I barely recognise myself. The mask only covers half my face but the anonymity of the figure staring back at me in the mirror brings an edge of power. They’ll never know what’s coming.
I recognise him. How could I not? My Daddy. Those piercing eyes. The story he’s telling with each look. Each subtle instruction, without words. He marks each target and sends me in. His little wolfcub on the prowl.
His wolf in sheep’s clothing, the elegance of the gown hides my scars. He pinned my hair back, soft curls falling around my obscured face, made up with thick red lipstick. The long gloves conceal the vials of Daddy’s special medicine.
We are the epitome of sophistication, blending into the crowd. Lost in a menagerie of animals and faceless beasts. Masks that distort their faces, hiding distinguishing features behind plumes of feathers, horns and over-sized appendages.
The room is alive with movement, with heat, bodies pressed close together in dance. All reflected in mirrors that elongate the room until I can’t be sure where it ends and where it begins.
I don’t recognise him either. That face that repeatedly appears, hidden behind an expressionless mask, flitting behind the dancing pairs on the floor. A flash of his dark purple cape, caught in my eye line and lost again as I spin around, moving from partner to partner, fulfilling my Daddy’s wishes. There’s a stranger watching me. Why is he watching me?
The music is loud and sets the pace for the whole room as couples step in time with each other. The swish of elaborate ballgowns. The tinkle of laughter. The sound of the girl in cage and the hit of the belt against her skin. Sounds that merge into one as I’m spun. I move from target to target, tall firm bodies that press against me, faceless in the crowd, just another reveller, protected from recognition. Not protected from me and my charms.
I’ll never know the man behind the mask. I’ll never see his face. I don’t have to. I just have to get the medicine into his mouth and move on. Lining up my lambs for Daddy’s slaughter.
It’s easy. I am Daddy’s “Belle of the ball” and they all want to dance with me, all tempted in with a telling smile that promises more. Encouraged by the deliberate air of hedonism in this place, the promise of excitement, the enticement of the girl embracing the gluttony, leading them away from the dancefloor and taking a glass in each hand, passing drinks from mouth to mouth, champagne flowing in a sinful embrace. And then on…on to the next one. Plucked from the floor, marked.
I only realise it’s him when I catch a flicker of purple out of the corner of my eye. I catch it as his cape wraps around me, as he wraps me up.
My lips tingle from his kisses. Are we kissing? Am I supposed to be kissing him?
My lips tingle and my head spins. I don’t remember how we got to this room.
Where did the ballroom go, with the music and all the other guests?
This room is far smaller, darker, plush with velvet curtains around a large canopy bed.
I draw breath and try to focus. To remember what I was supposed to be doing. Daddy’s task. Daddy’s medicine. Did I take some by accident? Daddy’s instructions were very clear, one glass for them, one for me, never mix, then move on, Daddy will take care of the rest.
I’m certain I understood, yet my head swims and time is slowing, the music is moving away, drawing away from me.
He’s carrying me. When did he pick me up?
He’s warm and firm against me, his strong hands cradling my head, gently caressing my hair.
“Good girl.” He soothes, laying me down onto the soft mattress. My reaction is instinctive, I relax in his arms. I relax down onto the bed, feeling his breath against me, his subtle scent, the darkness of his eyes. I drink him in.
The rock of my hips gives away my arousal. Here, in this enclosed space with the masked stranger.
The stranger walks backwards to the large chair in the corner of the room. He settles into the seat, hooking one leg over the ornately decorated arm and resting his head on the chair back.
He watches me. More than watching. He’s waiting.
With a casual flick of his hand he makes his demand. “Touch yourself.” His voice is deep, the words deliberate and the intent clear. I will obey.
I know this. I do this for Daddy. I am Daddy’s girl. Aren’t I? Is that who I am? Was Daddy here? Do I have a Daddy? The thoughts are foggy and become secondary to the pleasure my fingers build. Sliding a finger into my already slick cunt. I am swollen and sensitive. It draws my focus away from wispy thoughts that refuse to solidify, snatches of ideas about what I should be doing and who I am. Who I was.
Thoughts that are tinged with guilt, it tastes metallic in my mouth. It clenches my stomach, working against what my cunt wants. Denying me the full pleasure of my expertise, how well I know myself. The stranger’s words provide all the encouragement I need to drown them out, to lose myself, writhing against the pressure of my hand.
Words that make a snap-change, a complete switch in their intent and delivery. A firm hand pins me down by the neck. I didn’t even see him move but I see him now, looming above me, lips drawn back as he shouts at me. “You filthy fucking bitch. What are you doing? You wanton whore.”
I fight against the fingers tight around my throat but it’s futile. The world swims then calms. He takes a step back and quietly tells me “Touch yourself.”
