Anything He wants

DADDY HUMILIATES ME IN FRONT OF EVERYONE

I fold my arms across my chest as we enter the house, which does nothing to ease my discomfort. In reality, my arms push my breasts up, giving them an even greater sense of heft, and if anything, I’m probably drawing attention to myself because of it.

That’s the last thing I want in this tight corset.

I feel almost out of place at this costume party. At least, that’s what my stepdaddy told about the party. People are kind of acting weird here. They’re all a little touchy feely with each other, but it could just be they’re all drunk. Sexy. That’s exactly what I feel at the moment, which is not at all how I think of myself, so it makes me somewhat self-conscious. But everyone else is dressed provocatively as well, so I’m not actually out of place. It’s more like how uncomfortable I feel is what’s out of place.

But it wasn’t my idea to wear this.

It was daddy’s.Belongs to (N)ôvel/Drama.Org.

And it was his command I wear it.

Daddy’s been super controlling lately, ever since I came back from college for winter break. It’s like my first semester away from home changed him, from the generous father figure I’ve know him as for the longest time, to

this hyper masculine, commanding hulk who looms over all of my decisions.

I mean all of my decisions. He wakes me up at the same time every morning, not letting me sleep in. He picks my clothes out in the morning and makes my breakfast as well. I don’t get an ounce of input on even the most

basic decisions! He’s running my life like I’m in the military. It’s like he hates the idea that I can make choices for myself, as if going to college is somehow corrupting me. He’s reining me in, that’s for sure.

And I resisted hard early on, trying my damnedest to revolt against him, to make him see that he can’t treat me this way.

But that was a mistake. He’d cross his arms, just like I’m doing now, but instead of raising his breasts and making him self-conscious, it’d cause his pecs to bulge and make him seem even more intimidating. He reacted by limiting my ability to leave the house without him, reinforcing the notion that nothing happens without his approval.

I’ll admit I waffled in the face of that for a little while. I did what he said for a good week. Until he started demanding… strange things. Things that seemed way more sexual than anything before.

Like he wanted me to address him as daddy whenever I spoke to him. Or how the outfits he was picking out for me every morning seemed to get more and more skimpy with each passing day. I didn’t notice at first, but when the skirt he picked out for me seemed to barely fall below my ass, I rebelled. I yelled at him, cursing him out and telling him he’s not the boss of me. The punishment he dealt me was swift. He pulled me by the arm over his lap and, for the first time in my life, he spanked me. I mean openpalmed, red-assed swats that met more flesh than cotton over the scanties I sleep in. It stung and he was fierce, beating my butt until tears welled in my eyes. It stunned me when he finished, breaking my will almost instantly. I wasn’t sure how to respond, so all I could do was take the clothes he handed me and

get dressed in silent acceptance.

But it wasn’t the last time. There were a few times where I raised my voice against him, and each time, he’d say, “You’ll listen to your father or you’ll get the hand.” And then he’d spank me. As rough and violent as the first time.

And it worked. I shrunk, unwilling to challenge him again. I followed his commands at the drop of a hat, reacting by rote, like a machine designed to obey. And when it went on like that for a while, daddy started taking me

everywhere with him, knowing that I’d do nothing to challenge him in public.

It was like he was waiting for my training to hit that point before introducing me to the world. He’d take my hand, lead me about, and I’d nod and mutely follow his commands.

It was not really surprising how much it embarrassed me to the core. My face would burn as I submitted. But what did surprise me was that whenever we got home, I’d check myself to find out I was completely soaked! Like, drenched, gushing in my panties. It was embarrassing, and I swore to myself up and down I hated how he was treating me, but every time I could feel my body react, I knew deep down I was lying to myself. The rush of complete submission was the sexiest thing I’d ever felt! The more we did it, the stronger it felt, to the point where I was actively submitting, doing everything in my power to make myself feel inferior to daddy. I did things for him without him even asking, like making him lunch and dinner, washing the dishes, making his bed. I’d do things like sit at his feet when we watched TV, or maybe I’d lay my head on his lap like a child. There was something in me burning to feel it all over again, even if I had to provoke it myself!

It actually amazes me daddy never took advantage of the situation.

But I might be speaking too soon.

This costume party feels so different from anything we’ve done together. Daddy seems to have a glow about him, as if he’s ecstatic and can barely contain it.

When he told me about it, he made it seem like it was the right time for us to go. He was so happy to pick out the corset for me, including the elbow length gloves he helped me put on and the pearls around my neck that hung perfectly between my cleavage.

My favorite part of this outfit is how the pearls seem to glow orange as my red hair reflects off them.

