Good Boy, Daddy - Chapter 16

Kila isn't even trying to hide it anymore.

I woke dry-mouthed and raw, my jaw stiff as if a fever had set up camp in the hinges. I could smell the memory of her, the skin-and-silicone chemistry that haunted every intake of brath, and beneath it the animal throb of humiliation. The blue light on my phone said it was barely past six. Bryn was never up this early unless she planned a long shower, which meant the house was, temporarily, Kila’s.

I pissed, splashed water on my face, and caught the tremble in my hands. My first, insane thought was to check my breath, as if Kila might test it for traces of disobedience. I tiptoed down the hallway, barefoot and mortified, and found her waiting just as she promised.

“Morning, Daddy,” she sang, and there was no way to mistake the mood: crisp, focused, and absolutely in control. She wore a pair of running shorts and a neon tank top, bare arms showing off the tattoo of Artemis that snaked up her right thigh, beads of condensation clinging to her skin from the bottle of cold brew she clutched. She flicked her gaze up and down my body, sizing up the barely awake, not-quite-man before her. “You’re late,” she said, though I doubted more than two minutes had passed since her text. “Let’s get you ready.”

“Ready for what?” I asked, voice gravelly and ashamed of how easily I’d slipped into the habit of needing her orders.

Kila didn’t answer at first. Instead, she produced an enema bag from behind her back, then brandished it with the flourish of a card sharp. Her other hand offered a clear plastic bag with a travel-size EZ Ass Lubricant, and a pink butt plug the size and shape of a miniature traffic cone. The bag also contained, to my horror, a pair of her underwear. Yesterday’s, by the look of the dark gusset and faded cherry print.

She waited for me to process it, her smirk blooming wider as I made the connection. “Mom’s in the shower,” Kila said, “so we’re on a clock. You know what to do.”

“Do I have to…” I trailed off, unwilling to say the words but knowing exactly what she wanted.

“Yes, Daddy. You have to.” Kila walked past me, brushing her shoulder against my chest with intentional force, then handed over the bag. “Take the enema in my bathroom so you don’t get caught. The first one will clean you out. Do a second rinse just to be sure. Then lube your hole, work it with your fingers, and put the plug in. Keep the panties on after. Not under your boxers, under your jeans. You’ll wear them until I say otherwise.”

I stared at the bag, feeling heat creep up the back of my neck. “I’m not… I don’t think I can fit that thing.”

“Sure you can.” Kila’s hand cupped the back of my head and squeezed, thumb resting just under my ear, fingers pressing gently on my nape. “You’ll do anything if I tell you it’ll make me happy. Isn’t that right?”

There was no possible answer except to nod. “Yes.”

“Good boy,” she said, voice dipped in honey. “Now hurry. I want to see you in the kitchen in twenty minutes, all primed and proper.”

She held my gaze a moment longer, then let go, skipping down the stairs. I could not help but watch her walk away, the way her muscles moved under skin, the perfect confidence in every step. There was no point in pretending I’d resist her.

I stole into the guest bath and locked the door behind me. The act of stripping felt like the prelude to some execution. The enema was easy enough to figure out; I’d used one once during a bout of stomach flu, but the sensation now was so much more humiliating, the pressure at my guts not just physical but existential. I perched on the toilet, cheeks slick with sweat, and tried not to imagine Kila watching me through the drywall.

When the second rinse was done, I slathered my fingers with the cold, slippery lube, and set the plug on the rim of the sink. It glistened in the overhead light, almost cheery in its artificial pink. I touched a finger to my asshole, feeling it tense, then relax as I forced myself to circle, work the lube in. Every movement was an act of submission, and the more I focused on getting myself open for her, the more I wanted to cry, or laugh, or both.

The plug was not as hard to insert as I’d feared. The first inch stung, but after a moment, my body surrendered. The thing nestled inside with a perverse sense of finality, a dull fullness that radiated outward, a reminder that I was being made ready for something I couldn’t even bring myself to say out loud. I wiped my fingers, then stared at my own reflection for a long moment, studying the way my body looked, hunched and pale and punctured, before stepping into Kila’s underwear.

