“Fuck, look at you, baby. My perfect little fuck toy,” I mutter, cupping my balls with a groan. They’re so full of cum just for her. To pump her full and leave my mark. To remind her who owns her, who makes her come hard enough to see stars.
BegForMe:I’m waiting, you know what I want.
“Can’t a girl enjoy the build-up?” she drawls, rolling her hips in a way that drags a broken sound out of me. It’s the same move she used to make when she rode me in her bedroom, our parents just down the hall, and the risk of being caught heightening every move, every touch between us.
When she finally peels off her underwear, I nearly lose it. I clench my fist around the base of my cock to stop myself from coming too soon. The camera catches the glint of metal against soft skin, and jealousy slams into me. Someone else had to touch her perfect cunt to pierce it, and the thought of someone else marking her in such a way has my vision blurring at the edges.
I want to destroy every trace of whoever came before, make her forget every hand that wasn’t mine. It’s madness, I know, but I’ve never been good at restraint where she’s concerned.
BegForMe:Spread your legs. Let me see you drip for me.
She follows the command without hesitation, a shiver running through her. Even through a screen, I can tell she’s trembling, nervous, turned on, maybe both as she exposes that little pink barbell to my hungry gaze.
Trust Lily to have a matching set—little pink jewelled bars, glinting like trouble in her tits and clit.
“God... I’m so wet. Is this what you wanted, Daddy? Want me to hold myself open for you?”
My pulse stutters and for a second, the world tilts—every boundary, every line I swore I’d never cross, dissolving in the space between her breath and mine.Christ. My cock throbs at hearing her call me Daddy. I stroke faster, biting back a groan.
She moans and does exactly that—holds herself open. The sight of her like this, raw and aching and close enough to taste, is almost too much. Then she presses the toy inside, and I see her cunt stretch around it, aroundme.
It’s game over.
Her moans, the slick sound of her pussy, my groans—they’re a filthy symphony. I don’t blink. I can’t. I refuse to miss even a second of this stolen moment.
“Fuck, you feel so good, baby. Your cock is perfect, oh my God.”
BegForMe:That’s my good fuck toy. Come all over Daddy’s cock, let me feel you soak me. Fuck, I’m so close. You gonna take it like a good cumslut?
“Holy shit, yes, come inside me, Daddy. Fill me up. I want to feel it dripping out of me.”
The visual she’s painting sends us both hurtling over that cliff and I come with a strangled groan, her name on my lips.
She doesn’t hear it. She never will.
She pulls the plunger, pumping herself full of fake cum, and she moans at the sensation. It’s real enough to make my spent cock twitch again. When she scoops it onto her fingers and tastes it, I send one final message.
BegForMe:That’s my girl. Take it all. Make a mess for me.
And she does. My good girl. My ruin from the moment she first set her sights on me.
Chapter 3
Age 18,London
“For God’s sake. What the hell are you thinking, wearing that?” Jen snaps, ripping the jumper out of my hands and leaving a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and disappointment in her wake.
It’s one of her favourites—cashmere, ivory, skin-tight—so I know it’s not the jumper that’s the problem. As usual,I’mthe problem. She shoves it back into the wardrobe, her bony shoulders taut, and I brace for the inevitable tirade.
In the five years since she married Ciaran and moved us from Belfast to London, I’ve done everything I can to transform myself into the kind of daughter she wants. But no matter how hard I try, it never quite fits. It’s like slipping into her jumper—too snug across the chest, and too clingy at the waist. Instead of making me look right, it only highlights all the ways I fall short.
Sometimes I fantasise about packing a bag and disappearing. Leaving this life of starched perfection and endless criticism behind. Paris, Milan, New York, anywhere but here. Somewhere I can stop feeling like a poorly made doll in a dress I never chose.
“You’re never going to find a man if you insist on dressing like that,” she says, facing me with her arms folded and a scowl firmly in place as she takes in my oversized black tee and distressed jeans. “Your hips look wider than ever. Honestly, Lily, have you gained weight again? What happened to the meal plan I had the chef draw up? If you could just show some restraint and stick to that, you’d lose those inches in no time.”
Jen Davis doesn’t yell. She doesn’t need to. Her disapproval is as polished and precise as her blowout—cold, cutting, and permanent. Everything I do feels like a test I’m destined to fail. My grades are good, my makeup is subtle. I smile on command, wear what she buys, and it’s still never enough.
This life—this Mafia world of money, appearances, and bloodlines—was never built for girls like me. I see how the other daughters and wives look in comparison. Polished shadows in designer dresses, trained from birth to glide through blood and secrets. I stick out like a sore thumb with my ripped jeans, curves, and emotions. I’m always spilling over some invisible line I can’t even see, let alone stay inside. Trying to be the daughter Jen want’s is fucking exhausting.
