Daddy Dom

by Lucy Wild

  She was brought out of her thoughts when the cane whipped down and lanced pain across her posterior. She screamed in agony and squirmed in place, her hips writhing as a second blow struck a moment later.

  “That hurts so much,” she said, the movement of her body making the plug grind against her insides, reminding her of its presence despite the stinging pain taking all of her attention.

  “I know,” he replied, striking her again. “You must learn to behave if you don’t want me to use it again.”

  He landed a final blow with the cane before setting it aside, moving to sit on the bed next to her, rubbing her buttocks with his palms, soothing the burning sting that penetrated deep inside her.

  “You are learning,” he said softly. “But it will be some time before I can call you a grown up.”

  “I don’t want to grow up,” she replied, sucking on her dummy again. It was true, she didn’t. She had only just begun to become his little girl. She had a new Papa, so different to her father, so much stronger. He would never give in to her tantrums, he would not be swayed by her tears. He set her boundaries she hadn’t even realised she needed, he controlled her, he guided her, all from nothing but his compassion for her.

  “I must have you,” he muttered, undressing quickly as she glanced sideways at him. As he stripped, she marvelled once again at the size of his cock, the way it jutted towards her as he climbed onto the bed and lay over her, pushing himself between her legs, his lips brushing over the back of her neck.

  “You’re so wet,” he whispered into her ear as he thrust slowly into her, the weight of his body pushing the plug deeper into her at the same moment. “I will never get used to it.”

  “I’m still getting used to the size of you,” she replied, groaning as he thrust all the way inside her. “I can hardly take it.”

  “You take it all,” he said, pulling back and then thrusting again, grinding against her as she gripped him in place, never wanting him to leave her.

  The motion of his body against hers made her want to turn over and wrap herself around him but the bonds held her too tightly in place. She tugged at her restraints as his movements inside her grew faster, heat building up in her body as he began to pant into her ear. “Oh fuck,” he muttered, “that’s so good.”

  “Fuck me, Papa,” she replied, the dummy falling from her mouth. “I want to feel it inside me. Come in me, fuck me, harder, oh, fuck.”

  Her body began to tense up as he slammed into her, each thrust pushing the plug deeper. She felt him twitch in her and knew he was close. Pushing her hips back against him, she gave him room to go deeper still, completely filling her as her clit throbbed with desire. The motion of him alone was enough to bring her to the brink and when his lips brushed her neck again, he buried himself in her and she came, an orgasm that took over her entire body, causing it to shake uncontrollably on the bed, her mouth open but no words coming out.

  He thrust again and it was enough to make her climax stronger still. “Oh, fuck,” he muttered, slamming into her a final time, his cock twitching, hot cum spurting from him and filling her up as he collapsed against her, breathing heavily, his body falling still, his cock still buried inside her.

  “Did I do well, Papa?” she asked. “Letting you come inside me? Am I a good girl?”

  “You are,” he replied, kissing her ear as he slid slowly from her. “You are a good little girl.”

  BONUS STORY TWO

  LAURA

  Chapter 1

  “Father, I need a new horse.”

  Laura was sitting alone in her bedroom, looking at herself in the dressing table mirror. Too angry a tone of voice, she thought, too strident. He would only grumble and shake his head. It was important to get the tone and facial expression just right. Even her father might blanche at the idea of two new horses in as many weeks.

  “Father, I need a new horse.” That was better. Eyes wider, more innocent. Lip downturned, full of sorrow and regret that she was having to ask so soon after the last one had arrived. Perhaps making her lip tremble might clinch it.

  “Father, I need a new horse.” Perfect. Time to try it out for real.

  Ever since she was old enough to talk, Laura had been used to getting her own way. One of her earliest memories was seeing the guilt in his eyes when she had unwrapped her Christmas presents and promptly began screaming so loudly it made her eyes water.

  “Where’s my pony?” she’d demanded between screams. “Where’s my pony?”

  “Your mother thinks you’re a little too young,” Lord Wallace Rothsfield replied, tugging at his shirt collar as if it had grown suddenly tighter.

  “Do not act as if this were my decision,” Lady Rothsfield replied before turning to Laura. “Your father thinks four year olds should not ride ponies. It could be dangerous.”

  “Where’s my pony? I told Father Christmas to bring me a pony. You promised me he would. Where’s my pony?” She stamped her feet and sobbed her heart out, tugging at her hair until it came out in clumps.

  They gave in of course, providing their daughter with a beautiful chestnut brown pony by the name of Winifred. She rode it twice.

  From that experience young Laura learned two things. One, if you shouted and screamed for long enough, you would get whatever you wanted. Two, her parents would do anything to please her. She used that knowledge to her advantage throughout her childhood, ensuring that whatever desire or whim struck her, it would be met by her doting parents no matter what the cost.

  Things continued in this fashion until she turned sixteen. Shortly after her birthday, her mother fell ill. Lady Rothsfield spent the last of her days in her sickbed listening to Laura complain about how unfair life was to her. “You’re only sick. I am traumatised. I shall soon have no mother and then where will I be?”

