Good Boy, Daddy Chapter 10

Daddy must learn his place as an inferior, meant to serve his stepdaughter's every whim. Every. Whim.

The door opened before I had a chance to knock. Kila’s face was all business. No smirk, no glint of mischief, just a hard, dispassionate assessment of what she saw. She wore gym shorts and a tight, cropped tank, both items so generic they could have come from the lost-and-found bin at the Y. The effect was clinical, as if she’d dressed to handle a medical emergency, not to teach her stepfather about the next level of humiliation.

“In,” she said, stepping aside.

My feet obeyed. The plastic wrap crinkled in my hand, sweaty from the nerves or maybe from the hunger. I hadn’t eaten all day, per her command. The ache in my stomach pulsed in time with the ache lower down, where my balls still remembered last night’s lesson. My hands shook a little as I crossed the threshold.

Her bedroom had changed. The heavy blackout curtains were drawn, drowning the room in submarine light. Her bed, a simple queen-size platform, was turned at a slight angle, the better to access the sturdy metal frame. Coils of black leather, studded with chrome D-rings, lay coiled and ready at each corner. A thin, cheap yoga mat was spread on the floor at the foot of the bed. She’d arranged it all while I was downstairs pretending to be normal.

“Clothes off,” she said, not looking up from the roll of black electrical tape she was peeling into strips.

I hesitated, for the briefest second, and got a look from her that could have stopped my heart. My hands shook as I removed my clothes. I didn’t bother to hide how hard my cock was. If there was anything between us that was indisputable, it was that I wanted to fuck her.

She walked to the bed and pointed at the far side. “Lay down. Face up.” Her tone allowed no argument.

The metal frame was ice cold against my back. I lay flat, staring at the popcorn ceiling, trying to slow my breathing. She wasted no time. First the heavy black cuffs, the kind you see in movies, with soft suede on the inside and thick, cold steel buckles. She cinched them tight around my wrists, then looped the D-rings through short lengths of black paracord that she’d already tied to the bed. Each movement was practiced, swift, mechanical. She yanked the cords tight, so my arms stretched at forty-five-degree angles from my shoulders, not quite dislocating but enough to pull at the socket. My fingers tingled.

The procedure repeated for my ankles, spreading my legs and anchoring them to the opposite corners of the frame. My heels lifted half an inch off the mattress, leaving my toes to point up at the ceiling. The spread, the helplessness, was so absolute that my cock began to harden again, as if the humiliation itself was an aphrodisiac.

Kila eyed the results, then gave an approving grunt. She climbed onto the bed, straddling my waist, and let her weight settle on my hips. Her hands rested on her thighs. She studied my chest for a moment, then reached for the bedside table and pulled out a small black box. Inside, gleaming in the half-light, were two metal alligator clamps attached by a length of chain.

I flinched, but she only grinned, her first real smile of the evening. “Scared?” she asked.

“Yes,” I admitted. My voice was hoarse.

“Good,” she said, and leaned forward, pressing one clamp to my left nipple. The teeth bit in, cold at first, then screamingly hot. I gasped. She tightened the screw until the jaws pinched the flesh in a vise, and the ache went from sharp to blinding.

“Second Principle?” she said, her voice bored.

I blinked through the pain. “I began life as female until my inferior chromosomes turned me male. Thus, I am genetically inferior to females.”

“Not bad,” Kila said. She attached the second clamp, and this one she tightened until I thought my nipple would shear off entirely. “But that’s not what I asked for. I said Second Principle.”

My mind fuzzed over, but I tried to remember. “Women are biologically superior to men in every way that matters.”

Kila smacked the side of my face, just hard enough to sting. “First Principle, Daddy. Get it straight.”

I tried to nod, but the pain in my chest erased all other thoughts. “Women are biologically superior to men in every way that matters,” I croaked.

She rolled her eyes. “That’s the Second Principle. I want the First Principle.” When I stared dumbly, she sighed. “All life begins as female until an inferior chromosome distorts the organism’s development to make it male. Thus, males are genetically inferior.” She paused. “Say it.” When I parroted it, she said, “Now, say it about you.”

