All Chapters of Tales Of His Obsession : Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

67 Chapters

21: The Submissive Daddy

The mahogany desk in Lawrence Ellison’s corner office gleamed under the soft, recessed lighting. At fifty-two, he was a titan of industry, a man whose very name commanded respect and whose sharp grey eyes could silence a boardroom with a glance. His tailored suit fit him like a second skin of authority. Yet, as he stared at the financial projections flickering on his monitor, a profound emptiness gnawed at him. His life was a perfectly curated museum of success, but it was cold, silent, and achingly lonely since his wife’s passing three years prior. His only solace was his daughter, Chloe, but at twenty-four, she had her own life in the city. The intercom buzzed, a sharp intrusion. “Mr. Ellison, your four o’clock is here. A Ms. Valerius.” “Send her in,” Lawrence replied, his voice a low rumble of habitual command. The door opened, and she entered. Lawrence’s breath caught subtly, a reaction he hadn’t experienced in years. She was younger than him, perhaps mid-thirties, but carrie

22: The Submissive Daddy (2)

The words hung between them, a sacred, profane vow. Seraphina’s smile deepened, becoming less cruel and more possessive. “Good boy,” she purred, and the simple praise ignited a flame of shameful pleasure in Robert’s chest. “The first lesson,” she said, her tone shifting to one of instructional command, “is stance. You will stand before me with your feet shoulder-width apart, hands clasped behind your back, chin slightly lowered unless permitted to look at me. Do it now.” Feeling clumsy and oversized, Lawrence obeyed. The posture felt foreign yet strangely focused. It removed the burden of what to do with his hands, where to look. “Better,” Seraphina assessed, walking a slow circle around him. “Your body is strong. It’s used to giving orders. We will retrain it to receive them.” She stopped behind him. He could feel her heat, smell her perfume. Her fingers traced the line of his spine through his shirt, making him shiver. “You will address me as ‘Mistress’ or ‘Mistress Seraphina’ at

23: The Submissive Daddy (3)

A week of torturous normalcy followed. Lawrence navigated boardrooms and business lunches, the hidden collar a constant secret against his skin. He was sharper, more present, yet part of his mind always dwelled in the crimson-and-black warehouse space, on her voice, her commands. Seraphina sent brief, encrypted messages with instructions: Sleep eight hours. Drink no alcohol tonight. Journal three things you relinquished control over today. The tasks were simple yet profound, weaving her authority into the fabric of his daily life. The invitation for Friday night was not a question: 10 PM. Formal Attire (for you). Be prepared. When Lawrence arrived, Seraphina was waiting in the center of the room, a vision of dominant elegance in a floor-length gown of deep emerald velvet, her hair cascading over her shoulders. The space had been transformed further. A small, intimate table was set for two with fine china and crystal. Candles flickered, casting dancing shadows. “You look handsome,

24: The Submissive Daddy (4)

Lawrence moved through the crowd like a ghost, finding the opulent, marble-lined restroom deserted. He stood there, confused, until the door opened and Seraphina slipped inside, locking the door behind her. In the stark fluorescent light, her dominance was even more intimidating. “You saw,” she stated. “Yes, Mistress.” “You heard.” “Yes, Mistress.” “And how did it make you feel, Sir? To see your Mistress with another? To hear yourself mocked?” Lawrence swallowed, the collar feeling tighter than ever. “It… hurt, Mistress. And it… aroused me.” The confession was torn from him. “Honest,” she approved. “You are learning.” She stepped closer. “Drop your trousers and underwear. Bend over the sink.” Trembling with a mixture of dread and electric anticipation, Lawrence obeyed. The cold marble pressed against his bare stomach and thighs. He heard the rustle of her gown, then the sound of a cap opening, lubricant. Without preamble, she pushed into him. The invasion was sudden, brutal,

25: Doctor Daddy

The clinic’s waiting room smelled of antiseptic and quiet desperation. Alexa Hart sat with her legs crossed, the cheap polyester of her skirt scratching against her thighs. She was here for the third time in as many months, a recurring UTI the walk-in clinic couldn’t seem to shake. But her regular doctor was on leave. The receptionist, with a bored smile, had told her she’d be seeing Dr. Anderson today. “Alexa Hart? Dr. Anderson will see you now.” Her heels clicked on the polished linoleum as she followed the nurse down a sterile hallway. The door at the end was ajar. The nurse pushed it open. “Right in here.” The man who stood up from behind a large, orderly desk was nothing like the kindly, balding GP she’d expected. Dr. Robert Anderson was in his late forties, tall and powerfully built, straining the seams of his white coat in a way that suggested he spent more time at the gym than at the golf club. His dark hair was streaked with distinguished silver at the temples, and his eye

