Every day when he returned home, the creeping specter of anxiety and stress that followed him through the day would be warded off by the front steps. An equally unwelcome smile crept over his countenance as he remembered the one reliable constant in his life. He would find her exactly where he’d left her, curled in the armchair by the window, a book forgotten in her lap as she waited for the sound of his key in the lock.
Some part of him wanted to hate her for waiting there for him. Because her quiet devotion was a mirror that reflected his own failings, and the peace he’d bought for her was a cage he had built for himself. He liked life that way. He’d been caged since the day he was born, born into a confinement not of his own making. But at least here at home, this was his. His design, his rules. Things would make sense for once, and that too he wanted to be his gift to her. The concept of an equivalent exchange had always been important to him.
And so he would cross the room, his footsteps heavy with the weight of the world, and place a hand on her shoulder—a gesture that was both a claim of ownership and a silent plea for the solace only she could provide. "Daddy missed you," he said in a voice so soft as his fingers played with the strap of her tank top.
Her breath hitched, a tiny, yielding sound as she leaned back into his touch. "I was counting the minutes," she whispered, her own hand coming up to cover his. He let her touch him, let her feel his hand and his wrist, making sure he was real and not another one of her lazy daydreams brought on from waiting. He brought his hand up to wrap around her throat like a collar, filling her up with whatever poured from his eyes into hers when she was transfixed in his gaze. "Have you been a good girl while I was away?"
"Yes, Daddy," she breathed, her body going pliant under the gentle pressure of his grip, her eyes wide and fixed on his. "I tried."
His thumb stroked the life-flow underneath her skin, pressing gently so she’d feel the momentary pressure of restriction build in her head. "Did I tell you to try, or did I tell you to do something?"
"No, Daddy," she whispered, a shiver running through her as her gaze dropped in submission. "You told me to be good."
He snapped his fingers; the soft touch was gone, replaced by sharp annoyance. Snap. It was a command to get up and present herself before he forced her.
She flinched at the sound, scrambling from the chair with practiced haste to stand before him, head bowed and hands clasped tightly behind her back. He gripped her shoulder and spun her around, pushing her forward to splay her hands out for support against the arm of the loveseat as he kneed her legs apart. Suddenly, she felt his familiar warmth wrapping around her back, his big, strong arm and familiar smell enveloping her as he curled his limb around her torso for control.
"Please, Daddy," she gasped, her fingers digging into the fabric as his dominance enveloped her completely, a mix of fear and thrilling anticipation coursing through her.
"No 'please'," he snapped, pulling her hips to bring her onto her toes, grunting as he roughly ground himself against her. A sharp, helpless cry escaped her as the rough denim of his jeans scraped against the thin fabric of her shorts, the friction sending a jolt through her entire body. It was all she could do to grip tighter and force her knees to lock so she would stay in place as her daddy used her. He pushed himself against her body, trying to achieve that same melding of flesh that united them over and over, yet each grinding thrust was restrained by the barriers of their clothing. Even as his body pressed desperately against her and she could feel every intimate inch of his desire, there was no relief or apparent destination. He was teaching her the only way she would learn—by showing her body why trying wasn't acceptable. If he tried to use her like he was now but never let her make her daddy feel good and take away his stress, it wouldn't be enough to simply say he’d tried or she’d tried. Not at all.
Her knees weren't strong enough; they couldn't resist him or the pressure put upon her weight as he climbed over her backside, using the runway of her crack to guide and stimulate his flesh. Her legs buckled, a sob catching in her throat as her body folded under his weight, her cheek pressed against the cool leather of the loveseat.
"Ass up," he barked, lifting her effortlessly by the hips and slamming her backward against him to remind her where she was supposed to be. The air rushed from her lungs as she was slammed back into place, a sharp cry torn from her throat as the impact jarred her entire frame.
"Thank you, Daddy!" she whimpered meekly as he helped her do even a basic task like standing. As his hands tightened on her hips, finally granting her the stability she craved, he pushed his needs upon her again, and she sank under the weight of all of him.