“I began life as female until my inferior chromosome distorted my development to make me male. Thus, I am genetically inferior.” I repeated.

“Say it like you mean it,” she said. The chain between the clamps swung as she pulled on it, sending fresh agony across my chest.

“I began life as female until my inferior chromosome distorted my development to make me male. Thus, I am genetically inferior.”

“Better,” Kila said, and she patted my cheek as if I were a small, dumb animal.

My cock was stone-hard now, straining upward despite, or because of, the pain. Kila looked down and noticed. “Nice,” she said, almost fondly. “You’re learning to be a good inferior thing.”

She reached for the bedside table again and this time pulled out a rubber ball, like the ones you see on cheap dog toys. She pressed it into my right hand, curling my fingers around it, then tapped the back of my wrist.

“You drop this, I stop,” she said. “But only if you really drop it, Daddy. If you’re faking it, or just can’t take the pain, too fucking bad. You only get mercy if your hand gives up before your mouth does. Understand?”

I nodded, sweat already dripping down my forehead.

She slid off my lap and stood at the foot of the bed, looking me over. The cold air made the clamps burn, the chain digging into my chest every time I inhaled. My arms and legs were already starting to numb from the tightness of the restraints, but the humiliation of being bound, naked, and so completely at her mercy kept my heart racing.

Kila pulled the yoga mat up to the side of the bed, then gestured for me to lift my head. When I did, she slid the mat under it, cushioning me just enough so I wouldn’t have an excuse to complain later.

“Ready?” she asked.

I nodded again.

She bent down and kissed my forehead, a parody of tenderness. “You’re going to remember this for the rest of your life, Daddy,” she whispered. “Now, recite the Principles while I get set up.”

Kila reached for the plastic wrap, pulling off a long, noisy sheet, and began winding it around her fists in preparation. I stared up at the ceiling, the clamps making my nipples scream, and repeated the mantra. The new truth of my life.

“I began life female until my inferior chromosomes turned me male. Thus, I am genetically inferior to females. I am biologically inferior to women in every way that matters. I exist only to serve the needs of the superior female. To give pleasure, and to ensure the creation of a new generation.”

She pulled a second strip from the roll, double-thick, and held it up to the light, admiring her work. “Keep going,” she ordered.

I repeated the words, voice wobbling with pain and anticipation.

Kila climbed onto the bed again and straddled my chest, her knees digging into my ribs. She leaned in, her face close enough for me to smell the mint of her gum and the faint, sweaty tang of her body. She looked me dead in the eye as she reached for my nipples, tugged each clamp sharply, and then released them, letting the pain reverberate through my body.

“Let’s make it personal,” she said. “Say, ‘I belong to you, Kila. I exist for your pleasure and your power.’”

I shut my eyes and forced the words out. “I belong to you, Kila. I exist for your pleasure and your power.”

She smiled and kissed my nose. “Good boy, Daddy.” She took the plastic wrap and held it up for me to see. “Still want to fuck me?” she said. A quick glance over her shoulder made her laugh. “Yeah, you still want to fuck me. A cock that hard doesn’t lie.”

I stared at her, my body trembling, every inch of me alive with terror and need. Unable to stop myself, I whispered, “I want to serve you.”

A genuine, warm and tender smile was my reward. For a moment, she looked almost proud. Then she placed the wrap over my face, sealing off my nose and mouth, and the world vanished into a film of plastic, pain, and Kila’s voice, reciting the Principle over and over, louder each time, as if she could imprint it directly onto my brain.

The first seconds of breath deprivation were pure confusion. The world shrank to a membrane of static: the plastic clung to my mouth and nose, a sheet of invisible pressure that I couldn’t unstick, and the only sound was the thumping of my own heart in my ears. My chest heaved, expecting air, and got nothing. The clamps on my nipples seemed to tighten with every throb of my pulse. I tried to focus, tried to ride the wave, but the panic rose quick and mean.

Kila’s voice cut through it, distant but somehow sharp. “First ten seconds, just think about the Principles,” she said. “Don’t waste your energy.”

