Semua Bab Forbidden Daddy Desires: Steamy MM : Bab 61 - Bab 70

The funeral was a goddamn nightmare. A sea of black clothes and hollow-eyed people whispering platitudes about my mother like they gave a shit. I stood there in my cheap, scratchy suit, feeling like a fraud. My mother, a vibrant splash of color in a monochrome world, reduced to a tasteful, closed casket and a shitty photo montage. When the last of the mourners finally dispersed, I practically sprinted to the car, my lungs burning for air. He was waiting for me. Marcus. My stepfather for the last ten years, a man who had always felt more like an expensive piece of furniture than a parent. He leaned against his black Mercedes, looking like he’d been carved from granite and money. At forty-five, he was in his prime. Salt-and-pepper hair styled with effortless precision, a jawline that could cut glass, and eyes dark, deep-set eyes that seemed to see right through your skin and into the messy, trembling parts underneath. “Ready to go home, Alex?” he asked. His voice was a low rumble, a vi

The next morning, I woke up to the rich, bitter smell of coffee. For a few blissful seconds, I forgot. I forgot about the funeral, about the house, about the strange, tense dynamic crackling between me and Marcus. Then reality crashed down, and I pulled a pillow over my head, wishing I could smother myself with it. Downstairs, Marcus was already dressed for work in another tailored suit, scrolling through something on a tablet. He looked like a king surveying his kingdom. “Morning,” he said, not looking up. “Coffee’s made. There’s a list of chores on the fridge. I expect them to be done by the time I get home.” Chores? I hadn’t had a chore list since I was sixteen. “Okay,” I managed, pouring a cup of coffee. My hands were still unsteady. “And Alex?” He finally looked up, and his gaze pinned me to the spot. “Your phone stays in your room during ‘productivity hours.’ I don’t want to see you texting your little friends when there’s work to be done.” I nodded again, not trusting my vo

I stood there, frozen, my mind a complete blank. Take those sweaty clothes off. The order echoed in the silent kitchen, each word a separate, heavy stone dropping into the pit of my stomach. My sweatpants were already tented, my arousal a blatant, throbbing accusation. Stripping now felt like a different kind of exposure, a deliberate baring of my shameful reaction. “Well?” Marcus prompted, one eyebrow raised. He hadn’t moved. He was just watching me, waiting, his patience a more terrifying prospect than his anger. My hands shook as I hooked my thumbs under the waistband of my sweatshirt. I pulled it over my head, the fabric sticking to my damp skin. I dropped it on the floor, my eyes fixed on a spot on the granite countertop. I couldn’t look at him. I couldn’t bear to see the expression on his face—the smug satisfaction, the cool appraisal. Next were my sweatpants. I hesitated, my fingers frozen on the elastic band. This was it. The point of no return. “Now, Alex,” he said, his vo

Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through me. Aunt Carol. Marcus’s younger sister, a woman with a voice like a foghorn and a complete inability to grasp the concept of personal space. She would walk right in. She would see me. “Daddy, no,” I begged, my voice a frantic whisper. “I can’t...” “Shh.” Marcus pressed a finger to my lips. His eyes were dark, glittering with a dangerous light. “This is a test, Alex. A test of your obedience. You pass, and you’ll be rewarded. You fail…” He let the threat hang in the air, unspoken but perfectly clear. “Now, get in the pantry. And don’t make a sound.” Scrambling on my hands and knees, I crawled into the large walk-in pantry, pulling the door almost completely shut, leaving just a tiny crack to see through. I crouched behind a bag of potatoes, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I was sure they could hear it in the next county. The collar around my neck felt heavier than ever, a brand of my submission. I heard the front door open and Carol’

Friday night arrived with the sickening weight of a pending execution. The plug lay on my bed, a small, black, menacing sentinel. It was sleek and heavy in my palm, the silicone cool to the touch. For the last two days, my training had intensified. Marcus had pushed me, tested my limits, and rewarded my obedience with mind-blowing orgasms and a level of praise I hadn’t known I was starving for. I was becoming his creature, conditioned to respond to his voice, his touch, his commands. The collar, which I now wore almost constantly in the house, was no longer a symbol of shame, but a comforting weight, a reminder that I was his. But this was different. This was public. The Hendersons were old, stodgy friends of my mother’s. Mr. Henderson was a judge, for God’s sake. The thought of sitting at their pristine, antique dinner table, making small talk about politics and the weather, while this thing was buzzing inside me… it was a special kind of hell. A special kind of heaven. “Are you rea