Chapter 3: Daddy's Little Girl Begs for Anal Training
The silence after the camera’s red light blinked off was profound, broken only by their ragged breathing. Kadie lay on her back, the cool air from the vent raising goosebumps on her sweat-slicked skin. Andrew’s weight shifted beside her, the mattress groaning as he sat up.
“Water?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.
She nodded, unable to form words just yet. He padded naked to the mini-fridge in the corner, the muscles of his back and thighs moving with an easy, familiar grace. He returned with two cold bottles, handing her one. The condensation felt shocking against her palm.
“So,” he said, twisting the cap off his own. “Talk to me.”
She took a long drink, buying time. The water was icy, clearing the fog. “It was… different. With the camera on.”
“How?”
“I kept wondering what I looked like. If my face was stupid. If my… if my body was doing what it was supposed to be doing.” She traced a finger through the condensation on the bottle. “It made me feel… watched. But not just by you.”
Andrew watched her, his expression neutral, listening. “And that was good? Bad?”
“Both,” she admitted, finally meeting his eyes. “It was like a performance. And part of me liked being a performance. For you. For the… lens.” She felt a flush creep up her neck, unrelated to the sex. It was harder to articulate this. “It felt dirtier. More exposed.”
A slow smile touched his lips. “You’re figuring out what wires you like to have tripped, kid. Exposure. Objectification. They’re powerful spices. Use them wrong, they ruin the dish. Use them right…” He let the sentence hang, taking another drink.
“I want to try it again,” she said, the words coming out in a rush. “But… more.”
“More how?”
She gestured vaguely at the clutter on the floor near the tripod. The silvery gleam of restraints, the dark leather of a blindfold. Things they’d used before, but never with the camera as a witness. “I want to not have a choice. In what it sees.”
Andrew considered her, his gaze appraising. She loved this look. It wasn’t lust, not yet. It was calculation, care, the crafting of a scene. “You want me to decide the framing. The action.”
“Yes.”
“And your safe word holds. Always. Even for the performance.”
“I know.”
He stood, setting his bottle down with a decisive click. He walked to the table, picked up the camera, and checked the memory card. “Then we’ll do a proper scene. Not just fucking. A scene.” He turned to her. “Up. Shower. Cool down. We start in twenty.”
The shower was a ritual. She washed away the earlier sweat, the evidence of him, knowing she’d soon be marked again. The water beat on her shoulders, and she let her mind race ahead, into the delicious, terrifying unknown. When she returned to the bedroom, wrapped in a towel, he had changed the sheets. The camera was back on the tripod, angled toward the bed. The restraints were laid out on the clean duvet.
“Come here,” he said. He wasn’t Andrew-her-lover now. He was Andrew-the-Dominant. His voice had a edge that thrilled her spine.
She approached. He took the towel from her and let it fall. His eyes traveled over her nakedness, cool and assessing. “On the bed. On your back. Head on the pillows.”
She complied, the cotton crisp beneath her. He picked up the soft leather cuffs. He didn’t ask. He took her right wrist, fastened the cuff snugly, and clipped the attached carabiner to a heavy ring bolted to the wooden bed frame. He did the same with her left, spreading her arms wide. The pull in her shoulders was immediate, a slight, constant strain.
“Eyes closed,” he commanded.
She obeyed. The world vanished.