I stared up, eyes watering, hands already starting to clench on the bedframe. The rubber ball in my right hand felt sticky with sweat. Fighting down the panic, I blinked up at my stepdaughter.

“Now, second phase,” she announced. “I’ll give you something to focus on.” I felt her weight settle again on my legs. Her hand, dry, cold, and clinical, gripped my cock and stroked, just once, slow enough that I almost didn’t register the touch. I squirmed, instinctively chasing the sensation, but she denied me the next stroke.

“After ten seconds, you get half a stroke per second,” she explained. “Next benchmark is thirty.”

My lungs started to burn. I sucked against the plastic, trying to pull it into my throat, but it only compressed tighter. I counted the strokes. One, pause. Two, longer pause. Three. Each time, Kila’s hand moved with practiced detachment, a scientist testing the boundaries of a new drug.

“Good boy,” she murmured, her face just out of my line of sight. “Look at you. So needy you’d rather choke than not get touched. That’s the male brain for you. No wonder we run the world.”

By the thirty-second mark, I could hear a thin whistle as my nose tried to inhale microscopic leaks. My chest sawed up and down, desperate for oxygen, but Kila only tightened the plastic with her free hand, stretching it across my face until the contours of my lips and cheeks showed through like shrink-wrap on old fruit.

“One stroke per second,” she said, and her grip intensified, jerking me with perfect rhythm. The pain from my nipples had merged with the pressure in my skull, each wave of pleasure knotted into a rope with agony. “Your lungs belong to me now,” Kila said, and the words thudded directly into the animal part of my brain. “Even the air you breathe is mine to give or take.”

At forty-five seconds, she doubled the pace. My cock was iron hard, the nerves on fire, and I couldn’t decide if the need to come was worse than the need to breathe. The entire universe narrowed to the fist on my shaft, the clamps burning holes in my chest, and the deafening drumbeat of time running out.

“Two strokes per second,” Kila said, her voice higher, faster, almost giddy. “Bet you never thought you’d love something this cruel. Naked and pathetic. Owned by the girl you helped raise. The most evolved version of the inferior species.”

My vision started to pulse black at the edges. I counted strokes, desperate for a number to cling to. At some point I stopped even trying to breathe and just lay there, head swimming, tunnel vision closing in. Kila increased the tempo again, her hand a blur. I felt the orgasm gathering, a heat that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with survival. My hand cramped on the rubber ball.

The last thing I heard before I passed out was Kila’s laughter, cruel and victorious.

When I came to, the world was still. The plastic had been peeled away, and I gulped air in ragged, shuddering sobs. My head throbbed and my chest felt caved in. Kila’s face hovered above mine, bright and sharp, her eyes electric with energy.

“Wow,” she said, stroking my cheek. “Didn’t even last the first round. I thought you wanted this.”

The sensation of coming back to myself was a wave of confusion, then a surge of humiliation. I blinked, struggling to see through the haze. Kila had already righted the clamps on my chest, and with an almost loving gentleness, she rolled the rubber ball between her fingers before dropping it onto my sweat-slick stomach. Then she reached down and twisted both nipple clamps at once, not with the sadism of a torture artist but with the offhanded efficiency of someone re-tightening a loose screw. The pain shot through my body, waking up every nerve, and I made a noise I could not have planned, a high, staccato whimper that sounded like it belonged to a much smaller animal.

“You dropped the ball,” Kila pronounced, her voice brisk and clinical. She held the ball up in front of my face, as if to display evidence in court. “So we start over.” She arched an eyebrow. “Ready for another try?” After a moment, she threw back her head and laughed. “Just kidding. I don’t care if you’re ready.”

Some part of me wanted to protest, to plea for leniency or a gentle hand. But I could only gawk at her, the shame and the want mixing in my blood like a fever. There was no negotiation with Kila, not when she was in this space. She was remorseless, alive and electric with the certainty that she was right about me. About all men. About the very nature of the world. I felt like a bug under glass, trembling and exposed, and it thrilled me so deeply I thought I might cry.