The fabric was so soft it barely registered, and the scent of her musk clinging to it made my cock twitch involuntarily. I wanted to tear them off, to pretend I could undo the last ten minutes, but the voice in my head sounded exactly like hers: “You’ll do anything if I tell you it’ll make me happy.” So I pulled on my jeans, zipped them over the bulge of my plugged ass, and tried to will myself to move.

By the time I emerged, Kila was waiting at the end of the hall, hands on her hips, a towel thrown over her shoulder like a drill sergeant at a summer boot camp. “Let’s see,” she said.

I froze. “Here? In the hallway?”

Kila rolled her eyes and advanced. She cupped my chin, tilting my face up, her other hand sliding around the back of my jeans to squeeze the plug between my cheeks. “Mmmm,” she hummed, “perfect fit.” She leaned in and whispered, “Did you get all the air out? No embarrassing accidents in front of Mom, right?”

I wanted to melt into the floor. “Yes,” I muttered. “I’m clean.”

“Good,” she said, “because you’re serving breakfast today. And if Mom notices anything, you’ll find out what the next size up feels like.” She grinned, then patted my cheek, quick and almost affectionate. “Go set the table. I’ll join you in a minute.”

I shuffled toward the kitchen, walking with a new, stilted gait, the plug’s every movement amplifying my awareness of just how thoroughly I’d surrendered. The panties pinched at my hips, a constant phantom touch. I started the coffee, set out bowls and spoons, and waited, not daring to sit lest the pressure remind me how desperately I wanted to belong, how helpless I was to escape Kila’s will.

She appeared five minutes later, damp hair slicked back, lips glossy with balm. She wore only a cropped hoodie and the tiniest running shorts I’d ever seen. I knew she wasn’t wearing anything underneath, because she wanted me to know. She wanted every second of my humiliation to register.

Kila pointed at the stove. “Eggs for Mom. Oatmeal for me. If you fuck it up, you’ll eat both off the floor.” Her voice was light, almost flirtatious, as if daring me to see the threat as a joke.

I obeyed, moving with a careful, stilted grace, and every time I bent over or reached for a pan I felt the plug pulse inside me, a little jolt of shame to keep me off-balance. By the time Bryn came in, hair towel-wrapped, robe cinched tight at the waist, I’d nearly forgotten how a normal person was supposed to stand.

“Morning, all,” Bryn said, shuffling to the coffee. She poured herself a mug, then gave Kila a slow, appraising look. “You’re up early. Did you run already?”

Kila shook her head. “Just wanted to get a head start on today. Daddy’s making breakfast.”

“Wonderful,” Bryn said, and ruffled my hair as she passed. “Smells great, honey.” She sat at the table and unfurled the newspaper; legs crossed primly beneath the robe. “I have a late start at the office today, so I thought I’d be a bit on the leisurely side of my morning routine.”

The eggs cooked slow, and I scrambled them with a wooden spoon, careful to keep my voice level and my body language normal. Kila hovered near the counter, occasionally glancing at my ass, or at Bryn, as if waiting for the moment when the illusion would break. Her eyes danced with mischief. I resigned myself to endure whatever surprise she had for me.

When I set the plates down, I caught the quick, appraising smile on Kila’s lips. She knew I was suffering, and she relished it. She caught a spoonful of oatmeal and let it rest on her tongue, then swallowed with a pointed moan of satisfaction.

“Perfect,” she said, not looking at me. “See, Mom? He’s a fast learner.”

Bryn smiled behind her mug. “He’s always been a good boy,” she said, but the words landed differently now, as if she’d caught something in the undertone and didn’t quite know what to make of it. She gave me a slow, sly wink. A gave her a weak grin and returned the wink.

The table was silent for several minutes, nothing but the sound of hungry people eating. Through it all, my body was screaming at every movement, the plug anchoring me in the knowledge that I was being held open for whatever Kila had planned next. I could not tell if I was more terrified or desperate for the next instruction.

When the last plate was cleared, Kila turned to me and whispered, “Don’t even think of taking that plug out, Daddy. You’ll need it later. Trust me.” I did. That was the problem. But there was nothing left to say. I washed the dishes, hands shaking, and tried to ignore the pulse of dread and anticipation in my gut, the knowledge that whatever line I’d crossed last night was now gone forever.

