The house sat at the end of a dead-end street with no neighbors close enough to hear anything, a tall gothic Victorian painted black with purple trim, black iron fencing around the yard, gargoyles on the porch posts. Inside, everything was black and purple — black velvet curtains, purple candlelight, black furniture with purple cushions, skulls and roses on the shelves. It was the kind of house that looked like it belonged to people who didn’t care what anyone thought, and it belonged to exactly two people now.

Zoraida was eighteen years old today. Brand new eighteen, as of this morning. She lay sprawled on her back in her bedroom, naked under a black sheet that had slid down to her waist, her purple and black hair fanned across the pillow — the purple a deep violet, the black in thick streaks through it. She was her father’s daughter in the face, same dark eyes, same full mouth, but everything else about her was claimed, marked, decorated for one man.

Her bottom lip was pierced on both sides with small silver rings. Her septum was pierced on both sides, two tiny hoops. A single dermal glinted under each eye like a caught tear. Her ears were gauged to 00, black plugs in the lobes, and every other spot on her ears that could hold metal held metal — helix, tragus, conch, rook, a full constellation of silver. Her belly button had a dangling purple jewel in it. Her clit had a small silver bar through the hood.

And the tattoos. His name was tattooed everywhere — that had been the rule since she was old enough to sit in the chair. OWNED ran down the outside of one thigh in tall black gothic letters. CLAIMED ran down the other. His name was tattooed on her pussy itself, right above her clit, small and precise. On her ass, his name arched across one cheek and PROPERTY across the other, so bent over she read as his property. A tramp stamp of his name sat low on her back in elaborate script. Behind one ear his name ran down her neck; behind the other, the word PROPERTY ran down the other side. She was a walking signature. Every inch of her said who she belonged to.

Her mother hadn’t been around her whole life — gone before Zoraida had memories of her, just a name nobody said anymore. Her brother had moved out, for now, off chasing his own life. So it was just her and her daddy in the black and purple house. Just the two of them, and the thing between them that had been building for years and had finally, as of today, become allowed.

Xavier was thirty-four, tall and broad, dark hair cut short, his arms sleeved in blackwork, a silver ring through one eyebrow. He stood in Zoraida’s doorway in nothing but black boxer briefs, watching his daughter sleep, watching the candlelight from the hallway play over all his ink on her skin. Today was the day he’d been waiting for. Today she was eighteen. Today was please-his-daughter day, and he had the whole thing planned.

He crossed the room silent on the black carpet, peeled the sheet back the rest of the way, and knelt at the side of her bed. He spread her thighs gently, and his mouth found her pussy, and that was how Zoraida woke up on her eighteenth birthday — her daddy’s tongue on her clit, his name tattooed right above where his mouth worked.

She gasped awake, her back arching, her hands flying to his hair.

— Daddy — she breathed, still half asleep, her voice thick. — Oh god, Daddy.

— Happy birthday, baby girl, — he murmured against her, his breath hot on her wet skin, his tongue circling the little silver bar through her clit hood. — Eighteen. All grown up. All mine.

He licked her slow and deep, his tongue pushing into her, tasting her, his hands sliding under her ass to lift her to his mouth. She was already wet — she’d woken wet, dreaming about this, dreaming about him — and he drank her like he’d been thirsty for years. His tongue found every fold, every ridge, flicked the piercing, sucked her clit gently between his lips and rolled it.

— Master, please — she whimpered, her thighs trembling around his head. — Please don’t stop, Master.

— I’m not stopping, — he said, his voice low and rough, vibrating against her. — Not today. Today’s your day, baby. Today’s the day Daddy worships his girl properly for the first time.

He slid two fingers into her while his tongue worked her clit, curling them, finding the spot inside her that made her cry out. Her hips bucked against his face. The dermal under her eye caught the candlelight when she squeezed her eyes shut. Her whole body was shaking, covered in his name, shaking for him.

— Come for me, — he commanded softly against her pussy. — Come on your daddy’s tongue, baby girl. Let me taste my birthday girl.

