Good Boy, Daddy Chapter 13

Kila's grip on her stepfather is almost complete.

I had not managed to turn off the looping video even once. Every time I clicked away, or tried to hide it behind project spreadsheets and proposals and inboxes, the program would leap to the foreground with a soft, punitive chime and play again from the start. The recording was even more punishing in HD playback, every needy sound and limp-wristed stroke of my hand on Kila’s synthetic cock available in merciless detail. I watched my own cheeks hollow as I sucked the strapon, watched the spittle dribble down my chin, watched my eyes roll up, vacant and hungry. In the sidebar window I saw email after email piling into my work accoun but my universe had contracted to the kinetic theater of my own disgrace. At times, I forgot who I even was: I was the man on the screen, forced to my knees, wanting it so badly it made the air around me vibrate.

For hours I did nothing but watch. I should have been on a conference call at three; I should have been running payroll at four. But each time I tried to engage, the video would unpause, fresh and clear, stripping away any sense of purpose except the one Kila gave me: inferior. Submissive. A showpiece of obedience, the desktop background to my life.

Kila didn’t bother to knock, or even slow down; I heard the whipcrack of her sandals against the hallway runner, and then she was there, body sharp and present in the lamplight, claiming the air as her own. She didn’t say hello or even look at me for the first few seconds. Her gaze went straight to the monitor, where the video was still cycling in its window, a looping, inescapable proof of my collapse. Her eyes flicked up to mine, then to my hands, which were trembling and useless. A satisfied smile crossed her fce.

She flowed across the office, hips rolling like a dare. She wore a crop top the color of wet cement, the fabric so thin that it seemed to be more of a suggestion than a garment, and a pair of bike shorts so tight they outlined the muscular architecture of her thighs in high relief. There was an energy to her, coiled and mercenary, that made my pulse go uneven. She drifted over to the desk, leaned in, and bracketed my workspace with her elbows, so that her stomach was almost touching the edge of my keyboard. The heat that radiated off her skin was stifling, and the delicate chemical scent of her deodorant was all I could smell. The video, which I’d managed to minimize for precisely one second, forced itself back up onto the main screen. Kila’s mouth twisted in a lopsided grin.

“How’s your day, Daddy?” she said finally, in the same voice you might use to tease a puppy who’s rolled in its own piss. The words went right through me, a kind of energy spike that emptied out my chest and left me giddy with anticipation and dread.

“Could be better,” I mumbled, and hated myself for the way my voice tremored on the way out. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Could definitely be better.”

She cocked her head, as if considering this for a moment, then expertly navigated the mouse back to the video window and clicked “play.” The sound was up, and the noise of my own moans filled the room, echoing in the print of the rug and the old wood of the floorboards. Kila’s hand, still on the mouse, was so close to mine that I could see the tiny scars on her knuckles from years of rock climbing and skateboarding. She looked at me sideways, her eyes narrow and shining.

I liked the part where you started groaning around my cock,” she said, as if it were a compliment on a science fair project or a new personal best in track. “That was a very genuine reaction. You should feel proud of that, Daddy. It isn’t easy for patriarchy-stunted men to get in touch with their authentic self.” She mimed quotation marks around “authentic self,” and I shivered at the way she stripped the term of all its comfort and made it a little weapon, sudden and sharp.

My face burned, and I could not meet her eyes anymore. On the screen, I watched myself, kneeling, lips stretched around the strap-on’s latex shaft, my arms slack at my sides in a caricature of surrender. I had never seen my own face like that but Kila made sure I saw it, every frame, every loop. My mouth was slack in the recording, my eyes half-shut with pleasure or shame. Even now, after hours of force-fed viewings, I could not reconcile that version of myself with the one who had coached youth soccer, or given TEDx talks to local high schoolers, or built bridges for a living. It was as if the man I thought I was had been hollowed out and replaced by the one on the screen, who took orders, who wanted to be dominated, who wanted Kila to be proud of him.

“Thank you,” I whispered, voice barely audible, and the gratitude was real. I wanted her to approve of me, even if approval came in the form of absolute debasement. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

She smiled then, not a mean smile, but a delighted one, as if I’d solved some puzzle she’d left for me. She let the video play to its end, then looped it back, this time turning the volume up so the sloppy mouth noises and guttural whimpers came through the speakers with even greater clarity. “You’re a very fast learner,” she said, though the implication was that I’d spent my whole life preparing for this, and only just now figured it out. “That’s good,” she added, more to herself. “You’re going to need it if you want to keep up.”