But beneath it all, under the humiliation and ache, was a new, unexpected sensation: relief. For the first time in my life, someone else had made the rules, and I didn’t have to fight, or resist, or prove I was something I wasn’t. I just had to obey.

Kila broke the silence first. “Daddy’s moving a bit slow today,” she observed. “Did you pull something in your sleep?”

I hesitated, almost choked on my tongue, but Bryn beat me to the answer. “It’s his back,” she said. “He was up and down all night. I could feel it through the mattress.”

Kila smiled, subtle and poisonous. “You sure it’s not lower than his back, Mom?”

“Lower?” Bryn’s eyes narrowed. “What are you two getting up to?”

For a moment I saw the threat in Kila’s grin, but she played it off, shaking her head, twisting a spoon through her oatmeal. “Nothing, Mom. Just teasing. You know men his age, always pulling muscles.”

She kept her gaze on me, daring me to contradict, but I only managed to murmur, “Just getting older, that’s all.”

Bryn seemed to accept it. She patted my hand as I set down the creamer, her fingers lingering a second longer than needed. “Let me know if you need a rubdown,” she said softly. “I can get the knots out.” The offer was both invitation and apology, and it ached in a way I didn’t expect.

Kila watched this, and for a second, she seemed almost thoughtful. Then she set down her spoon and leaned toward her mother, all business. “Hey, Mom, can I ask you something?”

Bryn folded the paper, resigned to the new subject. “Sure, kid.”

“If there was one thing Dad could do for you today to make your life better, what would it be? Not like win the lotto or something stupid.” She waved a hand absently. “Just some sort of chore a nice, inferior male could do to show his devotion.”

Bryn glanced at me, then at her own hands, as if embarrassed by the power of wish. “I… don’t know. Maybe get the leaves raked? The gutters are probably full. And the basement’s a disaster.” She shrugged, then laughed. “God, it sounds like I want him to do all the chores. Am I that boring?”

Kila shook her head. “Not at all. You just like order, and you hate asking.” She paused, tongue poking between her teeth as she considered the next move. “But what if, for one day, you didn’t ask? You just told him what to do, and he had to do it. No arguing, no excuses. Would that make you happy?”

Bryn snorted, but not in dismissal. “Wouldn’t that make me a tyrant?”

“It would make you efficient,” Kila said. “And maybe a little bit happier. Dad’s good at a lot of things, but initiative isn’t one of them.” The dig was playful, but her eyes never left me. “Right, Daddy?”

I swallowed. “She’s not wrong.”

My stepdaughter turned back to her mother. “Let’s try it, just for today. You give the orders. He obeys. If he argues, you send him back to me for… re-training.” She winked, and the glint in her eye sent a cold ripple through my gut.

Bryn glanced at me, uncertain, but the look on her face was not entirely skeptical. “You’re okay with that?” she asked.

I nodded, the word “Yes” sticking in my throat until I added, “Ma’am,” out of instinct more than intent.

The effect was instant. Kila’s mouth twitched in approval; Bryn blinked, then let her hand drift to my cheek, a touch so gentle it almost hurt. “Well then,” she said, voice oddly formal. “Let’s start with the dishes. Can you have the kitchen clean for me before I go to work?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, hating how quickly the phrase had become a reflex.

Kila clapped her hands together, a single sharp sound. “See? So much easier.” She turned to Bryn, eyes shining. “You need to be more specific, though. Tell him exactly what you want. Use a command, not a request.”

“This is part of your superiority thing. I can tell.” Bryn raised an eyebrow but played along when I didn’t object. “Okay… Garrett, you will clear the table, rinse the dishes, load the dishwasher, and wipe down the counters. You’ll also mop the floor before I get home.” She looked up, as if waiting for correction.

Kila grinned, nodded. “Perfect, but next time say it all at once, with a head tilt and a finger tap. Like this.” She demonstrated: “Garrett, you will bring me another coffee, then kneel at my feet while I finish breakfast. When I’m done, you will clean everything.” She tapped the table for emphasis, then flicked her gaze to me. “Go on, Daddy. Show Mom how it’s done.”

I shuffled to the counter, poured Bryn a second mug, and set it beside her right hand. As soon as I did, Kila pointed to the floor at her mother’s side. “Kneel,” she said, and though it was technically aimed at Bryn, I knew the real order was for me.