Kila didn’t wait for me to answer. She flicked the chain of the clamps, making them dance and bite, and then she leaned in so close I could see every perfect detail of her face: the tiny, angry pimple on her right jawline, the constellation of freckles across the bridge of her nose, the faint sheen of sweat at her hairline. She was so young, so ferociously alive, and I was utterly fucking helpless.

She popped the ball back into my hand, curling my fingers around it with an impatient tap. “This time, Daddy,” she said, “try to last longer. I want to see what you look like when you really start to panic.” The smile she gave me was radiant. Eager, hungry, and as proud as a mother watching her toddler take its first steps. “This makes me want to fuck you. So… do your best. You might get lucky.”

I tried to catch my breath, but she didn’t give me the chance. She reached for the roll of plastic wrap, tore off a new strip with a flourish, and stretched it tight between her hands. “You know the rules. If your cock stays hard, you get to keep breathing. If not…” She shrugged. “Well, then you’re not really worth the oxygen anyway, are you?”

She made a production of straddling me again, her thighs pinning my arms in place, the press of her skin against mine igniting fresh agony from the clamps. She jerked the plastic wrap once for show, then draped it over my face. This time, she didn’t waste energy with teasing or preparation. She just pressed it down, hard, sealing every edge with her fingers, and sat back to watch.

“Begin,” she commanded.

The plastic fused to my lips and nose, and the world shrank to darkness and pain. I tried to think of the Principles, to focus on her words, but the only thing that mattered was the wild, animal drive to keep breathing, keep living, keep pleasing her. The need for air became everything. Every heartbeat was a countdown. It was miserable. It was perfect.

At some point, I realized my cock was still hard. Or harder, maybe, than before. Kila noticed, too, and rewarded me with a slow, deliberate stroke. “That’s it,” she cooed. “You’re learning.” The sound of her voice was almost as good as the touch.

The seconds ticked by. When I felt my grip on the ball start to loosen, I fought to hold on, to show her I was strong enough, desperate enough to earn her approval. I didn’t want to disappoint her. Not again.

“Good boy,” Kila said, wrapping her fingers around my cock. The slow, languid strokes only added to the pounding of my heart. “Suffer for me, Daddy. Be a good little toy for your baby girl.”

My stomach heaved, desperately trying to force my lungs to pull in air. Arching, I pulled at my restraints. Kila’s laughter was a faint sting of acid. Her hand moved faster, slapping against my balls on the downstroke as she marked the passing seconds.

There was no way I could last. My body was exhausted from the first attempt. Squeezing the ball so tight my fingers trembled; I tried to find a quiet place in my mind. A place to hide while Kila tortured me. There was no such place. The torment reached every fiber of my existence.

“If you pass out before the next mark, I’m going to bust your balls,” Kila warned. “Be strong, Daddy. I don’t want a pussy for a Daddy. Be a man. Suffer for me. Remember me? The girl you want to fuck so bad you’ll let her tie you down and smother you?”

No use. I felt my eyes roll upwards. Maybe I dropped the ball. Maybe not. I couldn’t feel my hand. There was just… Nothing.

Blaring pain in my groin pulled me from the darkness. I was aware that my body shook with the impact between my legs. Then I gasped and found full consciousness just in time for my head to throb like it was caught in a log-splitter. A moment later, Kila’s knee landed in my nuts again.

I screamed. Yanked at my bonds in a foolish attempt to protect myself. Kila laughed and slammed her knee into me again.

“You disappointed me, Daddy. I don’t like that.” My stepdaughter climbed on top of my and yanked the chain connected to my nipples. “I don’t think you’re trying, Daddy. I think you need extra motivation.”

The metal teeth of the clamp sunk into my flesh, refusing to slip as Kila twisted and pulled. I writhed, whimpering and crying. She had no mercy.

“Beg me for the plastic and I’ll know you’re ready,” Kila said. “Go ahead, Daddy. Obey your daughter.”

There was no hesitation. “Please, Kila! Give me the plastic. Let me prove myself! Please!”

“What do you mean by prove yourself? How?” Her eyes danced as she continued twisting. “Inferior? You want me to prove you’re inferior?”

Agony almost took my capacity for speech. I stared up at my stepdaughter and nodded. Took a deep, ragged breath.

