God, I hate that part of me. The part that still wants him.
His messages come faster.
BegForMe:You want something to suck on, baby?
BegForMe:Show me how much you need it.
Trailing my hand down over my chest, past my stomach, and across my hips, I slip my fingers past the waistband of my thong. I circle my clit slowly, even as my mind screams that this is a game I’m supposed to be winning. ThatI’msupposed to be the one in control.
But my body doesn’t listen. It wants him. It wants the past. It wants everything I should’ve left behind.
I pull my fingers away, wet and glistening, and hold them up to the camera.
“See what you do to me, Daddy?” I whisper, licking my fingers clean. The taste is salt and heat and shame mixed into one, and I savour every drop like it’s victory.
His next message takes longer. When it finally arrives, it’s a command.
BegForMe:Take off the underwear. Skirt and tie can stay. Show me my pretty holes.
I obey slowly, every movement deliberate. I want him toache. And yet, under it all, there’s a sick pulse of anticipation because I want to show him. Iwanthim to remember me.
When I spread my thighs again, the light spills across my skin, glinting off the tiny pink ring nestled in my clit.
BegForMe:Fuck. You were made for this. Made for me. You want to be Daddy’s good little whore?
My chest squeezes—tight, breathless—as memories of a hundred other times he said something just like that slam into me with brutal precision. It’s muscle memory by now, his words, my undoing.
“I want you to ruin me,” I groan, pinching my nipple as I slip two fingers inside my pussy. “I want you to break me open and make me yours.”
It’s not a lie even though it should be. That’s what terrifies me most.
There’s a moment’s pause, a silence so deep I can hear my own pulse roaring in my ears.
Then his voice cuts through the speakers low and guttural.
“Look at you. So fucking desperate. Bet that tight little pussy is aching, isn’t it, baby?”
It’s the first time I’ve heard his voice in over a year. Even distorted through filters, it hits me like a slap. My body reacts before my brain can catch up. My nipples tighten, my thighs tremble and everything inside me clenches around the memory of him.
“Yes, Daddy,” I breathe. “I need you so bad it hurts.”
I reach for the toy beside me and trace it along my folds, teasing, dipping just the tip inside.
“I’m so empty, Daddy. It aches,” I sob.
Another sharp inhale from him, then a quiet, shattering exhale.
“Fuck. Show me. Show me how well you can take Daddy's cock, sweetheart.”
I ease it in, slow enough to feel every tremor, every pulse of heat. My hips tilt, searching for pressure, for release, for anything that isn’t thought. I tell myself this is just performance—my power, my rules.
But beneath all of it, shame burns hot and helpless. I want him to see me like this because nothing in this world has ever felt as devastatingly right as being wanted by him.
His breath catches. “Christ, Lily.”
My name falls from his mouth, raw enough to cut skin. For a split second, I’m right back in my old bedroom—him behind the camera, me moving for him like I was made for his eyes alone.
He doesn’t notice he’s said it.
