Chapter 75: The Best Days
The morning light was different. Sharper. It cut through the penthouse in clean, clinical lines, devoid of the previous day’s honeyed glow. Julian stood at the counter, grinding coffee beans, the mechanical whirr the only sound. He preferred silence in the mornings. A time to think, to plan.
A soft thump came from the hallway, followed by a little gasp.
He didn’t turn. He listened.
Elise appeared in the doorway, clutching the frame for balance. She was wearing one of his old dress shirts, the tails hanging to her knees, the collar slipping off one smooth shoulder. Her hair was a messy halo. She blinked slowly, her hazel eyes unfocused, like someone waking from a deep, confusing dream.
“Daddy?” Her voice was small, raspy with sleep.
“Good morning, sweetheart.”
She shuffled into the kitchen, her bare feet whispering on the polished concrete floor. She went straight to him, pressing her face against his back, wrapping her arms around his waist. She inhaled the scent of his sleep-warmed skin through his thin t-shirt. “Smell good.”
“Did you sleep well?” He poured water into the coffee maker, his movements unhindered by her clinging weight.
“Mmm. Dreamed ‘bout you. ‘Bout your… your thing.” She couldn’t find the word. He could feel her frown against his spine. “Your… cock.” She said it like a child repeating a newly learned, naughty rhyme, with a mix of awe and uncertainty.
“That’s a good girl.” He turned in her arms, looking down at her. Her face was soft, pliant, utterly without the anxious intelligence that had once furrowed her brow over Renaissance iconography. That woman was a ghost. This creature, warm and smelling of him and sleep, was his creation. He cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking the apple of it. “Are you hungry?”
She nodded, but her gaze had already dropped to the front of his loose cotton pajama pants. She licked her lips, a slow, deliberate motion. “Can I… say hello first?”
He didn’t answer. He simply leaned back against the counter, watching her.
Elise sank to her knees with a practiced ease that was now innate. She nuzzled her face against the fly of his pants, breathing deeply. Her eyes fluttered closed. “Love how you smell here,” she murmured, her words slightly slurred. “All musky and… and Daddy.”
She didn’t rush. She mouthed at the fabric, her lips leaving damp patches. She rubbed her cheek along the growing bulge, cooing softly. Her hands came up to push the waistband down, just enough. He sprang free, already half-hard. A bead of clear pre-cum welled at the tip.
Elise’s breath hitched. She didn’t take him in her mouth. She leaned closer, her nose brushing the shaft. She sniffed, kitten-like. Then, with utmost reverence, she extended her tongue and lapped at the droplet. She savored it, her eyes closed in concentration. “Yummy,” she whispered.
“That’s all you want?” His voice was low, amused. “Just a taste?”
“Uh-huh.” She nuzzled again, her lips brushing the sensitive head. “Just wanna be close to it. Makes me feel… fuzzy.” She looked up, her expression one of simple, profound gratitude. “My head gets all nice and quiet.”
He understood. The hypnosis had been the catalyst, the initial fracture. But the sustained conditioning, the relentless reinforcement of pleasure and praise paired with the erosion of her intellect, had become self-perpetuating. Her brain was willingly rewiring itself, trading complexity for the blissful, fuzzy static of submission.
He let her worship him for a few more minutes, her actions slow, drugged, more sensory exploration than sexual act. Finally, he tugged his pants up. “Come on. Let’s get you some breakfast.”
She pouted for a second, then rose clumsily, stumbling into him. He steadied her. Her motor skills, he noted, were deteriorating. The bookish grace was gone, replaced by a loose-limbed clumsiness.
He sat her at the kitchen island with a bowl of yogurt and sliced peaches. She ate slowly, messily. A dollop of yogurt clung to her chin. She tried to tell him about her coloring, about the big flower she’d finished.
“The yellow part was… was big. And the, the green thing. The stem.” She struggled, her face pinching. “The long green part. For the flower.”
“The stem,” he provided, his tone endlessly patient.
“Yeah! Stem.” She beamed, as if she’d discovered a profound truth. She scooped another spoonful, missing her mouth slightly. The yogurt dripped onto the borrowed shirt. She didn’t seem to notice.
Later, he found her in the living room. She’d taken the coloring book and her crayons, but she was just staring out the window, one crayon held loosely in her hand. She’d been staring, he realized, at nothing. At the light. For how long?
“What are you thinking about, Elise?” He used her real name, a test.
She turned, her eyes struggling to focus on him. A sweet, vacant smile spread across her face. “Just… happy. Don’t gotta think.” She looked down at the crayon in her hand, a confused frown wrinkling her brow. “What’s this for?”
A cold, sharp thrill shot through him. It was working better than he’d dared hope. The decay was organic now, spreading from the center out.
He walked over and took the crayon from her limp fingers. “It’s for later. Come here.”
She followed him to the large, deep armchair. He sat, and she immediately curled into his lap, her head on his chest. He could feel the steady, slow beat of her heart through the thin shirt. He let his hand drift down, under the shirt, over the soft plain of her stomach, lower. His fingers slipped through her curls, finding her already damp.
“Daddy’s gonna make you feel good,” he murmured into her hair.
“Okay.” She wriggled, pushing herself more firmly against his touch.
He worked her with a detached, clinical expertise. Two fingers sliding inside her, his thumb circling her clit—her ‘princess button.’ He felt no particular passion, only a deep, saturating satisfaction. He was tuning an instrument. Her breath hitched, her hips rolling in a sluggish, uncoordinated rhythm.
“That’s my girl. Let it happen. Just let it go.”
Her orgasm, when it came, was a shallow, trembling thing. A soft sigh, a gentle clenching around his fingers. No fireworks, no screaming. A gentle tide washing in, then receding. She went boneless against him, a contented murmur escaping her lips.
He pulled his wet fingers from her cunt and brought them to her mouth. “Clean them.”
She sucked his fingers obediently, her tongue swirling around each digit, her eyes half-closed. She hummed around them.
“Good girl.” He withdrew his hand, smoothing her hair. She was already drifting, her mind retreating to that warm, fuzzy place. He held her, watching the clouds drift past the monolithic skyscrapers.
His perfect, empty-headed toy. The work was almost complete. All that remained was to see how deep the emptiness could truly go. He wondered, idly, if she even remembered her own last name. The thought brought a genuine, quiet smile to his lips. He’d have to ask her later. When she could form the words. If she could form the words.