“Please, show me how inferior I am,” I gasped. “Kila. I need it. Baby, please. Put me in my place. Please.”

“Third round,” she said. “Prove to me you’re worth more than a defective chromosome.” She wrapped my face, slow and methodical, then took the ball and placed it gently in my palm. “Remember,” she whispered, her lips at my ear. “You decide how much you can take. If you really want to fuck me, you’ll come before you pass out.”

Kila didn’t hesitate. She snapped the wrap tight over my face. The prelude of teasing was gone. It was just punishment, and the implacable machine of her will. I felt her weight grind the clamps into my chest, twin points of molten pain, while the plastic sheet vacuumed my mouth and nose in an instant.

My mind tried to rebel as the first, precious inhale was denied, but the rest of my body was already at war with itself. Kila’s fist pumped my cock, not in the lulling rhythm of before, but in rapid, staccato bursts. Every motion a demand, every second a threat. My lungs seized, desperate for air. My thighs kicked, but there was no leverage. I could feel the harsh nylon of the tie-downs cutting into my wrists, the burning drag of cheap leather as I writhed in place.

She started counting out loud. “One. Two. Three. Four.” It wasn’t a countdown; it was a ledger, tallying every second I failed to measure up. Her tone was calm, almost bored, but the grin that split her lips said everything. This wasn’t a test. It was a demonstration. She wanted to show me, to herself, to the universe, that I could be reduced to this: a gasping, straining, useless creature, every instinct bent to her will.

Fifteen seconds in and my head throbbed with a distant, clammy pressure. I tried to remember the Principles, to focus on anything but the burning in my chest and the way my cock kept hardening with every stroke. I counted along with her in my head, but the numbers slid away, replaced by flashes. Her face loomed above mine, sweat darkening her brow, the way her hairline quivered with exertion.

When the first wave hit, it was not pleasure. It was panic. Something primitive inside me shrieked, demanding mercy, but Kila’s hands were everywhere, pinning, stroking, squeezing, each motion calculated to remind me that I was hers in this moment. She jerked the chain on the clamps, twisting the metal into new, excruciating alignments, and I screamed. Or tried to. There was no air left to make a sound.

And yet, as the seconds ticked by, I felt my grip softening, the muscles in my arm turning to jelly. My lungs were collapsing, hollowing out my chest. I tried to buck my hips, to milk just one more stroke out of Kila’s hand, but she was already speeding up, doubling the tempo. “Forty!” she announced, voice triumphant. “You’re almost there! You can make it!” I couldn’t even see her anymore. My vision was a black tunnel. But I heard the glee, the pride, the ownership in her voice.

The orgasm was right there. I could taste it, somewhere past the pain and terror, a strange, transcendent sweetness. I thought of my wife, of every time I’d tried and failed to perform, of the quiet, gnawing shame that haunted me through the years. I wanted to let go, to finally give Kila the proof she wanted. My cock throbbed against her palm and I felt myself slipping…

And at the exact split-second of release, my treacherous fingers gave out. The ball shot from my hand, bounced once off my palm, and tumbled over the side of the mattress. It was over.

Kila stopped. She ripped the wrap from my face and stared down at me with a look of pure, disappointed amusement. “Almost made it,” she said, stroking my cheek. “But almost doesn’t count, does it, Daddy?”

I sucked air, every cell in my body trembling. My cock was still hard, throbbing with the need for release, but she ignored it, focusing instead on my face, the tears, the shame. With a wicked grin, she yanked on the nipple clamps. I screamed as the left one pulled free. It took two more tugs for the other to release my flesh.

She wiped my forehead with a corner of the sheet, her touch gentle and cruel at the same time. “If you want to try again, you’ll have to beg. Otherwise, we’re done for today.”

My voice shook, but I managed: “Please, Kila. Don’t stop. I can do better. Please.” My stepdaughter stared down at me, face completely neutral. As if she were listening to me describe a peanut butter sandwich. “Please, Kila. Please. I know I can do it. Just… Please. Please.”