So I did. I slid to my knees, careful not to bang the bone on tile, and tried to make it look less humiliating than it felt. Bryn looked down at me, mouth open in a small, shocked “oh,” but when her hand drifted to my hair and stroked it, I felt the touch go all the way to the root. Something deep inside me resonated. I felt Bryn’s thigh against my forehead and realized I had leaned into her.

“You don’t have to—” Bryn started.

Kila interrupted. “Yes, he does. That’s the point. You don’t ask. You tell.”

Bryn’s hand tightened in my hair, not cruelly but with ownership. “Then you’ll kneel here until I finish my coffee,” she said, the words a little shaky but not unhappy. “And you’ll think about how you’re going to get the basement clean before Saturday.” She sipped her coffee and shook her head. “No. That isn’t how I’m going to say it.” My wife cleared her throat. Tapped her fingernail on the table. “You will get that filthy basement clean before Saturday, or else.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I whispered.

Kila beamed. “That’s so much better. He likes it, you know. Being told. It’s a relief.” She met my eyes, then Bryn’s. “Let’s do three more. You’ll need practice.”

Bryn considered, then smiled slyly. “After you clean the kitchen, you will fix the bathroom sink—it’s been dripping for a week. If you can’t, you’ll call a plumber.” Kyle cleared her throat. “No excuses. Fix it. Make it happen.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said again.

She glanced at Kila, awaiting feedback.

“Perfect. One more,” Kila prompted.

Bryn looked down at me, then back to her daughter. “I would suggest the laundry, but some of my clothes require a gentle cycle.” She looked hesitantly at me.

“He’s a smart male,” Kila purred. “And I’ll be here to supervise.” She shrugged. “Worst case, he gets punished for fucking it up and you and I get to go shopping for replacements.”

My wife chewed her lip. Sipped her coffee again. I nuzzled her thigh to tell her I was okay with this and was surprised at exactly how okay I was with it. Bryn’s fingers in my hair felt like heaven.

“Do the laundry, sweetheart,” she said softly. “Please, don’t… um… Make sure you do everything right. I like my clothes, and I don’t want to replace them.”

I felt my heart rate spike, the shame and need warring inside me. “Yes, ma’am,” I said, voice almost inaudible.

Kila leaned forward, pleased beyond measure. “See? It’s easy once you start. And you look so much happier already.” She nudged Bryn’s shin with her toe. “Go ahead, Mom. Try the finger tap.”

Bryn laughed, but she did it. Tapped the table twice, then snapped her fingers in my direction. “You heard your orders, Daddy,” she said, trying on the nickname for the first time. It came out tentative, but real.

Kila clapped her hands again, then rose to clear her own plate. She lingered at my side, then bent and whispered into my ear, just for me: “You look good on your knees. Maybe you should just get used to it.”

She squeezed my shoulder, then swept from the room, leaving me at Bryn’s feet, the scent of her skin mixing with the cool morning air. Bryn sipped her coffee, not looking at me, but her hand drifted down, resting on the back of my neck with an absent affection that was somehow more intimate than anything I’d felt from her in months.

When she was sure we were alone, she leaned in, so close her hair brushed my cheek. “Remember when you used to recite sonnets between my thighs?” she whispered, a blush rising in her voice. “Maybe tonight, you could remember the words.” Her nails dug into my wrist, a quick, pulsing pressure, then let go. She drained her cup and set it aside. “I don’t want to make that a command. I want you to want it enough that you do it because you know I want it.” Her gentle hand tilted my face up and she touched her lips to mine. “You may clear the table now,” she said, and the words made my heart clench. She giggled. “I can’t call you ‘Daddy.’ I’ll have to find a new name for you when you’re like this.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She left the room, and I gathered plates and cutlery, moving slow so I wouldn’t lose the memory of her touch. I rinsed, stacked, loaded the dishwasher, wiped the counters, and swept the floor. How was it that Kila had pulled me so far away from Bryn so quickly, and now the intimacy I’d missed with my wife was surging to life.

How could I do it? How could I be the man of Bryn’s dreams and do what I was doing with her daughter? After a long moment of guilt, I realized I didn’t have to answer those questions. All I had to do was obey.