The confusion hurts my head and halts my hands. The rules keep changing. How do I be good? How I please him? Do I touch myself or not? “It’s not fair.” I pout. Did I say that out loud?
“If you won’t, then I will.” He threatens. The rage in his eyes is obvious, even from behind the disguise. It scares me into sobbing, each wretch reminding me of something else, of a time before, in the long-agos when I was safe and knew how to be good. There’s a strand of a voice screaming from within but it’s trapped, she’s trapped, she’s trying to tell me something. A hidden message of empowerment that I cannot access.
The rope works as an extension of him, I can’t tell what is being restrained by his strong arms and what is held by the thick black strands wrapped around my limbs. I don’t know where he produced it from or how he weaves it with such a magic. It resists against my struggles producing a heightened state of panic at odds with the pleasure of being held so tight.
“Up or down? he asks, pulling the rope that binds my arms downwards towards the base of the bed, then upwards, pulling me onto my knees where my bucking hips give me away, free to sway and reveal my arousal as the rope is secured above my head. “She chose up…” he snickers.
The cloth around my eyes effectively blocks all light in the room. I hear the music grow louder then quieter as the door is opened and then closed. Did he leave me?
There are two hands…. at first. His, I presume. Then more, working in pairs, one after the other, exploring my body, sliding over the ropes that hold me in place and stripping away my clothing. My beautiful dress, being torn into shreds.
I feel the weight of more bodies joining me on the bed, moving all around me to gain access. The countless hands roam, holding me down, grabbing, groping and pulling at my exposed flesh. Fingers find nipples and the sensitive skin of my labia and manipulate them into screaming pain. My objections muffled with a gag, a firm round ball that fills my mouth.
Tirelessly the hands work at me, pinching and stroking my skin. Each sensation heightened by my inability to see or speak. I hear them murmuring to each other. Compliments incongruent to the situation. “Soft skin…” says one, “Yes, so pliable” another agrees, demonstrating by tugging on a nipple and pulling to the fullest extent. I scream behind the gag. “She’s pretty when she screams.”
Agreement rumbles through the crowd. Seemingly my abuse is bringing them together and they get braver, Fingers penetrate my holes, gently at first them with more force. Encouraged by appreciative “Oooh”s.
I feel them jostle for position, to get closer.
“Hold her.” I’m forced forward into warm arms as my hips are tipped backwards. My face buried between soft breasts that I quickly make wet with tears. The thick cock penetrating me hurts as it stretches me with an unyielding force. It’s hard, harder than is natural and rammed with inexperienced hips. My traitorous cunt stretches to allow it anyway, wetly aroused by the pain.
“She presents well.” An appreciative voice whispers. A female voice, her whiny tone now evident in the grunts as she tries to fuck me, the large strap-on clearly too much for her to handle. My Daddy would show her how it’s done.
The thought gives some clarity. My world tumbles back, cutting through the drug haze. How long have I been here?
The stranger….he distracted me from my mission and he will pay. I know why I am here and I know what I am. I am Daddy’s Blade.
I am Daddy’s….
“Yes she does.”
I’d recognise that voice anywhere, just as I recognise the new cock sliding inside me. He takes me hard, deep and rough, grabbing my head back and allowing the blindfold to slip from my eyes.
The stranger sits in the chair opposite the bed. Casually watching. I focus on him, held in place by a firm hand in my hair as I am roughly fucked. All around me there are bodies, naked and writhing in my peripheral vision.
I sneer at him from behind the gag, loosened by Daddy and spat out of my mouth. “Fuck you.” I spit at the stranger.
“Stupid girl.” He drawls. “Be grateful for my generosity. I ask for so little. I could’ve taken you. Instead I invited in my guests and shared you. Did you not enjoy it? Look at what I’ve given you.”
“You drugged me.” My accusing words start a fire in Daddy’s thrusts and growls behind me. His anger response rained down in fists on my back. The bodies that surrounded me scatter, leaving us alone on the bed, the door banging as they empty the room.
“You loved it. And it’s no worse than what you were doing. I saw you, giving drinks to my boys.”
“Isn’t this what you wanted?” he continues, “An orgy. A drug-fuelled orgy. I thought you should get exactly what you asked for. A taste of your own medicine.”
I rage. Stupid man is completely wrong. What makes him think he knows what I want? How dare he think he can teach me a lesson? I am Daddy’s girl. I take Daddy’s lessons.
One Daddy is ready to teach me now as his knife slices quickly through my restraints and I am let loose on the foolish stranger, Daddy’s blade in hand, the determined words from my lips. “You have no power over me.” And I show him so.
We would like to give special thanks to Sauvage_x for the venue and rope.