Chapter 4: Taking The Plug
The memory hit Isla like a physical blow, flooding her senses as she watched Serena’s bare body tremble in the lamplight.
It was the sight of that particular plug—the one with the subtle ridge near the base—that tore her back to the pool that afternoon. The sun had been brutal, a white-hot coin in a bleached sky. She’d been lying on the lounger, the concrete warm beneath her towel, trying to sip her iced tea through a straw. Her father was reading a financial report a few chairs away, a picture of calm. She’d felt the first urgent pang in her bladder but ignored it, not wanting to move, not wanting to draw attention. The second wave was a cramp of pure need. She’d clenched, squeezing her thighs together under her sarong, her heart beginning to hammer. By the time she pushed herself up, it was too late. A warm, betraying gush had escaped her, darkening the light fabric of her bikini bottom, spreading a damp patch on the towel beneath her.
The horror was absolute. She’d frozen, her eyes darting to Javier. He’d lowered his report, his gaze tracking from her mortified face down to the incriminating stain. His expression hadn’t been angry, but profoundly disappointed. That was worse.
“Isla,” he’d said, his voice cutting through the lazy poolside chatter. “Stand up.”
Tears of shame had blurred her vision as she stood, the wet fabric clinging to her skin. He’d made her walk ahead of him, past the other guests, to a private cabana. She could feel every eye on her back, on the obvious evidence of her accident. Inside, the air was cool and smelled of chlorine and clean linen.
“You know the rule about attending to your needs before settling in,” he’d stated, his tone clinical. “This is infantilism, Isla. And it will be treated as such.”
He’d made her peel the soaked bikini bottom off herself, her fingers fumbling. Then, he’d laid her over the padded bench in the cabana. The spanking had been methodical, his large hand turning her skin a deep, stinging pink. But the true punishment came after. She’d heard the click of the cap on the lubricant. She’d felt the cold, thick gel against her most private hole. He’d worked it into her, his fingers impersonal and thorough, before pressing the tip of the plug against her.
“This is to remind you,” he’d said, his voice low in her ear as he pushed. The stretch had been immense, shocking, a fullness that stole her breath. It wasn’t just in her ass; it seemed to press against everything inside her, a constant, invasive presence. “To remind you of your responsibilities. You’ll wear it until bedtime. And everyone will know.”
He’d helped her into a pair of thin, white shorts. The outline of the plug’s base was visible, a distinct bulge beneath the fabric. Walking back out to the pool, feeling the heavy, foreign object inside her with every step, seeing the knowing glances from other fathers and the smirks from a few seasoned daughters, had been a unique torture. Yet, as the afternoon wore on, the initial sting and humiliation had… shifted. The plug had begun to rub against her with each movement, creating a low, persistent friction that warmed her core. Arousal, thick and unwanted, had pooled between her thighs, mingling with her shame. She’d been wet for hours, desperately turned on by the very thing that was meant to chastise her, trapped in a silent, dizzying cycle of embarrassment and need.
Now, watching Serena, that same conflicted heat ignited in her belly. This was her plug. Her punishment. Seeing it glistening in Javier’s hand, meant for someone else, sparked a fierce, possessive jealousy that was somehow more arousing than anything before.
“Serena first, Daddy,” Isla had whispered, and the words tasted like both vengeance and desperate curiosity.
In the present, Javier coated the plug with a slick, clear gel, the sound obscene in the quiet room. Serena’s breathing was ragged, her back arched beautifully. “Relax,” Javier commanded, not unkindly, his free hand spreading her ass cheek wider.
The cool, rounded tip pressed against Serena’s tight ring of muscle. She flinched, a sharp gasp escaping her. “It’s… fuck, it’s big,” she panted, her knuckles white where she gripped the bedding.
“It’s the same size Isla takes regularly,” Javier said, his eyes locking with his daughter’s over Serena’s back. Isla felt a flush of perverse pride at that. “Now, push out against it. Like you’re trying to go to the bathroom.”
Serena whimpered, but obeyed. Isla watched, mesmerized, as the dark silicone began to disappear, stretching Serena’s virgin hole wider and wider. Serena’s whole body shook with the effort, a low moan torn from her throat. “Oh my God… oh fuck…”
With a final, firm push from Javier, the plug seated fully inside her. The flared base rested snug against her skin. Serena collapsed forward, her forehead on the mattress, her body shuddering. “Jesus Christ,” she breathed, her voice thick. “I can feel it… everywhere.”
Isla knew that feeling intimately. The overwhelming fullness, the sense of being possessed and packed. Her own pussy clenched emptily in response.
“Now you, mi hija,” Javier said, turning to Isla, picking up the second plug. “You chose for her. Now you take yours without a fuss.”
Isla didn’t hesitate. She turned, presenting herself, pushing her small hips back. The memory of the pool, of the shame and the subsequent, relentless arousal, was a live wire in her veins. She wanted this. She needed the familiar stretch, the reminder, the connection to her father’s control. The lubricated tip found her entrance, already slightly relaxed from memory and anticipation.
“Please, Daddy,” she whispered, the words dripping with submissive need.
He pushed it into her in one smooth, practiced motion. The burn was a sweet, familiar ache, the fullness an immediate relief. A soft, grateful sigh escaped her lips as it settled inside, the base a heavy, comforting weight against her skin.
Javier stood back, surveying his work. Both girls were bent over, their reddened asses on display, each marked by the distinct, humiliating bulge of the black plug. The live stream on the monitor showed their every trembling muscle, every ashamed and aroused expression in high definition.
“Good girls,” he murmured, his voice rough with approval. He ran a hand over each of their backs in turn. “Now, stay. Your fathers will be here soon to see the results of my… preliminary discipline.”
He left the room, the door clicking shut softly behind him.
In the sudden silence, broken only by their ragged breathing and the soft hum of the camera equipment, Serena turned her head to look at Isla. Her green eyes were glassy, her face flushed. “This is insane,” she whispered, but she wriggled her hips slightly, testing the sensation. A sharp intake of breath followed. “Fuck. It’s… it’s pressing right on…”
“I know,” Isla whispered back, shifting her own weight. The movement sent a jolt of pleasure-pain through her, making her thighs slick. “You get used to it. And then… you don’t want to be without it.”
Serena’s gaze searched Isla’s face, seeing the truth there. The shared vulnerability, the secret thrill. Serena’s tongue darted out to wet her lips. “At the pool… today… was that…?”
“Yes,” Isla admitted, her voice barely audible. “I had an accident. He plugged me right there. Made me walk back out in front of everyone.” The humiliation was fresh again, but now, coupled with Serena’s knowing look, it felt strangely like power. Like a shared, dark secret.
“And you were…?” Serena let the question hang.
“Soaked,” Isla confessed, burning with the memory. “For hours. It drives you crazy until you can’t think straight.”
A slow, understanding smile spread across Serena’s face, one of complicity and awakened desire. “Well,” she said, pushing back against the plug inside her, her eyes fluttering shut for a second, “mission accomplished, then.”
They stayed there, bent and filled, waiting. The anticipation of who would walk through the door next—Javier returning, Serena’s stern father, someone else entirely—was a new kind of tension. It coiled in their stomachs, a tight wire of fear and excitement. The plugs inside them were no longer just punishments; they were anchors, tethering them to the moment, to the exquisite, shameful pleasure of their submission, and to each other.
The door handle began to turn.