Perched on the edge of the desk, so that her legs were parallel with my forearms on the keyboard, she swung one foot idly. The motion was hypnotic. I tried to focus on the spreadsheet in front of me, but every cell swam and rearranged itself into lines of Kila’s handwriting, which I recognized from the endless lists she used to leave on the fridge. Groceries, chores, reminders: “Send in FAFSA by Friday” and “Pick up prescription” and “Do the dishes this time, Dad.” There was no way to look at my own screen without seeing her, or hearing her.

She pouted. “Are you bored of me already?”

“No. Not at all.” I almost choked on the words. “I’m just… trying to keep up, like you said.”

She grinned. “You’re doing great.” She reached out and patted my cheek, two quick smacks with the tips of her fingers, and then returned to her perch. “But there’s always room for improvement.” She watched my reaction, then said, “Do you want to watch it again? With me?”

I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I just nodded.

She played it once more, this time narrating along with the video. “Look at that, Daddy,” she said as my digital self gagged and drooled. “You’re a natural-born cocksucker. I bet you never thought you’d be that good at something so… unmanly.” She didn’t look away from me, and I knew she wanted me to own it, to acknowledge the thing I’d become.

After a full cycle, she finally turned the video off, but only to bring up a different window: a file directory, neat and labeled, titled “Dad Training – Day 1.” The implication was both chilling and exhilarating.

She moved so quickly I didn’t see it happen until I was already caught: with a single athletic motion, she slid off the desk and into my space, knees pinning either side of my office chair, hands on the armrests, her face inches from mine. I could see the faint constellation of freckles across her nose, the sweat at her hairline, the flecks of caramel in her dark irises. “You look so pathetic when you work. I love that,” she said, and I knew she did: the thrill of power, the way she could reduce me with a word or a touch. “You ready for the next lesson?”

There was only one correct answer. “Yes, Kila.”

She dragged her tongue across her teeth and made a little humming noise as if searching for the best opening move. “Stand up,” she said, “and take your pants off. You’re going to bend over the desk and let me fuck you on camera.”

Kila climbed off my lap and let me undress. I obediently stared into the camera as she typed something on the screen. Unable to resist, I leaned my head against her shoulder.

“Awww, Daddy,” my stepdaughter said, not looking away from the screen. “Are you scared? It’s okay. You can lean on me. As long as you continue to accept your inferior role in the world, I’ll give you comfort when you need it.”

Her lips touched my forehead. Tender. Sweet. I heard myself whimper.

“Be a good boy, Daddy,” she whispered. “I’m going to start recording and you’re going to read the message on the screen. Then I’m going to fuck your ass.”

The words had the rigidity of a summons, not a request. My throat closed up, but my body moved all the same, bent by the gravity of her will. The world retreated to a tunnel of whitened light and the low, electronic hum of the computer’s fan. I felt the soft brush of her hand at my lower back, guiding me gently, almost tenderly, against the edge of the desk.

My stepdaughter was in absolute command of the scene. She clicked the mouse, and the camera’s little blue dot blinked awake, a one-eyed spectator that would give witness to my undoing. The script glowed on the screen in thirty-six point bold Arial, and I read the words with that same sense of unreality that chases a man through his worst nightmares. I was naked from the waist down, staring into the lens, and the distance between who I was and who I’d become felt insurmountable.

Kila moved into the periphery of my vision, her face a mask of anticipation and glee. She retrieved the big black strap-on from her duffel and snapped it on with the efficiency of a gunfighter strapping on a holster. The glistening silicone bobbed obscenely as she secured the waist straps. I wanted to look away, to close my eyes and pretend this was not happening, but Kila’s watchful gaze made such a retreat impossible.

The bottle of lube must have been chilled; I jerked at the first cold spat of it against my hole, and a whimper escaped my lips before I could catch it. Behind me, Kila made a soft “tsk tsk” noise and massaged the viscous liquid into me with swirling, expert fingers. Her hand was gentle, but there was no mistaking the purpose behind each motion. She was greasing a lock for a key she’d been waiting her whole life to turn.

