Her First Time With Daddy

Chapter Six

I barely slept.

The bed was too soft, the sheets too expensive, and the silence of the estate pressed against my ears like a living thing. Every time I closed my eyes I felt him again—the heavy warmth of his body behind me at the window, the thick ridge of his c**k pressed against my ass, the slow, deliberate way he had kissed me after telling me to call him Daddy. The word still sat in my mouth like something forbidden and sweet. I turned over again and again, thighs pressed together, the low ache between them refusing to fade. By the time the first gray light slipped through the tall windows I was exhausted, restless, and already wet.

A soft knock sounded at the door just after seven. I sat up, pulling the sheet higher even though I was alone. A young maid entered with her eyes lowered, carrying a silver tray. She set it on the low table near the window without speaking, then placed a small cream envelope beside the plate. My name was written across the front in sharp, controlled handwriting. The maid left as quietly as she had come.

I opened the envelope with unsteady fingers.

*Come downstairs when you’re ready. Wear what I left for you. — Daddy*

My stomach flipped hard.

On the chair near the closet hung a dress I had never seen before—deep forest green, soft and expensive, the kind of fabric that whispered when it moved. It was modest enough for daytime, with a high neckline and short sleeves, but the way it was cut made it clear it would follow every curve of my body. Beside it lay matching underwear in the same deep green and a pair of simple black heels. Everything was exactly my size. The realization sent a strange, hot shiver down my spine. He had chosen these things for me. He had imagined me wearing them.

I showered quickly, the hot water doing nothing to calm the restless energy under my skin. When I slipped into the underwear and then the dress, the fabric settled against me like a claim. The heels made my legs look longer. I stood in front of the mirror for a long moment, staring at the girl looking back—cheeks flushed, eyes too bright, mouth still slightly swollen from the night before. She looked like someone who belonged in this house. I wasn’t sure I liked that.

The hallway outside my room stretched long and quiet. Marble floors gleamed under soft morning light. I walked slowly, one hand trailing along the polished banister as I descended the grand staircase. Voices drifted from somewhere below, low and respectful. I followed the sound into a sunlit dining room with tall windows overlooking the gardens.

Corren sat at the head of a long table, a tablet in one hand, a cup of black coffee in the other. He was already dressed in a dark suit, silver at his temples catching the light. When he looked up, the air in the room changed. His gaze moved over me slowly, thoroughly, from the heels to the way the green dress hugged my hips and waist, then up to my face. Something dark and satisfied settled in his eyes.

“Good morning, Ava.”

The sound of my name in that calm, deep voice made my pulse jump.

I stopped a few feet from the table, suddenly unsure what to do with my hands. He waited, patient, watching me. I knew what he wanted.

“Good morning… Daddy.”

The word came out softer than I intended. A faint, almost invisible smile touched the corner of his mouth. He set the tablet aside and gestured to the chair at his right.

“Sit.”

I sat. The moment I did, his hand settled on my thigh under the table—warm, heavy, possessive. Not moving higher. Just resting there, the heat of his palm burning through the thin fabric of the dress. My breath caught. I stared at the plate in front of me while my body reacted shamelessly, n*****s tightening, a slow throb starting between my legs.

“We have rules in this house,” he said, as if discussing the weather. His thumb stroked once across the top of my thigh, a small, deliberate movement that made my stomach clench. “You will not leave the grounds without telling me first. You will not contact Vance—not by phone, not by message, not through anyone else. You will answer when I call you. And every night at nine o’clock, you will come to my study. Clear?”

I nodded, throat tight.

His fingers tightened just slightly on my thigh. “Use your words, Ava.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

The maid returned with fresh coffee and a plate of eggs and fruit. Corren dismissed her with a single glance. We ate in silence for several minutes. His hand never left my leg. Every time I shifted, his palm adjusted, keeping that same steady, claiming pressure. I could feel myself growing wetter with every passing second. The green underwear he had chosen for me was already damp. I hated how easily my body answered him. I hated even more how much part of me wanted to press my thighs together around his hand and beg for more.

His phone buzzed against the table. He glanced at the screen and his expression cooled, though his hand on my thigh remained warm and heavy.

“Sybil is coming this afternoon,” he said. “She wants to see how you’re settling in. You will be pleasant. You will smile. You will not give her any reason to worry. Do you understand?”

My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I was sure he could hear it. Aunt Sybil. Here. In this house. Walking the same halls where her husband had pressed me against a window and told me to call him Daddy. The thought made my stomach twist with panic and something darker, something that felt dangerously like excitement.

“Yes, Daddy,” I whispered.

He finally removed his hand, but the ghost of his touch lingered like a brand. He stood, buttoned his jacket with calm precision, and looked down at me. The height difference, the way he loomed over my chair, made my mouth go dry.

“I have meetings until four. Explore the house if you want. The pool, the library, the gardens—everything is open to you. But remember the rules.” He paused at the doorway, one hand on the frame, and his voice dropped lower. “And Ava… don’t touch yourself while I’m gone. That pleasure belongs to me now.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

I sat alone at the long table, pulse racing, thighs pressed tightly together. The green dress suddenly felt too thin. Outside the tall windows the estate stretched wide and beautiful and completely under his control—manicured lawns, distant fountains, high walls that kept the rest of the world out. Inside, the silence settled around me again, heavy with the scent of his cologne and the memory of his hand on my leg.

I stared down at my plate, appetite gone. My body was still thrumming, the ache between my legs sharp and insistent. I wanted to slide my hand under the dress and relieve the pressure he had left behind. The fact that he had forbidden it only made the need worse.

I stood slowly, legs unsteady, and walked to the window. My reflection looked back at me—flushed cheeks, parted lips, eyes that already looked a little lost. For the first time since I arrived, the full weight of my situation settled over me like a second skin.

I was living in his house.

Wearing clothes he chose.

Calling him Daddy.

And the most terrifying part wasn’t how easily I had obeyed him this morning.

It was how much part of me already wanted to do it again.