  After Lady Rothsfield’s death, any reins holding her father in check vanished and it seemed to Laura as if he overcame his grief by lavishing increasingly elaborate and expensive gifts on her, his only child. It was not enough though and soon Laura began to demand her inheritance, a sum of money left specifically by her mother for her only, to be granted once certain conditions were met.

  “It will come to you if you marry before your twenty-first birthday,” Laura’s father said after a tediously long meeting with the family solicitor finally concluded with the pair of them remaining in the study and the solicitor hastily beating a retreat.

  “I was in the meeting, father,” she replied, scowling at the back of the solicitor as the butler escorted him to the door. “I still don’t see why I can’t have my money now.”

  “It doesn’t work like that darling girl. He did explain it to us.”

  “But she was your wife. Doesn’t that make it your money? You could just give it to me.”

  “I wish I could,” he said, his face pleading with her not to start screaming. “I truly do but unfortunately the will was explicit on that point.”

  “But why does she want me married off?”

  “I think your mother worried that…” he paused, as if trying to find the right words, “that you might not find a husband who appreciates your unique qualities.”

  “You hate me don’t you?”

  “No of course not. I love you Laura.”

  “Then why are you doing this to me?”

  “It is not I my sweet, it is the wish of your mother that you marry. I do not care if you remain a spinster all your life.”

  “Of course you do not care.” Her voice rose and the foot stamping began. “I want my money!”

  “You must marry first.”

  “Never! I shall never marry.”

  In the end her father was the one to marry, or to remarry in sin as Laura put it. It was the eve of Laura’s eighteenth birthday. A ball was held in the largest room of the house, the cream of local society in attendance. He brought over a woman to where Laura was sitting looking bored. “Darling,” he began. “I would like to meet Maria Sanderson.”

  Laura sh
rugged. “I care not for your friends, father. I am more concerned with my distinct lack of dancing partners.”

  “I have wonderful news,” her father continued. “We are going to be married.”

  Laura’s face turned purple. “Mother not yet cold and you set up happy families with some trollop?” She got to her feet and stamped her foot. “I hate her and I hate you!” She ran from the room, not stopping until she reached her bedroom where she slammed herself into a chair. Looking into her dressing table mirror she added, “I hate them both!”

  Despite her best efforts the wedding did take place. They did not seem to care for the whispers and gossip regarding remarriage. She felt the shame even if they did not. She refused to attend, remaining in her room and sobbing into her pillow, resolutely furious despite the new horse her father had just bought her in an effort to mend the divide between them. The day after the wedding she heard the two of them downstairs and decided it was time to move the attention from that slut back to herself where it belonged.

  “Father, I need a new horse,” she said into the mirror several times, ensuring the right tone of voice.

  Opening the bedroom door, she walked downstairs, hearing them laughing and joking as if they did not even care about her dead mother or about her. How dare they?

  “Father, I need a new horse,” she said as she walked into the dining room.

  Maria turned to her. “Laura, come in and sit down. We need to speak to you.”

  She stuck her tongue out at the whore before turning back to her father. “I need a new horse. Will you get me one?”

  “What’s wrong with Lancelot?” Lord Rothsfield replied. “Is he sick?”

  “I saw her pat him. I don’t want him anymore.”

  Maria stood up. “Laura, I would like you to sit down so we can talk to you for a minute.”

  Laura turned to her and smiled. “I don’t take orders from sluts.”

  “Laura!” her father spluttered. “Do not speak to my wife like that.”

  “Your wife? Your wife? Your wife is dead in case you forgotten. That harpy has come here to bewitch your mind and steal my inheritance.”

  She spun on her heels and stormed from the room, pausing just outside. This was always the time when her father would follow her, beg her indulgence, permit her any desire, anything to regain her affection. This time he did not.

  Frowning, she turned back and overheard the two of them talking quietly.

  “Now will you listen to me?” Maria was asking. “This type of behaviour cannot be allowed to continue.”

  “But she is just a child.”

  “She is eighteen years old. That is old enough to have grown out of temper tantrums and hissy fits.”

  “She is just boisterous my dear.”

  “She is a brat. You refuse to allow me to discipline her so I see no other option.”

  “But she has never been sent away before. What if she is scared?”

  Laura froze in place, did they mean to send her away?

  “It will do her good,” Maria said. “The gentleman in question is an expert so I am told. He is skilled in turning whining brats like her into decent upstanding citizens, an asset to your name, not a shame upon it.”

  Lauren glared through the wall at her. What does she know about family? She is certainly not a part of this one.

  Lord Rothsfield sighed. “You may be right. But what about the cost?”

  “The cost is nothing compared to the amount you have lavished on her up until now. Do you not want her to find a husband?”

  “She may find one without all this unpleasantness.”