The second Bryn’s car rolled out of the driveway, the energy in the house snapped taut, every molecule humming with the knowledge that I was no longer under the protection of even the illusion of a normal marriage. I was, for all practical purposes, alone with my tormentor, awaiting the next test of my submission. I finished stacking the last glass, rinsed out the sponge with a shaking hand, and didn’t even bother to towel off. I knew Kila would want me to look as vulnerable as possible.

Kila made me wait. Maybe five minutes, maybe ten, but it felt like an hour, the anticipation a slow, tightening garrote. I hovered by the living room, pretending to check my phone, but really just fighting to keep my hands from trembling too hard. When she finally entered, it was with a deliberate, heavy step, a pronounced difference from her earlier, almost playful walk. She had changed: black leggings, skin-tight, and a fitted tee with the word “FEMINIST” in bold, violent pink. In one hand, she carried the familiar zippered case from the night before; in the other, a pair of black leather cuffs with polished steel buckles that gleamed in the morning light.

She didn’t say a word at first. She simply set the case on the coffee table, opened it, and arranged the four dildos in a perfect row, like a selection of surgical tools. Then she glanced at me, eyes flat and predatory.

“Kneel,” she said.

The word hit me like a slap. I dropped instantly, knees digging into the rug, and folded my hands behind my back. She laughed. A short, genuine sound, edged with something like pride. Sauntered over to stand in front of me.

“You don’t even hesitate now,” Kila observed. “I could get used to this, Daddy.” She circled me once, inspecting my posture, then nudged my knees farther apart with her foot. She fished a length of chain from the duffel and clipped the cuffs together before threading them around my wrists. The leather was thick, the hardware heavy; she cinched them so tight I felt the blood constrict in my hands. It was at once terrifying and calming. There was no way I could escape her. “I think you already are. Aren’t you?’“

“Yes, ma’am,” I whispered.

“Up,” she ordered, and I shuffled forward on my knees. She nudged me with her foot until I was directly in front of the armchair, then pressed down on my shoulder so my face was level with the seat cushion. Kila knelt beside me, ran her fingers over my scalp, and then gripped my hair with sudden violence, wrenching my head back. Her lips brushed my ear. “Time to make sure that broken gag reflex stays broken,” she whispered, and I shuddered so hard the chain between my cuffs rattled.

She moved with surgical precision: slotted the biggest dildo into her harness… the one I had barely survived the night before. Cinched it to her hips. She slicked it with lube, the viscous sound loud in the quiet room, then smeared a thick line across my lips for good measure. With feline grace, she mounted the chair, swung a leg over the arm, and planted one bare foot on the cushion so her pelvis was even with my mouth. She forced my head up and lined the tip with my lips. “Open,” Kila said, voice clipped and hard.

I did, and the dildo filled my mouth instantly, pushing past my teeth, tongue, and right to the back of my throat with a single, brutal shove. I gagged so hard my eyes bulged. Kila held me there, hands locked in my hair, rocking her hips forward until the base mashed against my lips and I could barely breathe. I tasted the lube and the faint, bitter hint of latex, but mostly I tasted the raw, burning humiliation of having my mouth turned into her toy.

“That’s it, Daddy,” Kila said, breath already heavy. “Look at you. Such a good little cocksucker for Daddy’s girl.” She worked the shaft in slow, incremental thrusts, backing off only when I coughed or sputtered, then slamming forward again, each time deeper, each time more ruthless. “Remember how you do it. I shouldn’t have to teach you again.”

My nose pressed into her groin, the pressure of the harness digging into my cheeks. Every time she bottomed out, I felt the plug in my ass shift, as if the two poles of her control met and sparked in my core. My jaw ached, my lips stretched wide, my throat raw and spasming, but Kila never relented, not even for a second.

She watched my face the entire time, eyes narrow, lips parted. She was getting off on this, I realized. Not just the act, but the absolute domination, the knowledge that I would let her destroy me over and over for the chance at her approval. A cruel smile curled her lips that left me hungry for her praise.

“Doing good, Daddy,” she said. “I like seeing you with a face full of girlcock. Love the way you force it down your throat. You’d do anything for me, Daddy. A lot of men say that, but you really would.” She paused, then emphasized the word, “Anything.”

