Chapter 2: Daddy's First Command
The three dots pulsed on the screen. Amber watched them, her breath held somewhere in her throat. The hollow ache inside her was a vast, silent room, and those three blinking dots were the only sign of life. The cursor after her own desperate ‘yes’ seemed to mock her.
Derek_78: I’m here. I’ll always be here for you. You miss me already?
The claim was absurd. A fantasy. ‘Always’ was a word for songs, for movie endings, not for lonely girls in dark living rooms trading pictures with strangers. Yet her heart, stupid and yearning, clutched at it. Her fingers were cold as she typed the lie that felt like a truth. “Yes.”
The response was immediate.
Derek_78: Tell me. Tell me what you miss.
She stared at the question. What did she miss? She missed the sound of another voice. She missed the illusion of being chosen, of being the sole focus of someone’s attention, even if that attention was a laser beam focused on her most vulnerable parts. She missed the feeling of being wanted, however twisted the want.
“I don’t know,” she typed, her honesty pathetic. “It just got quiet again.”
Derek_78: The quiet is the worst, isn’t it? It lets you think. You don’t want to think. You want to feel. Let me help you feel again. How was your orgasm? Did it help?
A flush crept up her neck. She could still feel the ghost of it, a faint, throbbing echo between her legs. The memory was intertwined with the image of his bloated face on the screen, the grunt of his voice. It wasn’t clean or joyful. It was a dirty little secret, a scratch for an itch that only revealed a deeper, rawer need.
“It was intense,” she wrote.
Derek_78: Did Daddy make you feel good?
The title landed like a stone in her stomach. Daddy. It was grotesque. It was a line, a boundary she hadn’t known was there until she saw it drawn in the dirt. It spoke of a dynamic, a power exchange that was both frightening and seductively simple. He would be the authority. The provider of sensation, of approval. She would be the child, the good girl, obeying to earn her reward. Her mind recoiled. Her body, still humming with residual electricity, did not.
She didn’t answer. The three dots pulsed again, patient, inexorable.
Derek_78: Oh, and from now on, you call me Daddy. Okay, sweetheart?
It wasn’t a question. The ‘okay, sweetheart’ was a veneer of politeness over a command. Her fingers trembled. The cheap wine turned sour in her gut. This was it. This was the door she walked through. On the other side was something darker, more defined. A role. An identity. ‘Amber’ was a lonely girl. ‘Sweetheart’ was an object of desire. ‘Good girl’ was a pet who performed.
Her lungs felt tight. She typed the two words, the letters glowing like embers in the dark.
“Yes, Daddy.”
There was a beat of silence. A reward withheld. Then:
Derek_78: Good girl. See? That wasn’t so hard. Now I want you to do something else for Daddy. I want you to take off that pretty dress. All the way off. And I want you to send me a video. A real one, with sound. I want to see you play with that wet little pussy again. And I want to hear you. I want to hear you moan my name.
The command was a quantum leap from the photos, from the text-based instructions. This was a recording. It was permanent. It was her voice, her face if she wasn’t careful, her naked body in motion. It was evidence that could exist forever. Panic, sharp and metallic, flooded her mouth.
“I can’t,” she typed, the words frantic. “My parents… someone could find it.”
Derek_78: No one will find it. It’s just for us. For your Daddy. It’s our little secret. Don’t you want to make Daddy happy? After everything he just did for you?
The guilt hook was set with precision. He’d given her the orgasm, the escape from the quiet. Now she owed him. Ingratitude was a sin. Her eyes stung. She looked at the balloon on the floor, the ‘18’ now just a wrinkled smear. An adult. Making her own choices. This was a choice, wasn’t it? To give him this. To prove she wasn’t like other girls who teased and ran. To prove she could be grateful.
The silence of the apartment pressed in, a tangible force. It was worse than the potential risk. The quiet was a vacuum, and he was the only voice filling it.
She stood up. The burgundy dress, which had felt like a promise hours ago, now felt like a shroud. She reached behind her, fumbling for the zipper. It stuck, then gave with a rasping sound that was obscenely loud. She shrugged the straps off her shoulders. The fabric slithered down her body, a cool whisper against her heated skin, and pooled at her feet on the carpet. She stepped out of it.
The air was cool on her naked skin. She felt utterly exposed, even though the only eyes on her were the unblinking dark circle of the laptop’s camera. She was slender, her ribs faintly visible, her breasts small and tipped with pale pink nipples drawn tight from the chill. A soft thatch of honey-blonde curls between her thighs. She looked like a scared animal.