“Go on,” she prompted, her voice so close to my ear I could feel the heat of her breath. “Tell the camera who you are, Daddy.”

I cleared my throat, but the sound came out shaky, as if I were already halfway to sobbing. I began to read.

“My name is Garrett.” The syllables came out flat, unconvincing, barely louder than a whisper.

Kila, dissatisfied, dug her nails into the meat of my hips and growled, “Louder. Like you mean it. Look into the camera while you say it.”

I did as she commanded. Turned my face to the lens, cheeks burning, and forced the next words out with a clarity that made my entire body clench. “My name is Garrett. Through the help of my stepdaughter, I’ve recently come to terms with my inherent inferiority.”

Kila’s fingers toyed with the rim of my asshole, pressing just hard enough to make me flinch. I watched myself in the camera’s preview window, face red and shining with effort, the body of a middle-aged man reduced to a trembling, exposed object. The humiliation was total, and yet there was something liberating in the honesty of it. I felt unburdened, in a way, free of the layers of self-deception I’d worn for decades.

“Keep going,” Kila murmured, flicking a fingernail against my sac. “Read all of it.”

“Everything you’re about to see is what I’ve asked for her to do to me,” I read, the words hollowing me out as I spoke them. “I need her to prove to me that I am truly inferior. I love her and obey her every command, and I am so much happier than I’ve ever been in my life.”

If there was a scriptural moment of conversion, this was it: the death of the old self and the birth of a new, lesser thing. The old me was gone. Dead. Not a vestige of him remained. Everything that I was belonged to her. Everything that I ever would be was whatever she wanted.

Kila breathed, “Good boy, Daddy,” and then her hands left my hips. In the interval of their absence, the room filled with a silence that was both terrifying and expectant. Then the smooth helmet of her cock resting at the entrance of my ass. I gasped. I’d prepared myself for pain and horror but not for the immediate sense of overwhelming vulnerability. Kila ran the length of the dildo up and down my crack, as if teasing the possibility, letting it sink in that this was real, this was happening, this was being recorded, and there was no way back to the way things had been before.

The camera’s unblinking eye captured it all. I could see myself in its tiny preview window, bent over, hands splayed on the desk, the head of the black shaft poised at my hole. Kila’s face entered the frame, predatory and satisfied; she looked right at me, then at the camera, then back again, as if to say, “Yes. This is who you are now.”

“Now, explain what’s happening,” she said.

My mouth was bone-dry. “I’m about to get fucked in the ass,” I managed, the words tumbling out quick and hoarse.

She placed a steadying hand at the small of my back. “Say it again,” she said, “and sound excited.”

“I’m about to get fucked in the ass,” I repeated, this time with a forced chirp of enthusiasm that made my stomach turn.

Kila laughed, a derisive, delighted snort that echoed in the small office. “Perfect!” she said, and for a second, I felt like I’d won her approval.

But then came the pressure. The tip of the strapon pressed against my entrance, insistent, seeking. Cold lube squished out around it, and I felt my body resist, then, slowly, give way. My arms trembled. I dug my fingernails into the battered Formica of the desk as the thick head of the dildo breached me.

“Kila, sweetheart, you don’t have to do this,” I gasped, desperation leaking from every word. “I promise I’ll do anything you want. I know I’m inferior. Please…” I looked at her in the lens’s reflection, searching for a hint of mercy. “Please, don’t do this.”

Kila’s lips drew back from her teeth in a grin that was equal parts mockery and affection. She stroked my lower back, then leaned close enough to whisper, “Anything I want?” Her fingers dug into my hips. “Oh my God, Daddy! Are you going to start crying before I even take your ass-cherry?”

“Please,” I sobbed, but even that wasn’t true. With trembling hands braced wide, I felt the first cold knuckle of slicked silicone press against my entrance. I hated the whimpering noises that escaped me but could not stop making them. On the monitor I saw my own face reflected back: sweat-painted cheeks, teeth bared, eyes bulging and luminous with terror. “Anything. I swear, Kila. Anything.”

She released my hips and crossed her wrists over my waist. Tilted her head as she appraised me with the dispassion of an art critic at a third-grade art fair. “Give me your tears and I’ll consider it,” she said. “Tell me why you don’t want me to fuck your ass.”