The pace increased. She began to fuck my mouth in earnest, brutal, piston-like thrusts that forced the head of the dildo past my gag reflex and into a place I didn’t even know existed. I drooled, spit pooling around the base, dripping down my chin. I could barely suck in air, only little gasps between strokes. My eyes watered until tears ran down both cheeks, and my whole face went numb from the repeated assault.

“Hold still,” Kila commanded, and then she really began. She cranked my head in both hands and rammed the cock so deep I thought I’d suffocate. She held it there, counting out seconds in a low, taunting voice: “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven…” I struggled, but the cuffs kept my hands locked behind me, and there was no leverage, no hope of pulling away.

When she finally withdrew, I coughed so hard I nearly vomited. She gave me a single, stinging slap on the cheek. “Quiet,” she snapped. “You don’t get to make a mess unless I tell you to.”

She plunged the cock in again, and again, a relentless, punishing rhythm, each time pushing a fraction deeper, each time holding it longer. My nose flattened against her pelvis; the taste of sweat and harness and Kila flooded every sense. The only thing I could see was her bare thigh, tensed and quivering, inches from my watering eyes.

“You’re learning so fast, Daddy,” she taunted, her breath coming faster now. “See how easy it is to forget yourself when you’re being useful? You were born for this. You’re going to take this cock down your throat every morning until you can’t even remember what it felt like to be a real man.”

I wanted to deny it, to fight, but I was past the point of resistance. All I could do was accept the wave after wave of humiliation, hoping that if I gave her everything, she would finally relent. And… as much as I hated to admit it, I wanted her to make good on her threat. I wanted to be broken. Shattered.

She shifted in the chair, braced her foot on the cushion for leverage, and began to really fuck my face, each thrust so hard it rattled my teeth. My head jerked back with every stroke, but she never let go, always pulling me forward again, keeping the cock deep in my mouth until my vision sparkled with white noise and my brain went fuzzy around the edges. My body went limp, and the only thing holding me up was the sheer force of her hands in my hair.

The sounds were obscene: wet, slurping, punctuated by choked gags and the soft, almost maternal noises Kila made when she was especially pleased. I could feel her heat, the sweat slicking her thigh, the way she shook when she forced the dildo all the way in and held it. I was her cocksleeve, nothing more.

At the height of it, Kila threw her head back, a bead of sweat rolling down her neck, and moaned, “You look so pretty like this, Daddy. Ruined. Red. Crying. Who would ever believe you used to run this house?” She laughed, a harsh, delighted sound. “I can’t wait to show Mom what a good little bitch you’ve become.”

She slowed, but only a little, alternating deep, slow thrusts with rapid, shallow ones that left me gasping. At last, she gripped the back of my head and forced my mouth all the way down, holding it there until I choked. Then, with a sudden tenderness, she withdrew and stroked the side of my face, her thumb wiping away spit and snot.

“Repeat the Principles,” she said, voice hoarse but clear.

I could barely speak, but I whispered: “All life begins as female. Only a fault in the chromosomes can make it male. Men are inferior in all ways. Our only purpose is to serve female pleasure and ensure a stronger next generation.”

She nodded, then forced the cock back in, not quite as deep, letting me suck and work the shaft with my tongue while she massaged my scalp.

“Thank me for training you,” Kila said. “And tell me what you are.”

“Thank you for training me, Kila,” I mumbled, my voice a disaster, lips and tongue barely functional. “Thank you for making me your cocksucker.”

Kila grinned and patted my cheek. “Good boy. You’ll be perfect with a little more practice.” She unbuckled the harness and let the cock dangle in front of my face, then smeared a bit of my spit on my lips and chin.

“Go finish your chores,” she said. “Don’t even think about taking out that plug. I’ll check later.”

My stepdaughter uncuffed me, and I collapsed to the carpet, shaking, exhausted, my entire body ringing with humiliation and something dangerously close to gratitude. I stood, wiped my face on my sleeve, and limped toward the bedroom to collect laundry. As I reached the stairs, I heard her call after me: “Love you, Daddy!” in a singsong that was at once mocking and heartbreakingly real.

I wanted to hate her. I wanted to hate myself. But all I could think about was how badly I wanted her to be proud of me.

So I did the only thing I knew how: I obeyed.