Chapter 1: A Father's Proposal
The glow from the laptop screen painted Izzy’s skin a pale blue in the dark room. Her breath came in ragged hitches, each one synchronized with the rhythmic, wet sounds emanating from the speakers. On screen, a tattooed man with muscles corded like rope had a brunette pinned against a wall, driving into her from behind with a force that made the camera shake. Izzy’s own hand moved between her legs, working the thick, veined silicone in and out of her cunt. The stretch was delicious, a constant, full ache that made her toes curl into the tangled silk sheets.
She was so close, the coil in her gut pulled tight, when the bedroom door swung open.
She didn’t startle. She knew the shape of him, the sound of his breath. Dominic stood framed in the doorway, backlit by the hall light, his bulk seeming to fill the entire space. He didn’t speak. The familiar, low-light icon of his phone’s camera flickered on, a tiny red dot winking to life beside the lens.
Izzy’s hips kept moving, her hand pumping the dildo faster. She let her head fall back, offering her throat, but her dark eyes slid to the phone, then to his face. A challenge. An invitation.
The camera zoomed in. The phone’s screen, from her angle, became a silent, intimate mirror showing a obscene close-up: her slick, pink folds stretched taut around the shiny black toy, glistening under the artificial light. Her own wetness coated it, catching the glow.
Dom moved into the room, the floorboard creaking under his weight. He circled the bed like a predator, the phone held steady. His voice, when it finally came, was a graveled rumble that vibrated in her chest deeper than the porn’s audio.
“Look at that,” he murmured, the lens hovering inches from her pumping wrist. “Fucking yourself silly to some stranger.” He adjusted the angle, capturing the frantic rise and fall of her breasts. “You’re so goddamn greedy for it, babygirl.”
Izzy whimpered, a high, needy sound. She loved this. Loved being watched. Especially by him.
“Daddy,” she gasped, her rhythm faltering for just a second.
“Tell me what you need,” he growled, coming to stand by the bed now, looking down at her, the phone now capturing her flushed face, her parted lips.
“You. Always you.”
He lowered the phone slightly. His free hand came down, not to touch her, but to fist in the sheets beside her hip. The knuckles were scarred, powerful. “This plastic shit ain’t me. It’s a poor fucking substitute.”
She nodded, frantic, pushing the toy deeper until she felt the familiar pressure against her cervix. A cry tore from her throat.
“I got an idea,” Dom said, his voice dropping, becoming conspiratorial, rough with a heat that wasn’t just arousal. It was possession. “What do you say we stop playing pretend? Take this to a real studio. Lights, professional cameras. Film some proper movies together.”
Izzy’s eyes, glassy with pleasure, flew open wider, locking onto his. Her hand stilled, the dildo buried deep inside her.
He leaned closer, the phone now capturing them both in the frame—his hardened face, her wrecked one. “Show the world,” he whispered, his breath hot on her ear, “exactly how good my little girl takes my cock. How pretty she looks choking on it. How her tight little cunt milks me dry.”
A violent shiver wracked her body. The coil inside her snapped, and a silent, intense orgasm clenched around the toy, her back arching clear off the bed. Wave after wave of pleasure pulsed through her, leaving her breathless and trembling.
As the last tremors subsided, she turned her head, nuzzling against the rough denim of his jeans. She looked up at the camera, then at him, a wicked, defiant light in her dark eyes.
“Fuck, Daddy, yes,” she breathed, her voice hoarse. She slowly, obscenely, withdrew the slick toy and let it drop to the sheets with a damp thud. She spread her legs wider, presenting herself to the lens, glistening and utterly exposed. “I want everyone to see. I want them to see me being your whore.”
A muscle jumped in Dom’s jaw. He finally set the phone down on the nightstand, the red recording light still glowing, a silent witness. He didn’t need it now. He was looking at her with a ferocity that was both terrifying and thrilling.
He unbuckled his belt, the leather sliding through the loops with a sharp, final sound. “Then we’ll show them,” he said, his voice thick. “But first, you need a rehearsal.”
He knelt on the bed, the mattress groaning. He didn’t kiss her. This wasn’t about tenderness. It was about proof. He grabbed her hips, his fingers biting into her flesh, and yanked her to the edge of the bed. He positioned himself, the broad, flushed head of his cock pressing against her soaked entrance. He held her gaze, a silent question in his dark eyes.
Izzy answered by lifting her legs, hooking her heels over the small of his back, opening herself completely. “Do it,” she whispered. “Let’s make our first scene.”
With a grunt that was part agony, part triumph, he sheathed himself inside her in one relentless, deep thrust. The air left Izzy’s lungs in a punched-out sob. It was a feeling so profoundly different from the toy—the living heat of him, the pulse, the sheer unforgiving fullness. He didn’t move, just let her feel it, let her adjust to the invasion, his own body trembling with the effort of holding still.
“This,” he growled, his voice trembling, “is what they’ll see.”
Then he began to move. It was a hard, driving pace, each slam of his hips pushing a sharp cry from her lips. The headboard knocked a dull, steady rhythm against the wall, syncing with the wet, slapping sounds of their joining. He watched her face, watched every flicker of pleasure and strain. One calloused hand came up to wrap around her throat, not squeezing, just holding, a dominant claim.
“You’re mine,” he chanted into the sweat-damp space between them, his thrusts becoming punishing, erratic. “All mine. And I’m gonna share you with the whole fucking world, but they’ll never have this. They’ll never know what it feels like to be inside you. They’ll just get to watch. They’ll just get to see what I made.”
Izzy was spiraling again, another climax building from the brutal depth of his strokes, from the filthy, possessive words in her ear. “Daddy!” she screamed, the title a blasphemy and a prayer. Her walls clamped down around him, a vicious, rhythmic pull.
It triggered his own end. With a final, deep grind, he buried himself to the hilt and let go, a raw, guttural shout tearing from his chest as he emptied into her, his big body shuddering violently.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the distant bass from the forgotten porn on the laptop. He collapsed over her, his weight a crushing, welcome anchor. He turned his face into her neck, inhaling deeply.
Izzy’s hands came up, her fingers tracing the familiar ridges of the tattoo on his shoulder blade—the cross, the family motto. Her heart was a wild drum against his chest.
Finally, he pushed himself up on his elbows. He looked over at the phone on the nightstand. The red light was still on. He’d recorded the whole thing—the proposal, her agreement, the raw, graphic consummation of the idea.
He looked back down at her, his expression unreadable. A father’s love and a lover’s shame warring in his eyes. He brushed a damp strand of hair from her forehead.
“We’ll need a stage name for you,” he said, his voice soft now, almost casual. As if they were discussing what to have for dinner. “Can’t use Toretto.”
Izzy smiled, a lazy, sated, dangerous smile. She reached for the phone, her finger hovering over the stop button. She didn’t press it. Not yet.
“Let’s watch the playback first,” she said. “See if my performance is convincing enough.”