The fourth round was nothing like the first three. I was trapped in a groundhog’s day of suffering. Kila’s humming faded as she double-wrapped my mouth and nose, layering the plastic so tight that I could already taste my own panic before she even touched me. I knew I was doomed.

She knelt astride my chest, repositioned the clamps with a twist that sent fire through my nerves, and looked down at my face with a serenity that chilled me to the core. “This is the last try, Daddy,” she said, her voice almost gentle. “If you fail again, I’ll have to find another way to make you understand how inferior you are. You do understand you’re inferior now, don’t you?”

I tried to answer, but the plastic pressed so hard against my lips that it was all I could do to nod. Kila’s hand closed on my cock, and the slow, measured rhythm began anew. Ten seconds, then thirty, then forty-five. Each stroke was agony and ecstasy, the pain from my chest merging with the need in my cock until I couldn’t tell them apart. Tears spilled from my eyes, slicking the film over my cheeks, and somewhere in the dim reaches of my brain, I registered the humiliation of crying for her pleasure.

The need to breathe was replaced by a need to come, a brutal, animal imperative. My whole body spasmed as I tried to hold on, tried to keep my hand closed around the ball, tried to win just once for her. My back arched, pulling wrists and ankles at their bonds.

At fifty seconds, the first tremor hit: my hand twitched, the ball shifted, and for a heartbeat I thought I’d lost it. Kila’s hand moved even faster, the pleasure so intense it tipped over into pain, and my vision narrowed to a tunnel of light. I was floating. My body growing numb, except for the painful need to come.

“You’re close,” Kila said, her tone both mocking and proud. “Come on, Daddy. Be strong. You can do it. You’re inferior, Daddy. Not weak. Fight it. Fight it so you can come for your little girl the way you want.”

The I couldn’t feel her hand. All I could feel is the soft rubber in my palm. My fingers digging into it. I blinked as blackness edged from the peripheral. Tunnelling my vision until my universe was contained in Kila’s mocking face. At the last instant, I tried to force my body to come. There just wasn’t enough left to do it.

A nauseating wave of pain filled my guts, throbbing from my aching balls. I knew what was happening. Feared it. Deserved it. Then Kila’s knee landed in my balls a third time, and I screamed. Sobbed. Whimpered pitifully

“You failed, Daddy.” She stared down at me without pity. “I thought you were going to make it. I was really hoping you would.” She grinned. “I was going to feed your cum to you.” Her shoulders lifted in an exaggerated shrug. “Now, who knows how long I’ll have to wait to see that?”

Kila stretched her body over mine. She giggled as she pinched my nipples, making me wince and whimper. Very deliberately, her teeth settled on one.

“First Principle. Personal.”

“I began life as female until my inferior chromosomes turned me into a male. Thus, I am genetically inferior.” I gasped through the pain. My nipples felt like they were on fire where Kila had bitten them. “

“Good,” she purred, releasing my nipple from between her teeth. Her mouth moved to suckle at the other nipple. I winced as she bit down. “Second Principle. Personal.”

“I am biologically inferior to women in every way that matters,” I whispered between my teeth. “My sex exists to serve the needs of the superior female. To give pleasure, and to ensure the creation of a new generation.”

“You’re doing so well, I think you are ready to make a formal declaration of your inferiority,” Kila said, her weight settling more firmly on my chest. “I want to hear you beg me to train you.”

My throat was raw from gasping for air, but I managed to speak. “What do you mean?”

She leaned down, her face hovering inches from mine. “Ask me to train you to embrace your inferiority. To teach you your place in the new world order.” Her laugh grew icicles on my spine. “If you can’t do it, don’t worry. I won’t stop until you do. And, actually, I’m not going to stop then, either.” My stepdaughter’s face was supremely confident. “You’ll beg for it, though. You want it. You want me.”

The words felt like poison in my mouth, but I was too broken to resist. She would simply up the ante and torment me further until I gave her what she wanted. “Please, Kila. Train me to embrace my inferiority. Teach me my place.”

“Good boy, Daddy.” She smiled, a predatory flash of teeth. “That didn’t really sound like begging, though. I think I’m going to have to really teach you a few lessons, Daddy.”