swallowing all color until the windows on our side of the building glowed with afterimages of day and then, one by one, snuffed them out. In the kitchen, I ate my dinner cold from the fridge, fork never pausing, eyes tracking the corridor where he still sat, hunched and motionless, a specimen preserved in the formaldehyde of his own fear. I didn’t rush him. I wanted him properly aged, marinated in anticipation, so by the time I found him again he would be hungry for whatever I put in front of him.
My heart broke for him. After decades of a life devoid of affection, I’d submerged him in it. My mother represented everything dangerous to him. A reminder that the world outside my apartment door would not look lovingly upon our newfound relationship. He needed me, in every way possible.
Dad didn’t move until I snapped the overhead off, plunging us both into a darkness broken only by the sodium orange of the parking lot and the faint, twitchy blue of a neighbor’s TV. I padded over the carpet and, without a word, began to draw every curtain in the apartment. He watched, silent, eyes bright with a prey animal’s certainty that flight was pointless and all he could do now was wait for the inevitable.
I finished the circuit of the room, then stood in the gloom until the dark felt alive, the only light now the twin beacons of the kitchen clock and the wet glimmer of my father’s eyes. This was my home. My demesne. I would not allow the man I loved to be threatened here. I would give him my power, and I would take the fear from him.
He didn’t flinch when I approached. Just sat there, hands folded and knees spread, inviting me into his shadow. “She won’t stop,” he said. “She’ll keep coming. Until she gets what she wants.”
“Let her,” I replied, not even raising my voice. I took his hand and held it, palm to palm. “Let her see what I do with you. She can’t reach you here, not anymore.”
His realized his hands were cold. Ice cold, as if the memory of her had leeched every degree from his bones. I laced my fingers with his and led him up, slow, like coaxing a wild animal out of a snare. He followed, body slack, shuffling behind me into the bedroom. Submissive. Trusting.
I left us in darkness as I stood him by the foot of the bed and reached for his shirt buttons, undoing them one by one with a patience that was almost punitive. He let me, arms at his sides, head tilted so I could see the cords of his neck, the way he swallowed every time I touched him. In the darkness, my hands moved over his skin like sonar, mapping out every scar, every patch of roughness and stubble. I took my time, because that was the only real currency we had left. Time spent, time hoarded, time wasted on anyone who wasn’t each other.
When I finished undressing him, I let the clothes fall to the floor and ran my palms over his chest, down the line of his belly, until my hands met at the waistband of his boxers. I looked up and found him staring at me, his expression so open, so flayed, that I had to pause for a second to drink it in.
“I want you to remember something,” I whispered, close to his ear. “No matter how bad it gets, no matter what she says or does. I’m the one who owns you. Not her. Not anymore.”
He nodded, a jerky, half-panicked motion. “Yes,” he breathed. “Yes, Jesse.”
“Say it.”
“You own me,” he said, louder this time, and I could see the relief wash through him, the tension breaking and re-forming as something cleaner, sharper.
I pushed him gently back onto the bed. He went without resistance, lying flat, arms at his sides, legs open in a parody of surrender. I stood over him, kicked off my work shoes, stripped down to bra and panties, then crawled onto the mattress like a hunter closing in for the kill. I straddled his hips, knees sinking into the familiar grooves of the bedspread, and pressed my hands to his shoulders, pinning him with nothing but my weight and the gravity of my intent.
Outside, a car passed, its headlights sweeping a brief fan of illumination over the wall. In that moment, I saw his face, pale and beautiful, eyes wide, lips parted, and knew he was every bit as desperate as I needed him to be.
I leaned forward, my hair falling in a curtain around us. “She can’t have you back,” I said, soft and sure. “You’re mine now.”
He shivered under me, not with cold this time but with the certainty that the world had narrowed down to this: my body on his, my will the only axis around which he could spin. A sound wheezed from his throat, like a child receiving comfort at his mother’s lap. I kissed his face.