“I’m a man,” I said, unable to think of anything else. “This isn’t what men do.”

“Of course it is.” Her palms stroked my lower back. “Let’s say that only gay men do it, and they are only ten percent of the population. Well, in a world of over seven billion people, that would mean seven hundred million men living at this very moment have taken what you’re about to get.” She stopped and laughed. “And I’ve done at least half a dozen myself.”

“I’m not gay,” I protested. “You’re not a man.”

Kila laughed again. “First, you can’t really say you aren’t gay unless someone’s fucked your ass already. And, second,” she gave a smug grin with a half-twist of her head. “I am, in fact, very much not a man. I am a woman. I am superior to you, Daddy. I really thought we’d moved beyond that.”

The head of the dildo rested against my hole and it flexed instinctively. I shuddered and cried out in fear. Felt actual tears running down my face.

“Please. I’ll do anything.”

“Daddy…” Kila pressed her hips forward until my sphincter buckled. “I want you to take it in the ass. If you can’t do that, then you aren’t giving me ‘anything.’ So… I guess there’s no reason why I shouldn’t fuck your ass the way I want. Try not to tense up.”

She leaned into it. I cried out again when I was forced open for half a moment. Then again, lunging forward at the desk, when my stepdaughter sank the head of the dildo inside of me.

“Look at the camera, Daddy.” Kila’s voice was supremely controlled. “Explain what just happened.”

“She did it,” I exclaimed. “You put the dildo in my ass.”

“There’s a good boy,” Kila purred, and I felt the next few inches spread me farther and deeper than I’d thought possible. “See? Even when you think you can’t do something, you just need a little encouragement from a woman.”

“I can’t do this,” I whimpered. “I can’t. Kila, please.”

My stepdaughter sighed. Stared at my image in the monitor. “Normally I like it when you beg,” she said. “But you’re getting boring, Daddy. You’ve already taken half my girl-cock. You might as well take it all. But if you don’t stop being a little bitch, then I’m going to hate-fuck your ass until you’re just a quivering blob of jelly.”

To demonstrate the difference, Kila lunged forward. The girl-cock, as she called it, punched against the wall of my rectum. Without pausing, she drew back no more than an inch, bent her knees, and drove the length of it to the hilt in my ass.

“Shut up,” she snapped, popping her palm between my shoulder blades. “I’m fucking your ass, Daddy. Accept it. You gave up the right to bargain the first time you let me make you come in your pants.” She thrust with slow, small movements, making my ass clench and throb. “Look at the camera, Daddy. Am I hurting you? Or does it feel good to have your ass taken?

I blinked at the camera. Mind blank as it absorbed the sensation of movement inside my guts. Kila worked longer lengths of her girl-cock in and out of me until I was panting.

“I love it,” I whispered, horrified at the truth of it. “I love the way your fucking my ass.”

“That’s the sweet, submissive Daddy I want,” Kila cooed. “Take it, Daddy. Take that girl-cock right up your virgin ass.”

Her hips moved faster. Pumped harder. Flesh-on-flesh filled the room, echoing between my whorish moans. The dildo sawed at my asshole, sloshing lube and muscle around the root as I quivered. The desk shook with the force of Kila’s hips slamming against my backside. There was no protection against the obliterating sensation of being filled.

“This is something you’ll learn to beg for, Daddy,” she announced, voice bright as sunlight. “I see it in your eyes, already. You’ll never be able to live without having your ass pounded.”

I felt her cock all the way up through my stomach, as if it had replaced my spine with something synthetic and pink. The air filled with the sounds of lube and flesh and my ragged, wordless suffering. Kila’s laughter floated in and out of those noises, a crazy-quilt of delight and clinical interest. I tried to look away from the monitor. I fought to keep my mind anywhere but the center of my own degradation. But my gaze kept circling back, drawn by a gravity fiercer than pain.

“Please, don’t stop,” I gasped. “God, Kila. Fuck me. Fuck my horny little ass.”

“That’s what I want!” Kila laughed, adjusted her grip on my hips, and pounded into me even faster. “Go ahead, Daddy. Be a cock-hungry little bitch. Beg for this cock.”