She sat back on the couch, pulling her laptop closer. She positioned it carefully, ensuring only from the collarbones down would be in frame. Her face, her identity, remained in the shadowy beyond. That was the last shred of control she could muster.
Her finger hovered over the record button on the video chat. Her heart hammered against her ribs like it wanted out. She took a deep, shuddering breath that did nothing to calm her.
She pressed record.
The red light glowed. She was live. For him.
Her hands looked like foreign objects as she brought them to her body. They were cold. She started as he’d first instructed, sliding her palms over her thighs, up to her hips, then skimming the flat plane of her stomach. She tried to make it look seductive, but her movements were jerky, unsure. She cupped her breasts, her thumbs brushing over her nipples. A faint spark of sensation, muted by terror.
She had to speak. He’d demanded sound.
“Is… is this what you want, Daddy?” Her voice was a thin, reedy thing, barely audible over the hum of the machine.
Derek’s reply came as a text message, appearing in a sidebar on her screen. Yes. Now touch yourself. Get that pretty pussy wet for me.
Swallowing hard, she let one hand trail down. Through the curls, finding the slick, swollen folds beneath. She was still wet from before, a shocking reminder of her own traitorous body. She circled her clit, a little gasp escaping her lips. This was different. Being watched, even virtually, changed the chemistry of the act. It was performative. It was for an audience of one.
Louder. Let me hear you. Say my name.
She obeyed, her voice gaining a shaky strength. “Daddy… oh, God…” She slipped two fingers inside herself this time, the stretch more pronounced, a sharp bite of pleasure-pain. Her back arched off the couch cushions. “Derek… Daddy…”
Fuck yourself with those fingers. Harder. Pretend it’s my cock. Tell me you want my cock.
The filthy words, appearing in stark white text, scripted her performance. “I want it,” she moaned, driving her fingers deeper, the wet, rhythmic sound filling her ears. “I want your cock, Daddy. Please.”
You’d take it, wouldn’t you? You’d let me stretch that tight little cunt wide open. You’d be my good little slut.
“Yes!” The word was a sob. The conflict was gone, burned away by the raw, consuming fire of the act. Shame was fuel. Loneliness was kindling. She was a vessel for sensation, commanded into existence by the words on the screen. Her hips pistoned against her own hand, her free hand pinching and pulling at her nipple. “I’d be your slut, Daddy. Your good little slut. Just fuck me. Please.”
She was chasing the feeling again, but this time it was laced with a darker, more abasing hunger. She wasn’t just seeking pleasure; she was seeking obliteration. The annihilation of Amber, the lonely girl, in a storm of degrading, physical bliss.
Cum for me. Cum for Daddy. Now.
His permission was the trigger. The climax tore through her, violent and convulsing. Her body stiffened, a silent scream on her lips before a ragged, broken cry was ripped from her throat. “Daddy! Fuck!” It was less a word and more a guttural sound of release and surrender. She shook, her muscles clenching and unclenching around her fingers, waves of intense sensation blurring her vision into a gray static that matched the dead TV screen.
Slowly, the tremors subsided. She lay there, spent, her chest heaving. The red recording light was still on. With a trembling hand, she reached out and stopped the video. It automatically attached itself to a new message window. She just had to hit send.
There was no thought. There was only the deep, leaden emptiness that followed the storm. And the fear that if she didn’t send it, the silence would return and stay forever.
She hit send.
The video uploaded, a progress bar filling slowly. When it was done, she collapsed back, pulling her knees to her chest. She felt raw. Used. And profoundly, sickeningly connected.
His response took a full minute. The longest minute of her life.
Derek_78: You are perfect. Absolutely perfect. My good, good girl. You have no idea what you do to me.
Then, a second message.
Derek_78: I have to see you. For real.
The words didn’t compute at first. She blinked at them. See you.
Derek_78: Not just on a screen. I want to take you out. For your birthday. A proper celebration. Let Daddy take care of you.
Ice water flooded her veins. The fantasy had a location. A time. It had a body that would occupy space beside her. The pale, thick body from the video. The puffy face with the watery eyes. Here. In this city. Close enough to meet.
“I don’t know,” she typed, the fear sharp and clear.
The three dots pulsed, a relentless heartbeat in the silent room. Her own words—‘I don’t know’—seemed to hang in the air, a feeble shield. The fear was a clean, cold blade. Everything before this had been contained within the glowing rectangle. It could be closed. It could be deleted. A real body, with real hands and real weight, was a different universe.