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and pulled them down, slow, exposing him inch by inch. His cock was hard already, flushed and leaking, a flag of surrender more honest than any words. I let it rest against my thigh, warm and heavy, while I ground myself against him, the slickness of my own need soaking through the cotton of my underwear. Every movement was calculated, every shift of my hips a test of how much he could bear.
My mouth explored the lines of his face, first on the mouth, then down the line of his jaw, the hollow of his throat, the divot between his collarbones. I marked him, not with teeth or bruises but with the press of lips, the brush of tongue, the heat of my breath against his skin. I wanted every inch of him to remember me, even in the dark, even when the world outside conspired to erase us.
My lover’s cock filled my hand when I reached for it. I held it, stroking once, twice, feeling the pulse of blood and the answering clench of his whole body. I rose up, slid my panties to the side, and poised myself above him, the head of his cock just brushing my entrance.
“Ready?” I asked, not because I needed permission but because I wanted to hear him say it.
“Yes,” he whispered, and then, “Please.”
He was trembling with anticipation when I finally took him inside me. I could feel the shudder roll through his whole body, not just in the places we touched but in the air between us, in the space of the darkened bedroom and the way silence seemed to lift and warp around the friction of our bodies. My mother’s shadow was gone; there was only me and him, and the click of his teeth as he tried to keep himself from crying out when I sank down, slow, stretching myself to take every inch.
At first, I just sat on him. Let the tension ratchet up. I wanted him to know exactly what I was doing: making him wait, making him feel, making him submit so completely that there would be no question in his mind who I belonged to or who he belonged to in turn. His cock was a column of heat, rigid and vital. The sharp edge of pain inside me was quickly overtaken by a spreading warmth, a fullness that made my vision starburst at the corners. I ground my hips against his pubic bone, rotating in tight, hungry circles, and his hands hovered at my waist, hovering like a man terrified to be caught in the act of wanting.
I let him touch me, just to see if he would dare. I gave him nothing more than my weight on his lap and the occasional pulse of my muscles as I clenched around him, holding him in place even as my own body begged to be taken. He whimpered, soft and desperate, the sound catching in the stillness. It was a sound I lived for. I knew he was trying to keep his dignity for my sake, but it only made me want to see it crumble.
After a minute, I leaned forward and pressed my palm to his chest, right over his heart. I could feel it thudding erratically, as if it were trying to leap up through his ribs and into my hand. The power of it made me shiver. I bent down, close to his ear, and whispered, “Can you feel how much I want you?”
Instead of answering, he just nodded, forehead pressing to my shoulder. He was holding himself in check, just barely, and I could have torn him apart with a single gesture. I almost did. I wanted to. But I made myself wait, hovering at the cusp of motion, letting the pressure build until the need in both of us was something radioactive, something that would glow for days after.
Then I began to move. Not a frantic, rutting pace but a slow, controlled undulation, every flex of my thighs calculated to tease rather than to finish. I watched his face, watched his eyes roll up and the muscles in his abdomen contract as I rode him, hands braced on his chest. The heat between my legs became a kind of transcendence, a pulse that was greater than just pleasure, something that felt like home and fire and violence all at once.
He reached for me again, both hands this time, and I let him grip my hips, let him try to set the pace, but every time he thrust up I resisted, kept the rhythm my own. “Let me,” I told him, and he stilled, a good boy struggling to follow the rules. I saw the tears in his eyes, the shame and the gratitude fighting for territory, and I rode him harder, squeezing around him until the sound he made was almost a sob.
The light from the windows flickered as a car passed, and for a split second I saw us reflected in the glass, two silhouettes locked together on the bed. I liked what I saw. A woman in command, a man undone. I wanted to memorize the shape of it, so I closed my eyes and focused on the feeling: the slide of his cock inside me, the dig of his fingers into my flesh, the way his body bowed under mine as if I could break him in half just by riding him hard enough.