My mind broke open, a raw wound exposed to the world, and I howled for Kila. She battered my ass with long, arcing strokes; each time her hips collided with my skin, the whole desk rattled and the camera feed shook. I couldn’t escape the sight of myself, mouth slack, eyes wild, the showpiece of humiliation framed perfectly for her to enjoy and, if she wished, to share. The terror of anyone seeing this burned me so clean that nothing was left but want. The want to have her keep going. The want to be pounded, as she said, until I lost any last claim to dignity.

My cock was diamond-hard, leaking streams onto the battered wood of my workstation. Each time her strapon bottomed out, it mashed against something inside me; my vision flashed white and the breath left my lungs in sopping, hungry grunts. I heard my voice like a stranger’s, cracked and monstrous: “God, Kila, please, harder, harder, please make me yours, I need it—” and behind the desperation I could feel her smile, bright as lasers, feeding off my collapse.

“That’s right, Daddy,” Kila taunted, using a hand to slap my ass so hard it echoed in the room. “Get ruined. Show the camera what a little bitch you are.” She plowed into me, the slap and squelch of lube filling the gaps between her jeers. “Where’s your tears now, Daddy? Go ahead, Daddy. Cry like a little bitch while I split your man-pussy.”

“Yes,” I screamed, the word torn from me. “Oh god, I want that, I want you to ruin me forever, I want to come, please, I need you to fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.”

My mind dissolved in the pleasure, terror, and shame, a soup of everything I’d tried to wall off from the rest of my life. If I had the courage to look at the live feed, I would see myself bent double, ass canted up to present, face creased and wild with tears and lust, a puppet on strings I’d all but begged her to hold. Kila was merciless; she alternated between deep, slow thrusts that made my whole body tighten, and brutal, staccato jabs that left me gasping for purchase on the greasy edge of the desk. Her hand found my cock, pinched the head, and immediately I thought I would explode.

“Beg for it,” she said, voice honey and arsenic. “Beg me to abuse your ass until you’re nothing.”

I turned my head, eyes rolling in their sockets, and barked words I never imagined I’d say, “Please, Kila, use me.” My mouth kept moving, desperate to fill the vacuum of her silence. “Please, break me, make me your bitch, make me a joke, show everyone I’m less than nothing.”

“That’s my good boy,” she said sweetly. “You know, some men learn how to have amazing orgasms this way. I think I shouldn’t let you come again until you can come like the little slut we know you are.”

I collapsed forward, bracing myself on trembling forearms as Kila’s cock pistoned into me. There was no possibility of escape or mercy. Her hands gripped my hips, pulling me back on each stroke so my ass slammed against the hard ridge of her pelvis. She forced the head of the dildo deeper and deeper, making my guts lurch and burn with every new thrust. I sobbed, unable to muffle the desperate sounds that tore their way out of my throat.

“Look at the camera,” she hissed, punctuating each word with a violent thrust. “Show it how you take a cock, Daddy. Show everybody how much you fucking crave it.”

I raised my head with superhuman effort, blinking away the kaleidoscope of tears as I focused on my own face in the monitor. I looked nothing like a man. My mouth was stretched open, my cheeks streaked with spit and snot and tears. Kila had destroyed every scrap of dignity and left only this: a hollowed-out pleasure-slave, put on display for anyone who wished to see. I pressed my cheek to the desk, letting the rough wood dig lines into my face, and tried to accept it. Tried to love my own abjection. Tried to make the word “inferior” into something beautiful, or at least survivable.

“That’s more like it,” Kila breathed, and her hands slid from my hips up the length of my bare back. She raked her nails over my skin, not gently, and I shivered, hips jerking as I tried to process the new pain layered on top of the relentless, liquid burn in my ass. “You’re so easy to train,” she said, and the pride in her voice cut me open in a new, unexpected way. I wanted her to be proud. I wanted to make her happy, even if it meant letting her break me into something unrecognizable.

She slowed her rhythm, keeping the full length of the dildo buried in me for heart-stopping moments before pulling almost all the way out. Each time she paused, it made me clench around the slick shaft, hungry for it to return. When I lost composure and pushed back against her, Kila laughed.

“I think your ass was born for this,” she said, drawing out every syllable. “Maybe you were always supposed to be my little cocksleeve.” She bent low over my back, her sweat-slicked stomach pressed to my spine, and whispered so close her lips grazed my ear: “You can’t even pretend to be a man anymore, can you? This is who you were always meant to be.”