She came with a sob, her pussy clenching around his fingers, flooding his mouth, her back bowed off the bed, her hands fisted in his hair. He kept licking her through it, gentle now, working her down, swallowing everything she gave him.

When she finally went still, panting, he crawled up her body, his boxer briefs tented hard against her thigh, and kissed her — deep, letting her taste herself on his tongue.

— Good morning, birthday girl, — he said, smiling down at her. — Stay right there. Daddy’s got presents.

He left the room and came back with a black velvet box. Inside, on black satin, sat a collar — black leather, silver studs, a silver O-ring at the front, and a small silver tag engraved with one word: HIS.

Zoraida’s breath caught. Her eyes filled.

— Daddy — she whispered.

— Turn around, — he said gently.

She rolled onto her stomach, her ass in the air — his name on one cheek, PROPERTY on the other, his property — and he fastened the collar around her neck, snug, the tag resting at her throat. Then he turned her back over and looked at her: collared, pierced, tattooed, his.

— There, — he said, his voice rough with feeling. — Now everybody who sees you knows. You’re collared. You’re mine. My sub, my baby girl, my everything.

— Thank you, Daddy, — she whispered, tears slipping down past the dermals. — Thank you, Master. I love it. I love you.

— I love you too, baby. — He kissed her forehead, then her mouth. — And that’s present number one. Present number two’s already on his way over.

The doorbell rang an hour later. Zoraida answered it wearing nothing but the collar and a black silk robe, her purple and black hair still messy from the morning. On the porch stood Marco, twenty-nine, the tattoo artist who’d done half the ink on her body — tall, lean, tattooed hands, a black case in one grip.

— Birthday girl, — he said, grinning. — Heard it’s a big day. Heard I’m doing something special.

— Get in here, — Xavier said from behind her, a hand on the small of her back. — She’s eighteen today, Marco. Legal. And she’s getting my name somewhere new.

They set up in the living room — black leather couch pushed back, the tattoo chair unfolded, the machine buzzing. Zoraida stripped the robe off and sat in the chair naked except for the collar, and Xavier stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders.

— Where, Daddy? — she asked, looking up at him.

— Here, — he said, and ran one finger slowly across the front of her throat, right over her pulse. — Right here. My name, across your throat. So every time you swallow, every time you breathe, it’s me.

Her whole body shivered. Her pussy clenched, still swollen and wet from the morning.

— Yes, Master, — she whispered. — Please.

Marco prepped the skin, pressed the stencil on — XAVIER, in elegant black script, curving across her throat — and showed her in the hand mirror. She stared at herself: the collar below it, his name above it, her pierced face, the dermals catching light.

— It’s perfect, — she breathed.

— Hold still, baby girl, — Xavier said, and took her hands in his, holding them, anchoring her.

The needle buzzed. Zoraida hissed at the first touch — the throat was tender, sensitive — but she didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. She sat still and took it, her daddy’s hands holding hers, her daddy’s name going into her throat one line at a time. It hurt in the good way, the claiming way, and by the end she was wet again, dripping, her thighs pressed tight together in the chair.

Marco wiped her down, wrapped the fresh ink, and stepped back to look at his work.

— Damn, — he said quietly. — That’s beautiful. She wears your name good, X.

— She was made to wear it, — Xavier said, his eyes dark, his hand stroking Zoraida’s hair. — Weren’t you, baby girl?

— Yes, Daddy, — she whispered, her voice hoarse around the fresh tattoo. — All yours. Everywhere.

Marco was packing his case slowly. Too slowly. He kept looking at her — at the collar, the fresh ink on her throat, the tattoos, the piercings, the way she sat naked and open and glowing.

Xavier caught him looking, and smiled — slow, knowing, dominant.

— You want her, — he said. It wasn’t a question.

Marco’s hands stilled on the case. — X —

— It’s her birthday, — Xavier said. — And it’s please-my-daughter day. She gets what she wants today. — He looked down at Zoraida, his thumb stroking her cheek. — Baby girl. You want Marco too?