He gasped a word. Not “Jesse,” not “baby,” not even “my girl.” He said “please.” Just that, raw and gut-deep, a plea so naked that I almost lost the last thread of composure myself. I leaned in and bit his shoulder, tasting skin and salt, wanting to mark him so he’d remember even when his mind wanted to forget.
I let my hair fall over his face, a veil of darkness, and told him, “You belong to me. No one takes you away from me. Ever.” I felt the tremor run through his cock, a warning shot, but I didn’t let him finish. I clamped down, using my muscles to hold him on the blade’s edge, and he moaned, the sound vibrating up through my body like a tuning fork.
The pace eased, teasing him, rocking my hips just enough to keep him dizzy with anticipation. I bent and kissed his chest, licking a bead of sweat from his collarbone, inhaling the scent of his skin. He was trying to hold back, trying to be good, but I could see the cracks in his resolve. I wanted him to break. I needed him to, so he’d know what it meant to be truly, hopelessly dependent on me.
When I felt his fingers dig hard into my thighs, a silent plea for mercy, I knew he was close. I straightened, stared down at him, and let him see the hunger in my eyes. “Do you love me?” I asked, voice low and brutal.
“Yes,” he said, instantly, no hesitation. “I love you.”
“Prove it.” I clenched around him again, rolling my hips in tight, delicious circles. “You can do this, Daddy. Just like we practiced.”
He lost himself in the silken feel of my body surrounding him. My father’s world shrank until it contained only the two of us. I kept him there, hiding him from the world. Loving him until he remembered who he was. Who I was. What we had.
“Promise me,” I said, increasing the tempo until his breathing grew ragged. “Promise me you’ll never speak to her without me present. Not ever.”
He tried to answer, but the words were lost in a groan of effort. I slowed, almost to a stop, and leaned down so my mouth was next to his ear.
“Say it,” I demanded.
“I promise,” he gasped. “I swear it, Jesse. I’ll never—”
I rewarded him with a deep thrust, grinding my clit against the base of his cock until I shivered. He was close, I could feel it, every muscle in his body going taut, the tremble of his thighs against my knees. His fingers dug into my hips as he fought the building explosion. Just the way I taught him.
“That’s it,” I cooed. “Remember what you are to me. What I am to you. I own you, Daddy. I own your body and your heart and your soul. All of you is mine.”
My hips pumped fast and hard. Brought him to the narrowest edge of relief. I stopped again, hovering above him, squeezing him tight inside me but refusing to move. “Tell me who you belong to,” I whispered.
“You,” he breathed. “Only you. Always.”
“Good boy,” I purred, and started to ride him again, this time faster, harder, chasing my own release as much as his. The bed creaked, the air thick with the smell of sex and sweat, but I didn’t care who heard or what they thought. This was our world now, bounded by darkness and the rules I wrote.
He begged, not with words but with the helpless thrust of his hips, the way his hands clutched at my waist, the way his cock jerked inside me, ready to surrender at the slightest invitation. I brought him to the edge, then let him hover, trembling on the brink, until I came, hard and fast, my cunt clamping down around him, milking every last ounce of submission from his battered heart.
“Come inside me, Daddy,” I commanded. “Do it now. Show me you love me.”
Daddy roared as all the tension I’d carefully built inside him came tumbling down. His cock pulsed inside me, and I felt the jets of his cum spraying against my depths. Again and again, my father’s cock erupted like a volcano. Then a hard shudder ran through him, and he lay still and spent under me.
I collapsed onto his chest, my breath loud in his ear. “You did good,” I told him. “I’m proud of you.”
He wrapped his arms around me, holding me tight, as if afraid I’d vanish with the dawn. In the darkness, our bodies slick and tangled, I knew I had finally done it. I had erased her, replaced every part of his old life with the new, made him mine in ways he’d never dreamed possible.
Outside, the night deepened, silent and absolute. Inside, we were a secret, a knot of need and memory, immune to the ghosts that haunted every other corner of the world.
I slept there, on top of him, our bodies still joined, his promise echoing in my mind until even dreams surrendered to my will.