Derek_78: Don’t be scared. I’d treat you so good. You’re all alone over there. I can tell.
Her eyes flicked to the empty chairs, the deflated balloon. He saw it all. He named it. He offered a solution that felt like both a rescue and a trap.
Derek_78: I CAN COME OVER AND MAKE YOU FEEL REALLY GOOD. I CAN STRETCH YOUR VIRGIN PUSSY OUT AND SHOW YOU OTHER THINGS. OR YOU CAN MEET ME AT A MOTEL. IT’S YOUR BIRTHDAY, YOU SHOULD FEEL SPECIAL. DADDY CAN MAKE YOU FEEL REALLY SPECIAL.
The message was a brick through glass. The crude promise—“stretch your virgin pussy out”—was a violent shock. Yet the framing was a gift. A birthday gift. He was offering to make her feel special. The words warred inside her: virgin and special, stretch and Daddy. Her body, still sensitized and slick from the video, throbbed in response to the graphic imagery. Her mind recoiled at the logistics, the terrifying reality of a motel room, of his car in her empty driveway.
“You don’t know where I live,” she typed, a last-ditch assertion of safety.
Derek_78: Don’t I?
A screenshot appeared in the chat. It was a blurry image, taken from a vehicle, of a suburban house with a cracked concrete walkway. Her house. The one her parents were still paying off. The porch light was on, its yellow glow unmistakable. He must have reverse-searched something, some sliver of data from her photos or the forum. The quiet of the apartment became charged, invasive. He was out there, right now, in the dark. He had been nearby while she touched herself for him.
Panic locked her lungs. She was naked. The laptop’s glow felt like a spotlight.
Derek_78: I’m close. I’ve been close. Just wanted to see where my good girl lived. I’m not a creep. I’m just… invested.
This wasn’t online anymore. This was a man in a car, maybe parked under the streetlight two houses down, texting her. The distance between the digital fantasy and the physical threat collapsed to zero. She should run. She should call the police. She sat frozen, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs.
Derek_78: Let me come over. I’ll be sweet. I’ll be everything you need. I’ll make that ache go away for good.
Her hand, seemingly of its own volition, drifted back between her legs. The ache was there, a hollow, hungry pulse that his words fed directly. The fear and the arousal fused into a single, high-pitched signal. To be not alone. To have the silence filled by a real presence, even his. To have the confusing, overwhelming tension in her body resolved by someone who claimed to know how.
“My parents are gone,” she typed, and it felt like signing a contract.
The three dots appeared instantly, burning in the dim room. A fresh, more immediate terror seized her. She had given him the final piece of information he needed, the green light. There was no undo.
Derek_78: GOOD. WHEN WILL THEY BACK?
His typing was urgent now, stripped of the soothing ‘sweetheart’ veneer. The question was logistical, practical. It calculated risk and opportunity. It made everything violently real. The half-eaten pizza on the coffee table seemed to curdle in her vision.
She stared at the screen, her mind scrabbling for an answer that would either bring him here or send him away. She didn’t know which she wanted. “Sunday night,” she typed. It was a lie. They were back tomorrow afternoon. A pathetic, transparent attempt to build a wall of time.
Derek_78: Plenty of time. I’m outside.5 minutes.
The message was a physical blow. Her head snapped up, staring through the living room window into the blackness. The porch light cast a jaundiced circle on the dead lawn. Nothing moved. He was out there in the dark, just a few streets over, maybe less. He had been waiting. The screenshot of her house wasn’t just a threat; it was reconnaissance.
Her body moved without conscious instruction. She snatched the burgundy dress from the floor, fumbling it over her head, not even bothering with the zipper. The fabric clung, twisted. She just needed to not be naked when he arrived. The idea of greeting him at the door completely exposed was a final humiliation she couldn’t face. She rubbed her palms hard over her face, smearing the old tears and mascara.
Five minutes.
The silence of the house became a listening thing. Every creak of the settling foundation was a footstep on the porch. The hum of the fridge was the idle of an engine. She paced the narrow space between the couch and the TV, her arms wrapped tight around herself. She should call someone. Her fingers touched her phone, cold on the table. Who?The police? What would she say? A man I sent naked videos to is coming over because I told him to. They would see the messages. They would see the video she had just made. They would see her begging.
Shame sealed her mouth shut.
A pair of headlights washed across the front window, slow and deliberate. They lingered, then cut out. A car door thudded, too loud in the quiet street. Her breath stopped. A shadow passed through the light on the porch. A heavy, deliberate knock. Not a ring. A knock.