26: Doctor Daddy (2)

The sterile air of Exam Room 3 hummed with a new tension. Alexa lay back on the table, the crisp paper crinkling beneath her. Dr. Anderson stood beside her, his focus obviously on the digital chart in his hand, but his presence seemed to fill every corner of the small space. “The culture came back negative for any atypical bacteria,” he said, his voice measured and professional. “Given the persistence of your symptoms, I’d like to perform a more detailed pelvic exam today. We need to check for any physical sources of irritation or muscular tension.” “Okay,” Alexa whispered, her throat tight. The paper draped over her lower half felt like a pathetic shield. “I’ll need you to slide down a bit further, and place your feet in the stirrups,” he instructed, his tone devoid of inflection. With a shaky breath, she complied, the cold metal of the stirrups a shock against her heels. The position was the ultimate vulnerability, her legs spread and elevated, the drape tented over her knees do

27: Doctor Daddy (3)

The private consultation suite in the West Wing was a world apart from Exam Room 3. It was still clean, still medical, but softer. The lighting was muted, the walls a pale, soothing blue. There was a plush, padded examination table instead of a standard one, and a discreet cabinet of supplies. But the essence of Dr. Anderson, the scent of sandalwood and clean authority, permeated the space. Alexa lay on the table, dressed in a simple cotton gown this time, no paper drape. The appointment card had specified a gown open in the back. She heard the door open and close softly, then the definitive click of the lock engaging. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Dr. Anderson entered, now dressed in dark slacks and a crisp, open-collared white shirt beneath his unbuttoned white coat. The look was less formal, more… proprietorial. “Alexa,” he greeted, his voice warm yet carrying that undercurrent of command. He washed his hands at the small sink, the ritual familiar yet charged with new mea

28: Doctor Daddy (4)

The following evening at 8 PM, Alexa was once again in the blue-walled suite. The air was cooler, carrying a faint, clean antiseptic scent that did nothing to calm her nerves. She obeyed his instruction, the soft cotton gown tied loosely in the back, her body bare and sensitive beneath it. Every shift of the fabric felt like a whisper against her skin, a constant reminder of her state of undress, of readiness. Dr. Anderson entered precisely on time. Tonight, he’d forgone the white coat entirely. He wore a form-fitting black t-shirt that stretched across the powerful planes of his chest and shoulders, and dark trousers. He looked less like a doctor and more like a sculptor approaching his chosen medium. “Alexa,” he said, his voice a low, warm vibration. “Report. Any residual tension?” “Yes,” she breathed, the word honest. It had been a 24-hour crescendo, a needy hum that had started the moment she’d left his office the day before. “It’s… worse.” A flicker of satisfaction passed thr

29: Doctor Daddy (5)

The back-to-back sessions became her new reality, the axis around which her life spun. The outside world, her job, her friends, the mundane rhythm of days, faded into a dull, gray blur. All that held color and meaning were the blue walls of the suite, the scent of sandalwood and antiseptic, and the deep, commanding timbre of his voice. Session 4 was a blur of sensation. He had used his hands again, but differently. He’d employed a technique he called “fascial stripping,” his fingers digging deep into the muscles of her inner thighs, her groin, her lower abdomen, manipulating tissue with a painful, pleasurable pressure that left her bruised and breathless, before culminating in a climax so intense she blacked out for a few seconds. But Session 5, the next evening, marked another escalation. A fundamental shift. When she entered the suite, the table had been modified. The stirrups were not the usual cold metal cups, but padded leather cuffs. And two additional straps were lying on th

30: Doctor Daddy (6)

The transition from outpatient to inpatient was seamless, a logical escalation in a protocol that had long since ceased to have any pretense of medical legitimacy. On Monday at 9 AM, Alexa presented herself not at the West Wing suite, but at a private, unmarked entrance to a part of the hospital she’d never seen. Dr. Anderson met her there, his demeanor one of brisk, focused efficiency. “Leave your phone, your bag, any personal items here,” he instructed, taking a small lockbox from a shelf. “For the duration of the program, you are under my direct care. Your sole focus is healing.” She handed over her lifeline to the outside world without a word. The act felt symbolic, a final severing. He led her down a sterile, quiet hallway to a private room. It wasn’t a standard hospital room. It was a larger space, sparsely furnished. A wide, medical-grade bed with adjustable rails dominated the center. There were monitors against one wall, their screens dark. A rolling cart held an array of d

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