Daddy must go to these things a lot, because when we walk into the large home on the wealthy side of town, he acknowledges a whole lot of people by name. They all have this snooty sort of accident, like they’re high bred or something. It’s almost comical listening to them ponder this or that in their entirely too formal speech.

Daddy, though, is debonair as he addresses them. I think his outfit plays into that. He’s wearing a black cape around a white shirt, black vest, and slacks. He almost looks like a pirate, or maybe the phantom of the opera. Our

outfits go well together, which as we move about the room greeting people, does put me more at ease knowing that I at least look attached to the man who’s showing me around.

Showing seems like the right word. He’s showing me the house, a house he’s intimately knowledgeable of, but he also seems to be showing me off to each person we meet. At first, the greetings are basic, but as we meet more people, daddy starts to command me a little more, telling me to spin around

for the people or to lift my arms or to drop them. I comply mindlessly, doing exactly as he says without a moment of hesitation.

Even though it should feel weird, it actually feels entirely normal to react to his voice without thought.

At one point, I overhear him say, “I’ve finally got her to a good place. I’m excited. It’s my first conversion.” The older man he’s speaking to clasps him on the shoulder in a congratulatory gesture.

“Conversion? What’s that supposed to mean, daddy?”

Daddy looks at me sternly, “Nothing. Mind your own business, babygirl.”

“Uh, I know you’re talking about me. I think I deserve to know.” The looks I get from the people around me is shocking. Not because they’re nervous about a fight, or anxious about seeing something that resembles abuse, but because the looks on their faces are a mixture of disgust and annoyance.

It annoys me to see their annoyance. “What? What’s your problem?” I ask the woman who’s face is twisted in revulsion.

Daddy grabs my arm roughly. “Hey,” he angrily whispers, “you shouldn’t speak to me like that, and you sure as hell shouldn’t speak to them like that either.”

For some reason, unlike any time before this, I’m no longer running on autopilot. That spark of resistance I had when daddy started controlling me weeks ago ignites into an uncontrollable blaze. “I’ll talk to whoever I want,

however I want.” My voice raises with each word. “If they’re going to act like shitheels, then I’ll treat them like that!”

Daddy looks around at the onlookers, which seems to have morphed into the entire party. There’s dead silence in the house as people curiously watch on, waiting for every development in the argument.

The older man who had congratulated daddy earlier shakes his head.

“Maybe she’s not there yet.”

“I swear,” daddy says, defending himself, “she was.”

“Then you might need to take control again.”

“Right now?”

The man nods slowly. “Do it now. She needs to know who’s in charge, and humiliation, I find, is the greatest motivator.”

He slaps the woman next to him on the ass, who jolts, but then returns a smile, saying, “Thank you, daddy.”

Did she call him daddy?

Daddy studies the man but follows his contemplation with a nod and turns back to me. The look on his face is a bizarre mix of anger, nervousness, and excitement.

“Come here,” he commands.

Normally I’d react without thinking, but the hundred eyes watching our interaction have suddenly captured my attention, and I’m unable to respond in even the smallest way.

I’m frozen in a state of utter awe.

What the hell is going on?

Daddy drops his head and sighs before reaching out for my hand and pulling me toward him. I nearly stumble off my feet as daddy drags me across the room.

You’d think there would be gasps or whispers or complaints from the crowd at the way daddy’s treating me, but all that can be heard is complete silence. Seriously, the only thing I hear in the entire house is the shuffling of my feet across the wood floor. The crowd even seems to disperse to give daddy room as he pulls me along, closing back around the opening in order to get clear view.

They’re like an audience at the theater, with the phantom of the opera and his damsel in distress as the major players.

As daddy sits down in a chair that seems to have been placed purposefully in the center of the room, I realize what he’s aiming for. But where it would have been an exciting predicament before, now it seems like a frightening ordeal.

“What are you doing?” I ask, tugging at my hand. I just need to be sure.

It can’t be true.

Not in front of everyone.

“You’ll listen to your father or you’ll get the hand.”

“Uh, you’re not serious?” I glance around the room, the crowd intently watching the entire fiasco play out. “You can’t do it here.”

He pulls me close to him. “Unlike you,” he menaces, “I can do whatever

I want.”

With a twist of my wrist, he flings me over his lap.

I freeze on his lap, the first moment of rote reaction since I acted up. Daddy places his hand on my butt, giving it gentle caresses with his hand, which causes my body to twitch and shudder, the soft touches burning my skin.

His hand lifts and cracks down with sudden fury, smacking my ass with a loud crash.

The room doesn’t react, the spanking eliciting not a sound, their eyes searching for something just as before.

What are they looking for?