4. Silas #2
"Please," she whispers. "Please, Daddy, I need?—"
"Not yet."
I remove the plug slowly, feeling her body clench around it, reluctant to release.
She's open now, glistening, ready for more.
I clean it, set it aside, and insert the next size.
She cries out, her back arching, her knuckles white on the sink rim.
This one is thicker, longer, pressing against places the first didn't reach.
I seat it fully, pat her hip, and step back.
"Four hours," I say. "Then dinner. Then we see how much you've grown."
Dinner is roast chicken, Stella's specialty, the table set with candles and wine. Selene drinks two glasses, and her cheeks flush, her inhibitions loosening with each sip. I watch her across the table, watch her squirm in her chair, watch her face shift every time the plug moves inside her.
"Silas, tell Selene about the Southampton project," Dad says, gesturing with his wine. "The cliffside house. She'd appreciate the architecture."
I describe the build, the cantilevered foundation, the glass walls that face the Atlantic, the engineering challenges of building on bedrock.
Selene listens, her eyes glazed, her attention clearly elsewhere.
Beneath the table, I extend my leg, press my foot between her thighs, and she chokes on her wine, coughing into her napkin.
"Are you alright, dear?" Stella asks, reaching to pat her back.
"Went down the wrong pipe," Selene gasps, her eyes meeting mine across the table, dark and desperate.
After dinner, Stella wants to show slides from her garden club's annual competition. Hydrangeas, roses, a prize winning tomato. She settles on the couch, patting the space beside her. "Selene, come look. You always loved my tomatoes, remember? When you were little?"
Selene moves to sit, but I catch her wrist. "She'll sit with me," I say, my voice calm, my grip firm. "I want to show her the plans for the cliffside house. She has an eye for design."
Stella beams, delighted by the sibling bonding. "How wonderful! You two are getting along so well."
I settle into the armchair, pulling Selene onto my lap.
She's light, barely there, her weight insignificant against my thighs.
To Stella, it looks innocent. Brother and sister, sharing a chair, looking at architectural plans.
But beneath her skirt, hidden by the drape of fabric and the angle of my arm, my fingers find the base of the plug and press.
Selene stiffens, her body going rigid against me. I wrap my other arm around her waist, holding her in place, while my fingers work the plug in small, deliberate circles, pressing it deeper, shifting it against her walls.
"See here," I say to Stella, pointing at the plan with my free hand, my voice perfectly conversational. "The cantilever. We had to drill anchors forty feet into the bedrock."
"Remarkable," Stella murmurs, flipping through her garden slides, oblivious.
Selene trembles in my lap. She's soaking through the thin fabric of her dress, her arousal wetting my jeans, her breath coming in shallow gasps she's trying to disguise as interest in the architecture.
I press the plug deeper, feel her body clench around it, feel the vibration of her suppressed moan against my chest.
"And the glass," I continue, my fingers still working, "is triple pane, hurricane rated. We had to import it from Germany."
"Germany," Stella says warmly. "Frankfurt, wasn't it? Before you came home."
"Yes," I say, my thumb circling Selene's clit beneath her skirt. "Before I came home."
Selene bites her lip, hard enough to draw blood.
Her body convulses, a miniature orgasm rippling through her, and I feel it in the tension of her thighs, the flutter of her pulse against my arm, the sudden flood of wetness soaking my jeans.
I don't let her finish fully. I withdraw my hand, pat her hip, and return to pointing at the plans.
"Remarkable work," Stella says, closing her slide binder. "I'm so proud of you both."
Selene sags against me, trembling, her face buried in my shoulder to hide her expression. I hold her, stroking her back, while Stella chatters about tomorrow's plans, about bridge club, about the hydrangeas that need pruning.
When Stella finally rises, stretching, announcing her bedtime, Selene is limp in my arms, her body humming with denied completion, her eyes glassy with need.
"Goodnight, children," Stella says, kissing Selene's forehead, then mine. "So lovely to see you bonding."
She ascends the stairs, her footsteps light, her humming fading. I wait until I hear her door close. Then I stand, lifting Selene with me, and carry her toward the stairs.
"Please," she whispers against my neck. "Please, Daddy, I can't anymore. I need you inside me. I need to come. Please."
"Not yet," I say, my voice rough with my own need, my cock hard enough to hurt against her hip. "First, your training. Then your reward. Then, maybe, if you're perfect, I'll consider it."
My room is dim, lit by a single lamp on the desk.
I lay her on the bed, her dress bunched around her waist, the plug still inside her, her body open and glistening and mine.
I strip slowly, letting her watch, letting her see what she's working toward, what she still can't take.
My cock springs free, ten inches thick and curved and pulsing with a heartbeat that feels like it belongs to her.
Her eyes fix on it, her tongue darting across her lips, her hands reaching.
I catch her wrists, pin them above her head with one hand. "No touching. Not yet. You watch. You learn. You obey."
I remove the plug, the second size, and she whimpers at the loss, her body clenching on emptiness. I clean it, set it with the first, and select the third. Larger. Thicker. The one that will stretch her to the edge of what she can bear.
"Count for me," I say, positioning it at her entrance. "One for every inch. One for every stroke. One for every moment you take this for me."
I push, slow and steady, feeling her body resist, then yield, then burn around the intrusion. Her back arches, her mouth opens, her eyes squeeze shut.
"One," she gasps.
I press deeper, another inch, feeling her walls flutter and clench. "Two."
She's crying now, tears tracking down her temples into her hair, her body shaking with the stretch. I pause, let her adjust, let her breathe. Then I press again.
"Three, Daddy. Four. Five."
By six, she's sobbing, her hands clawing at the sheets, her hips trying to buck me away and pull me deeper simultaneously. I grip her waist, holding her still, and continue. Seven. Eight. The plug is almost seated, her body stretched around the widest part, her entrance burning pink and swollen.
"Nine," she wails. "Please, Daddy, please, I can't?—"
"You can," I say, my voice steady, my own arousal a distant thunder in my blood. "You will. For me. Because you're my good girl. Because you're perfect. Because you were made to take everything I give you."
"Ten," she screams as I seat the plug fully, her body convulsing around it, her orgasm ripping through her without my permission, without my touch, just from the stretch, the fullness, the overwhelming sensation of being opened completely.
I let her come. I watch her shatter, her back arching off the bed, her nails drawing blood from my forearm where she's gripping me, her voice breaking apart into sounds that aren't words, aren't human, are just pure release.
Then I hold her through the aftershocks, stroking her hair, whispering praise.
"Good girl," he says, his voice a low rumble. "My perfect little thing. You were so brave, so beautiful, and you did so well for me."
When she stills, her breathing ragged, her body limp and glowing with sweat, I settle between her thighs.
I use my mouth first, my tongue finding her clit, swollen and sensitive, licking with broad, flat strokes that make her whimper and twitch.
I slide two fingers inside her, alongside the plug, feeling how tight she still is, how her body grips me even now.
"Please," she begs, her voice hoarse. "Please, Daddy, let me come. Let me come for you."
I bring her to the edge, my tongue circling, my fingers curling, feeling the tension build in her thighs, her stomach, her breath. Then I stop.
She sobs, her hips chasing my mouth, her hands finding my hair and pulling. "No, please, no, I need it, I need you?—"
"Not yet," I say, my voice thick with my own denied need, my cock leaking against the sheet, leaving wet marks that smell like us. "Not until I'm inside you. Not until you can take all of me. This is your training. Your discipline. Your reward comes when you've earned it."