Thump. Thump.Thump.
It was over. The digital space had collapsed into her hallway. She walked to the door, her legs stiff. She peered through the peephole, the fisheye lens distorting the shape on her porch. He was bigger than in the video. Broad, slope-shouldered, wearing a dark windbreaker. His head was slightly bowed, his beard a dark blur.
She turned the lock. The click echoed. She opened the door a crack, the chain still engaged.
“Hey, sweetheart.” His voice was the one from the video, but warmer, softer in person. It didn’t match the bulk of him. “You gonna let Daddy in?”
Her fingers were numb. She slid the chain free and opened the door.
He filled the doorway, then stepped inside, bringing the smell of cold air, cheap cigarette smoke, and stale coffee. He closed the door behind him with a quiet, final click. His eyes, pale and watery blue, moved over her instantly, missing nothing: the unzipped dress, her bare feet, the tear-tracks. They held none of the predatory gleam she expected. They looked almost kind, concerned.
“Look at you,” he murmured, stepping closer. His hand, thick-fingered and rough, came up and cupped her cheek. She flinched. “All worked up. It’s okay. I’m here now.”
He pulled her into a hug. It was engulfing. His body was solid, a wall of dense flesh and muscle and windbreaker nylon. His beard scratched her temple. One large hand pressed against the small of her back, the other cradled the back of her head. She stood rigid within it, then a shudder broke through her and she went limp, her face buried against his chest. He was warm. He was real. He was holding her. Nobody had held her in so long.
“That’s it,” he whispered into her hair. “Let it out. Daddy’s got you.”
He held her for a long minute, rocking slightly. Then his hands began to move. The one on her back slid down, over the curve of her ass, gripping a handful of fabric and flesh through the dress. He groaned softly. “Fuck, you’re even prettier in person. This dress.” His other hand left her head and found the loose zipper at her back. He tugged it down in one slow, grating motion.
The dress sagged open. Cool air hit her spine.
“Let’s get this off,” he said, his voice dropping, the gentle tone leaching away. It was a command. He pushed the fabric off her shoulders. It fell, catching at her elbows before she shook it free, letting it drop to the floor. She stood in just her plain black lace panties, shivering, her arms crossing instinctively over her breasts.
He looked his fill. His eyes were dark now, hungry. “Look at those tits,” he breathed. He didn’t ask. He uncrossed her arms with a firm grip on her wrists, pushing them down to her sides. “Don’t hide. Let me see what’s mine.”
He leaned in, his mouth closing over one nipple. He wasn’t gentle. He sucked hard, his tongue rough, his teeth scraping the sensitive peak. A sharp cry tore from her throat—pain, shock, a bolt of unwanted pleasure. His free hand groped her other breast, kneading roughly. “So sweet,” he muttered against her skin, his breath hot. “Knew you would be.”
He walked her backward, his mouth still fastened on her, until her knees hit the edge of the couch. She fell onto the cushions, the cheap material cold against her bare back. He stood over her, unbuckling his belt, the leather scraping loud. He pushed his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock. It was exactly as in the video: thick, uncut, already fully hard and leaking. He fisted it, giving it a few slow, slick strokes as he looked down at her.
He looked down at her, his expression shifting from predatory hunger to something more calculating, more intimate. The gentle facade from the doorway was gone, replaced by a blunt ownership that made her skin prickle.
“You’re trembling,” he observed, his voice a low rumble. He wasn’t asking why. He liked it.
“I’m… cold,” she whispered, the lie brittle.
“We’ll warm you up.” He let go of himself and placed his heavy hands on her knees, pushing them apart. The casual strength in the motion left no room for resistance. The cool air of the room, and the glow from the sleeping laptop, touched her most intimate skin. She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the weight of him, the brutal stretch he’d promised in his messages.
It didn’t come.
Instead, he knelt on the floor between her legs. The sight was so incongruous she opened her eyes. He was on his knees. His large, rough hands smoothed up the insides of her thighs, pushing them wider still. His gaze was fixed between her legs, hungry and appraising.
“Pretty little pink pussy,” he mumbled, more to himself than to her. “Just like I pictured.” He leaned forward, and she felt the hot, wet stripe of his tongue drag from her entrance all the way up to her clit.
She jolted, a shocked gasp escaping her. It was too intimate, too direct. The videos and messages were one thing—this live, wet heat was another. He did it again, slower, his tongue broad and demanding, circling her clit before plunging shallowly inside her. The sensation was devastating, a sharp, unwelcome pleasure that coiled in her gut. Her hands fisted in the couch cushions.