Zoraida looked at Marco — at his tattooed hands, the hunger in his eyes — and her whole body lit up. She nodded, breathless.

— Yes, Daddy. Please, Master. I want — I want both of you.

— Then you get both of us, — Xavier said. — But you remember who you belong to. You remember whose collar that is, whose name is in your throat. He’s a guest in my daughter’s pussy. I’m the owner.

— Yes, Master, — she breathed. — Yours. Always yours.

What followed was a blur of heat and hands and mouths on the black leather couch. Marco’s mouth was on her tits, sucking her nipples hard, his tattooed hands kneading her breasts. Xavier knelt between her spread thighs, his tongue back on her pussy, licking her around the little tattoo of his name above her clit, his fingers pushing deep into her while Marco worked her top.

— Taste her, — Xavier ordered, not looking up. — She’s sweet today. Birthday sweet.

Marco moved down, and the two men shared her — Xavier’s tongue on her clit, Marco’s mouth on her inner thighs, kissing up the CLAIMED tattoo, the OWNED tattoo, worshipping the ink. Zoraida writhed between them, sobbing, her hands in two different heads of hair, her fresh throat tattoo aching with every moan.

— Please — she gasped. — Please, I need — Daddy, please —

— What do you need, baby girl? — Xavier asked, his voice dark. — Tell Daddy what you need.

— Cocks, — she sobbed, beyond shyness, beyond everything. — Please, Master, I need cocks in me, please fill me —

Xavier stood, stripped his boxer briefs off, his cock springing free — thick, long, hard, the head already leaking. Marco stripped too, his cock hard and ready. Xavier sat on the couch and pulled Zoraida into his lap, facing Marco, her back to his chest.

— Ride him, — Xavier commanded in her ear, his hands gripping her hips. — Ride Marco’s cock while Daddy watches. Show me how my girl takes cock on her birthday.

Marco guided himself to her entrance, and Zoraida sank down onto him with a long, shaking moan, taking him deep, her pussy swallowing him to the root. She rode him slow at first, then harder, her tits bouncing, the collar’s tag glinting at her throat, Xavier’s hands on her hips controlling her rhythm, his mouth on her neck, on the fresh tattoo.

— That’s it, — he growled. — That’s my good girl. Taking cock like you were born for it.

— Oh god — Marco groaned, his hands gripping her thighs, right over OWNED and CLAIMED. — She’s so tight, X, Jesus —

— She’s mine tight, — Xavier said, possessive, his teeth grazing her shoulder. — Every inch of that pussy is mine. You’re just visiting.

Zoraida came on Marco’s cock with a scream, her pussy convulsing around him, and Marco came right after, groaning, pumping into her, filling her. But Xavier wasn’t done. He lifted her off Marco like she weighed nothing, laid her back on the couch, and pushed Marco aside gently.

— My turn, — he said. — My daughter. My pussy.

He slid into her — into the wet, used, still-clenching heat of her — and Zoraida cried out at the stretch, at him, at how much bigger he felt, how much deeper he went. He fucked her slow and deep, his eyes locked on hers, one hand around her throat — careful of the fresh ink, possessive over it.

— Look at me, — he commanded. — Look at Daddy while he fucks his birthday girl.

She looked at him, tears running, and he leaned down and sucked her bottom lip piercings into his mouth, tugging gently, then kissed her deep. Marco knelt beside the couch, and Zoraida turned her head and took his cock into her mouth — still hard, still leaking — sucking him while her daddy fucked her, drooling around him, her septum rings glinting.

— Good girl, — Xavier groaned, his thrusts getting harder, deeper. — Taking Daddy’s cock and Marco’s cock at the same time. My filthy perfect birthday girl.

She came again, screaming around Marco’s cock, her pussy milking Xavier, and he pulled out of her at the last second —

— Open, — he ordered, and she opened her mouth wide, Marco’s cock slipping out, and Xavier stroked himself twice and came across her tongue, her lips, her piercings, thick ropes of it, painting her face.

