I barely slept after Daddy caught me. The rest of the night was a feverish blur of shame and unbearable arousal. I tossed and turned, thighs sticky with my own juices, replaying his deep, commanding voice over and over in my head. By morning I was a mess — p***y swollen and aching, n*****s hard enough to cut glass. When the text came at noon telling me to come downstairs to the basement studio at exactly 2 p.m., my hands shook so badly I almost dropped my phone.
This was really happening. I was going to watch — no, help — with one of Daddy’s live sessions.
I chose my outfit like the desperate little slut I was becoming: a tiny white pleated skirt that barely covered my ass, no panties, a thin cropped tank top that made my hard n*****s obvious, and thigh-high socks. My p***y was already l