“Tastes like birthday cake,” he grunted, his breath humid against her. He ate at her with a single-minded intensity, his nose buried in her curls, his stubble scratching her inner thighs. The wet, obscene sounds filled the quiet living room, louder than the TV static ever was. She muffled a moan into her own arm, her hips lifting betrayingly against his mouth.
After a minute, he pulled back, his chin glistening. He was breathing harder. “Okay, baby girl. Up.”
“What?” The word was a confused puff of air.
“I said up. On your knees. Straddle my face.” He shifted, bracing his shoulders against the couch and tilting his head back on the carpet. He patted his own mouth. “Right here. I want you to sit on my fucking face.”
The command landed wrong. It was too vulnerable a position for him, too submissive. It confused her wiring. He was supposed to be on top, in control. This felt like a trap. She hesitated, staring at him splayed on her floor.
“Come on, Amber. Don’t be shy now. Give it to me.” His eyes were dark pits. “I want to taste both of those sweet holes.”
The clarification was a splash of cold water. Both holes. He clearly meant her bootyhole too. A fresh wave of shock, laced with revulsion, tightened her stomach. That was a line, a specific act she had never considered, never fantasized about. It felt like a violation of a different, deeper order.
“I… I don’t…” she stammered, shrinking back into the couch.
The patience vanished from his face. “Don’t what? Don’t want to?” His voice hardened. “After all that talk online? After begging for my cock? You’re gonna be a prude now?” He reached up, his hand clamping around her thigh, his fingers digging in. “This is what good girls do for their Daddy. They sit on his face and let him taste everything. Now, fucking do it.”
The threat in his grip was unmistakable. The fantasy was crumbling, revealing the demanding, ugly reality beneath. The loneliness and the fear of him leaving warred with the physical revulsion. The silence, if he walked out now, would be infinite. It would be filled with the phantom echo of his tongue and the crushing weight of her own cowardice.
Moving like an automaton, she pushed herself up onto her knees on the couch cushion. She turned, her body awkward and stiff, and positioned herself above his waiting face. The visual was surreal: his thick, bearded features, his wet, open mouth, his pale throat exposed below her.
“Lower,” he demanded, his hands coming up to grip her hips, guiding her down.
She sank. The first contact was the damp, heated press of his mouth against her sex. Then he adjusted, lifting his head, and she felt the blunt, insistent probe of his tongue lower, at a place that had never been touched. She froze, every muscle locking.
“Relax,” he growled into her, the vibration shocking. “Just relax and sit the fuck down.”
He pulled her down harder. The full, overwhelming intimacy of it consumed her. His nose was buried in her pussy, his mouth sealed over her, and his tongue, relentless and invasive, worked lower. He was tasting her there, his tongue circling the tight, forbidden ring of muscle. A sound, half-sob, half-moan, was ripped from her throat. It was a violation so complete it short-circuited thought. Her hands braced against the wall behind the couch, her knuckles white.
He feasted. He licked and suckled at her core, then pushed and lapped at her asshole with a filthy, devoted hunger. The dual sensation was overwhelming, a confusing storm of sharp pleasure and deeper, shameful penetration. She could feel the scratch of his beard, the hot puff of his breath, the impossible wetness everywhere. Her body, betraying her utterly, began to move in tiny, reluctant circles, grinding against his face.
“Yeah,” he grunted, the word muffled against her flesh. “Fucking yeah. That’s my good slut. Ride it.”
Tears leaked from her squeezed-shut eyes, dripping down onto his forehead. She rode the rough topography of his face, her mind blank, reduced to a bundle of raw nerve endings being ruthlessly played. The orgasm that built this time was different—darker, heavier, laced with a humiliation so profound it became its own kind of fuel. It crested without warning, a silent, shuddering convulsion that made her dig her knees into the cushions and press down against him with a desperate, final weight.
He held her there, his tongue still working, until the last tremor passed. Then his hands pushed at her hips. “Off. Now.”
She scrambled off, collapsing onto the couch beside his head, slick and spent and utterly ruined. He pushed himself up, wiping his mouth and beard with the back of his hand. He looked at the glistening wetness there, then smiled at her, a genuine, awful smile of satisfaction.
“Happy birthday, baby,” he said, his voice hoarse. He got to his feet, his cock jutting out, darker and thicker than before. “Now, let’s get you properly broken in.”