Chapter 81: Happy Days
The collar was never off.
Elise had developed a habit of touching it, her fingers tracing the smooth curve of the leather, fiddling with the cool stone pendant. It was a constant, soothing pressure. A reminder. She’d wake in the immense bed, alone, and her first conscious movement was to check for it. Finding it secure, she’d sigh, a small, contented sound, and sink back into the pillows.
Today, she was curled on the emerald velvet couch, wearing one of his tailored white dress shirts. It swamped her, the collar loose around the leather one, the tails covering her to mid-thigh. She was watching the rain streak the windows, her expression soft and empty. A children’s nature documentary played silently on the large screen, images of fuzzy bear cubs tumbling in a den.
Julian watched her from his chair, a book open but unread in his lap. He noted the rhythmic way her heel was bumping against the couch cushion. A restless energy. He knew the signs.
“Come here, little one,” he said, his voice a gentle command that cut through the quiet hum of the climate control.
She unfolded herself immediately, padding over on bare feet. She stopped before him, waiting.
“Such a good girl, coming when you’re called,” he cooed, reaching out to stroke her hair. He used that tone, the one dripping with paternal sweetness, the one that felt like warm syrup being poured over her thoughts. “My sweet, pretty thing.”
Her eyelids fluttered. A dopey smile touched her lips. She leaned into his touch, a low hum in her throat. The change was instant. Her shoulders rounded, her posture becoming pliant, almost boneless.
“That’s it,” he murmured, scratching lightly at her scalp. “Just a dumb, happy little girl for Daddy, aren’t you?”
She nodded, nuzzling his palm. “Uh-huh. Daddy’s girl.”
The words were slurred, her intelligence seeming to evaporate under the heat of his condescending praise. He guided her down to the thick Persian rug at his feet. She went easily, settling on her knees. Her gaze drifted, landing on the TV remote control on the low table.
Without a word, her focus narrowing to a single, intense point, she reached for it. She pulled it into the space between her knees, gripping it in both hands. Then, with a soft, breathy sound, she began rocking her hips, grinding the hard plastic rectangle against the cotton of her panties—the only thing she wore beneath his shirt.
Julian watched, a slow smile spreading. This was new. This was exquisite.
Her movements were clumsy, instinctual. She wasn’t seeking sophisticated pleasure; she was simply rubbing, a primitive, needy motion. The remote bumped against her clit through the fabric. Her breath hitched.
“Does that feel good, baby?” he asked, his voice honey-smooth.
“Mmm. Feels… fuzzy,” she whispered, her eyes half-closed. She increased the pace, her hips developing a frantic, jerky rhythm. The shirt gaped open, revealing the gentle sway of her breasts. A faint flush crept up her chest.
After a minute, she abandoned the remote. It clattered to the rug. She turned, crawling the two steps to his leg. Before he could move, she had her face pressed to his thigh, inhaling deeply, and then she was humping his calf, the muscle firm under her desperate grinding.
“Daddy… Daddy…” she babbled, the words dissolving into a moan. Spit dampened the fine wool of his trousers. She was lost in it, a creature of pure sensation, reduced to a single, driving need.
He let her continue, observing the perfect mindlessness of it. When she began to whimper, a high, frustrated sound, he gently pushed her back.
“Shhh, shhh,” he soothed. “Daddy knows. Daddy will help.”
He unbuttoned his trousers, freed himself. He was fully hard, thick and demanding. Her eyes locked onto him, wide and wanting.
“Here, baby,” he said, patting his thigh. “Use this. It’s better than the silly remote.”
She scrambled forward, positioning herself over his lap, straddling his thigh. Her soaked panties were a scant barrier. She sank down, draping herself along his leg, and began to ride it in earnest. The rigid muscle of his thigh pressed perfectly against her core. She fucked his leg with abandon, her wetness spreading a dark patch on his trousers, her moans muffled against his shirt.
“That’s my good little slut,” he whispered into her ear, his hand coming around to cup her breast, pinching her nipple hard. “Riding Daddy’s leg like a bitch in heat. So fucking desperate. So empty.”
His filthy praise poured gasoline on the fire. She sobbed, her movements becoming wild, uncoordinated. The coil inside her tightened, spurred by the crude words and the relentless pressure. Her orgasm, when it crashed over her, was a silent, shuddering collapse. Her body seized, then went utterly limp, a dead weight against him.
He held her there, letting her pulse and twitch against his leg. When her breathing began to even out, he shifted. He lifted her effortlessly, turning her, laying her back on the rug. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her ruined panties and ripped them off.
He positioned himself between her spread legs. She looked up at him, eyes glassy, completely broken open. He didn’t enter her. He rubbed the broad head of his cock through her drenched folds, coating himself in her arousal.
“Look at this messy little pussy,” he said, his tone conversational, almost clinical. “So greedy. It’ll take anything, won’t it? A remote. My leg. Anything Daddy gives it.”
She whimpered, a sound of pure shame and acceptance.
He pushed inside. There was no resistance, only a hot, slick welcome. He set a slow, deep, possessive rhythm, each stroke a claim. He leaned down, his face inches from hers.
“Who do you belong to?”
“You, Daddy,” she breathed.
“Say your name.”
“Elise…” she murmured, confused.
He thrust harder, jolting her. “Wrong. Try again. What’s your name?”
Understanding, a dark flower, bloomed in her hazy eyes. “Daddy’s… thing,” she gasped. “Daddy’s fuck-thing.”
“Good girl.” He kissed her, a deep, swallowing kiss. Then he fucked her in earnest, his hips a punishing machine. The room filled with the wet, slapping sounds of their coupling, the creak of leather from his shoes braced against the rug, her choked, rhythmic cries. He drove her to another climax, this one louder, a broken wail that echoed off the high ceilings. Her cunt clenched around him like a vice, and that fierce, milking pressure pulled his own release from him. He came with a guttural groan, pumping his spend deep into her, marking her as thoroughly from the inside as the collar did from the out.
He collapsed atop her for a moment, savoring the feel of her utterly conquered body. Then he pulled out, stood, and tucked himself away. He left her lying on the rug, a wreck of trembling limbs and spilled fluids.
He returned with the warm cloth. He cleaned her with the same detached care, dressing her in a fresh pair of his boxer shorts and a soft t-shirt. He lifted her onto the couch, covered her with a blanket.
She was already slipping into a heavy, post-coital sleep. Her hand rose, fingers finding the collar, as they always did.
He picked up the TV remote from the rug, wiping it clean on his handkerchief. He placed it on the table beside her. A totem of her new reality.
From his desk drawer, he retrieved the camera. He took a few photos of her sleeping on the couch, the remote prominently in the frame. Then he pulled up the images from the previous night on the camera’s screen. He scrolled through them: her against the window, her on the divan.
A plan, cold and precise, began to form. Documentation was one thing. Application was another. The photos weren’t just for his archives. They were tools. Levers.
He looked from the sleek camera to her sleeping form, then back again. His little girl was coming along so beautifully. It was almost time to introduce her to a wider audience. A very select, very private one.
He powered the camera down, the soft click echoing his satisfaction. The next phase would require a different kind of exposure.