  “Come on Wallace. Who would want to take her on? This is the way forwards. Or perhaps you would be happy to put up with screaming and door slamming for the next forty years.”

  Laura tiptoed away. She had heard enough. It did not matter how hard Maria tried to persuade him, she felt safe in the knowledge her father would never allow her to be sent away from home. He loved her too much.

  Chapter 2

  Edward Westall was bored. He sat in his study flicking through the files of the littles, every single one marked with a green A. They were all doing so well, he should have been pleased. He knew he should have been pleased. Instead he found himself wishing at least one of them would transgress. It would give him something to do.

  Standing up, he strolled through the house, peering in through one window after another. In the classroom, lessons were being conducted, led by Miss Flanders. The littles were sat at their desks, all hands up as they sought to be the first to answer whatever question she had just asked. A rough map of the empire was drawn on the blackboard behind her. Why were they not complaining about the lesson being boring? He would have been bored rigid in their shoes.

  He chuckled at the thought of being in their shoes, polished Mary Janes might suit children of both sexes but they were hardly appropriate for a gentleman of means. Not that any of them complained about the uniform at all anymore. They all willingly wore the babydoll dress and nappy combination demanded of all his littles, accepting that upon passing the first stage of their little education they would be allowed knickers once more. Why could they not fight more against the shame of being dressed like infants?

  He moved on, walking past the playroom connected to the nursery. In here also there was not a hint of discord. It was infuriating. Of course, he knew in his heart that the sight of young women playing merrily with the doll’s house and the hobby horse was a sign that he was carrying out his job to an excellent standard. What other finishing school in the country could post such success rates? But knowing that his littles were coming along so strongly did nothing to prevent the sense of boredom he felt from becoming overwhelming.

  After a brisk walk through the rest of the house, he passed out into the grounds, taking in the morning air and telling himself he should feel grateful. They were a credit to his teaching methods.

  He walked back to his study, finding the maid had left the post on his desk in his absence.

  ‘Dear Sir,

  I write to thank you for the excellent results we have seen in our daughter Cecilia. She is no longer a burden upon her ailing mother but instead assists around the house, eager to please in every way. I have no doubt we have you to thank…’

  He set the letter aside and picked up the next one whilst recalling Cecilia. It took him a while to place her for it had been two years since she had left. She had been quite unruly when she arrived. Not bratty as such, just unwilling to listen to anyone but herself. That had changed soon enough. Regular spankings for each misdemeanour, the shame of nappy wearing in public, being rocked to sleep in the cot each night, drinking from Miss Flanders breast. Soon she was like a little lamb, meek and mild and ready to mould into a daughter the Fairbrothers could be proud of. Pleasant as it was to hear of her progress, he received many such letters each week and the praise heaped on him grew tiring.

  Dear Mr Westall,

  I cannot begin to express my amazement over the change in our daughter. I had my doubts when she went away. If I am honest, the cost of your services suggested a quack of the highest order. Yet the results speak for themselves. She is now betrothed to a peer of the realm and I have no doubt we have you to thank…”

  Always the same. I have no doubt we have you to thank. Rummaging through the letter pile, he picked out another. He knew all about Jennifer and her upcoming marriage. It had been in the paper every day for a week. The girl many had thought would never even debut due to her tomboy attitude to life was to marry Sir Peregrine Morris of Bond Street, a man more than thirty years her senior. He hoped she would be happy. Once her layers of defence had been stripped away, it had become clear all she truly desired was undiluted love and affection, something Morris was sure to offer her.

  Dear Sir,

  I write on behalf of the Benevolent Little Foundation of the United Kingdom. As you are no doubt aware, those littles heading towards retirement often end their days in one of our li
ttle almshouses. But we are stretched beyond capacity in recent years and are writing to the proprietors of all little schools to ask for just a pound a year to help the services we provide. As you know…”

  He stopped reading, turning to his journal and making a note to send two pounds off to the Foundation. He knew of their work, having visited a number of the almshouses himself to observe the conditions therein, finding the sight of ancient littles in playrooms of the late 1700s style more than a little surreal. But that was the price of this method, there would always be some who outlived their husbands. He turned to the next letter.

  Dear Sir,

  I beg you will help me and I know not where else to turn. My husband’s daughter is a brat. There is the word sir and I see no other way to say it. Since clapping eyes on her, I knew she needed a firm hand and a strict manner to rectify her insidious behaviour. He will not allow me to discipline her in the manner befitting her behaviour, nor is he willing to take on the task for himself. As such, I feel I have little choice but to turn to you and beg you will take her on. Money is no object and I have heard the most wonderful things about your establishment.

  The letter went on for some time but he only skimmed over the details. His heart had already begun to beat a little faster, that hint of excitement he knew so well every time a new student was heralded. The writer listed flaw after flaw in the girl but he had no doubt she exaggerated. They always did. Nonetheless, she did sound like a handful and it had been some time since he’d had a challenge worthy of his skills. Could Laura Rothsfield be that challenge?