I tried to nod, but I was shaking too hard. She cupped my chin in one hand and forced my head so the camera had a perfect shot of my wrecked, sobbing face.

“Say it,” she whispered, her hand guiding my jaw like a ventriloquist. “Say what you are now.”

“I’m your cocksleeve,” I whispered. “I’m… your little bitch.”

She rewarded me with three short, savage pumps, hammering the strapon deep inside me. I gasped, then moaned, my whole body lighting up with the sensation. For a moment, I thought I really would come from this new humiliation. Then a thin rivulet of precum leaked out of my cock and puddle at my feet.

“Here’s the thing about being my bitch,” Kila purred. “You have no control over how long you get fucked, or how often. When I want to pound your ass, you bend over and take it until I’m done with you. Your pleasure is completely unnecessary, and I honestly don’t care if you ever have an orgasm.” My stepdaughter lunged in a slow, almost painful rhythm, forcing my body to adjust to her demands. “But my orgasm is what defines your success. You’re lucky I can come from fucking a man’s ass. You just have to take it until I come, Daddy. That’s all.”

For almost a minute, Kila pounded my ass in silence. I was in a world defined by her action, unable to exist apart from how she used me. And I never wanted it to stop.

“What’s the First Principle,” Kila demanded.

“All life begins as female,” I gasped, the words dissolving into a sharp cry as Kila’s cock bottomed out again. “Only a fault in the chromosomes can make it… male.” My body trembled, desperate for approval, for any hint of pride on my tormentor’s face.

“And the Second Principle?” she crooned.

“Men are inferior in all ways,” I blurted, voice rising as the next thrust hammered through my spine. “Our only purpose is—”

“To serve female pleasure and ensure a stronger next generation,” Kila finished for me, finally slowing. She let the toy rest inside me, hips pressed tight, so I could feel the tremor of her heartbeat through her thighs. Her nails drifted up and down my flanks, kneading the bruised flesh. “Say it while I finish,” she whispered. “Say it like a prayer. Over and over. Until you mean it from your inferior little soul.”

She started fucking again, slow but deep, and I obeyed as if I’d never had a thought of my own. “I am inferior,” I chanted. “My only purpose is to serve you.” I whimpered as the pressure and pleasure braided in me, each stroke of her cock lighting up something raw and molten in my belly. “I am inferior. I exist to serve women.” The repetition forced my focus past the pain, past the shame, into a place where the only logic was Kila’s. By the tenth iteration, my sobbing had almost faded; my mind had gone green-white and empty. Only the mantra, and her hips, remained.

Then Kila’s rhythm sharpened. The last few thrusts were brutal, staccato, her thighs slapping against mine as she tipped her head back. I caught her reflection in the monitor, euphoric and wild, sweat shining on her skin. Her hands clamped my hips and she rammed home one last time, holding it. Grinding in a vicious, grinding figure-eight, Kila howled in pure predatory triumph.

Finally, her breath slowed. She pulled out of me, and I collapsed, knees buckling, body convulsing in the aftermath. My ass felt carved out, empty without her, and I craved her touch again, even if it was to punish me. I watched in the monitor as thick lines of lube and something darker leaked down my thigh, staining the floor.

Kila went to the camera, bent down so her face filled the frame, and grinned. “That’s lesson three,” she said, breathless but smiling like a hunter over fresh kill. “Tune in tomorrow for more fun.”

She shut off the live feed, then crouched beside me, her body radiating heat. Her arm snaked around my slick, shivering torso, pulling me upright. “God, Daddy. Look how pretty you are when you cry.” She stroked my ruined ass with one hand, feather-light, and I jerked at every contact. “Who knew you were such a dirty boy? That you needed a woman to reduce you to a puddle of need?” A soft kiss against my ear surprised me. “I knew,” she whispered. “I’ve always known the truth about you. My mother should have ruined you years ago.” She patted my head. “You may want to get your asshole cleaned up before Mom gets home. But if I was you, I think I’d start leaving it lubricated… just a bit.”

I stumbled to my office bathroom, humbled and humiliated by the echoes of Kila’s laughter. Just before I put my pants on, I made the mistake of looking in the mirror. The man that used to be me looked back.

“You’re such an idiot,” I told him. “You’re going to lose everything.”