All Chapters of All Yours, Daddy: Short Steamy Stories: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

I woke up still wet. My fingers smelled like cunt. The sheets under me were damp where I’d rubbed against them in my sleep, half-dreaming about Blake’s voice and the way he’d watched me come on the couch with my father ten feet away. My clit was swollen and sensitive the second I shifted my legs. I didn’t touch it. I just lay there staring at the ceiling, replaying every filthy thing he’d said. Downstairs Dad was already making coffee. He looked hungover and cheerful. “Morning. You heading out today?” I poured myself a cup and kept my face blank. “Maybe.” “Good. Blake texted. He left a box of tools in the garage last night and needs them back. Said he’s working from home today. Can you drop them off? Save me the drive.” My stomach flipped hard. Exactly what Blake had told me would happen. “Yeah,” I said. “I’ll take them.” I showered fast, didn’t bother with underwear, just pulled on a loose dress that hit mid-thigh. No bra either. My nipples were already tight. The box

The night air sticks to my skin like it knows what I’m thinking. I’m walking home from the late shift, heels clicking really loud on the empty sidewalk, bag clutched tight against my side. My mind won’t shut up. It never does on nights like this. Ordinary men leave me cold. The ones who smile too soft, who ask permission like it’s a gift. They don’t get it. They never will. I need the mask. The blank face. The way it turns a man into something that doesn’t have to pretend. I’ve spent too many nights with my hand between my legs, phone glowing in the dark, watching videos of men who hide everything but the hunger. The way they move. The way they take. It makes my thighs press together even when I’m standing on a public street at 1 a.m. I tell myself it’s just a fantasy - safe 'n contained. Then I feel the shift in the air behind me. He’s already there. I don’t hear footsteps. I just know. The same way you know when someone’s watching you undress through a window you thought wa

The clock on the stove says 11:47. I’m rinsing the last plate when the knock comes—three hard, deliberate raps that don’t sound like any neighbor we know. My husband freezes in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. His face has that same tight, gray look he’s worn for weeks every time the subject of money comes up. “Don’t,” I start, but he’s already moving to the door. It opens before he reaches it. Four men step inside like the lock was never there. Black masks cover everything except their eyes. Different heights, different builds, all of them solid and quiet in the way that makes the the whole room feel thinner. One closes the door behind them and flips the deadbolt. My husband backs up until his calves hit the couch. “I told you I need more time—” “Time’s up,” the tallest one says. Voice low, almost calm. “Forty-three thousand. Interest keeps running Marcus. You don’t have it. We know.” His eyes slide to me. “But she does.” I feel the words land slow like

Three nights later the marks on my wrists from the zip-ties have faded to yellow, but the ache between my legs hasn’t. I walk around the apartment sore and empty, catching myself pressing my thighs together when a random memory hits- the stretch of three cocks at once, the wet sound of them finishing on my face while my husband watched. I hate that my hand drifts between my legs in the shower. I hate that I come harder thinking about the masks than I ever did thinking about him. He’s quieter now. Moves like a man waiting for the next blow. When the knock comes at midnight he doesn’t even flinch. Just stands up and walks to the door like he’s opening it for guests. Funny right. Four masks again. This time one of them carries a black duffel. He drops it on the coffee table and unzips it slow. Rope. A short leather strap. A slim metal bar with cuffs on each end. A black ball gag still in its plastic. My stomach drops and my cunt clenches at the same time. “Clothes off,” the tal

I tell him I was at Maya’s the whole night. It’s the next evening. We’re in the kitchen. He’s leaning against the counter with a beer, watching me like he already knows the answer and is just waiting for me to dig the hole deeper. I keep my voice steady, even add a little attitude. “I was at Maya’s. We watched a movie. I came straight home.” Marcus sets the bottle down without a sound. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, unlocks it, and turns the screen toward me. My location history is right there—blue dots that clearly show I was across town near the same bar from two nights ago for almost three hours. Underneath it are screenshots of the texts I sent the guy whose cologne I still can’t fully wash off my skin. I open my mouth to double down and he just shakes his head once. “Don’t.” He takes my wrist—not hard enough to bruise, just firm enough that I know fighting is pointless., and walks me down the hall to my bedroom. He closes the door behind us and locks it. Then h