— Swallow, — he said, and she swallowed, every drop, licking her lips clean around the rings.

— Happy birthday, baby girl, — he said softly, kissing her cum-sticky forehead.

Marco dressed quietly, packed his case, and at the door he turned back.

— She’s something else, X, — he said. — Happy birthday, Zoraida.

— Thank you, — she whispered, curled naked on the couch in her collar, glowing. — Thank you for my tattoo.

And then it was just the two of them again. Just daddy and his girl, in the black and purple house, with the whole day still ahead of them.

After Marco left, Xavier carried Zoraida upstairs — carried her, like she was weightless, her arms around his neck, her collar cool against his skin. He didn’t take her to her bedroom. He took her to the dungeon.

The dungeon room was at the back of the house, windowless, lit by purple candles in black holders. It was full of everything — a St. Andrew’s cross against one wall, a spanking bench, a cage in the corner big enough to curl up in, chains hanging from the ceiling beams, a wall of floggers and paddles and crops, ropes coiled neatly, cuffs and collars and gags arranged on black shelves. Everything a BDSM room should have, and then more.

But he walked past all of it, through the connecting door, into his bedroom — and his bedroom was done up too. The four-poster bed was black steel, and above it hung the pulley harness rig: chains, straps, a spreader bar, all of it gleaming in the candlelight. Every single thing, in both rooms. He’d built this for her. He’d been building it for years, waiting.

— Daddy — Zoraida whispered, staring up at the rig, her heart hammering. — Is that for me?

— That’s for my eighteen-year-old sub, — he said, setting her on her feet at the foot of the bed. — Today’s the day, baby girl. No more waiting. Today’s the day Daddy takes his daughter the way he’s been dreaming about since you were old enough to dream about it too.

He stripped her robe the rest of the way off — she’d put it back on for Marco’s exit — and she stood naked in her collar, her fresh throat tattoo wrapped, her body covered in his name, trembling.

— On the bed, — he commanded. — On your back. Arms up.

She obeyed instantly, scrambling onto the black sheets, stretching her arms above her head. He cuffed her wrists to the headboard — soft leather cuffs, snug — and spread her legs wide, cuffing her ankles to the footboard. Spread eagle. Open. His.

He stood at the foot of the bed and just looked at her for a long moment — at the collar, the throat tattoo, the lip rings, the septum hoops, the dermals, the gauged ears full of silver, the belly jewel, the clit bar, OWNED and CLAIMED down her thighs, his name on her pussy, his property written across her ass, his name on her back and down both sides of her neck.

— Look at you, — he said quietly, reverently. — Eighteen years I waited for this. Eighteen years of loving you the only way I was allowed to. And now — now you’re mine every way there is.

— I’m yours, Daddy, — she whispered, pulling gently at the cuffs, her pussy already glistening. — I’ve always been yours. Please, Master — please take me.

He started with his mouth — always with his mouth first, worshipping her. He licked her pussy slow and thorough, sucking her clit, fucking her with his tongue, while his fingers teased her ass, circling, pressing, getting her ready. She moaned and writhed against the cuffs, the chains rattling softly.

— Please, Daddy, please — she begged. — I need you inside me, please —

— Patience, baby girl, — he murmured against her, his breath hot. — Daddy’s going to fill every hole today. Every single one. That’s what please-your-daughter day means.

He uncuffed her ankles, flipped her onto her stomach, and pulled her up onto her knees — ass in the air, his name and PROPERTY on full display. He knelt behind her, ran his tongue from her pussy up over her ass, licking her everywhere, his hands spreading her cheeks wide to show the ink.

— Such a pretty ass, — he growled. — My property. Say it.

— I’m your property, Daddy, — she gasped, pushing back against his tongue. — Your property, Master, all yours —

He lubed his fingers and worked her ass open slowly, gently — one finger, then two, scissoring, stretching, while his other hand reached under her to rub her clit. She moaned into the mattress, drooling, her lip rings clicking against the sheet.

— That’s it, take it, — he coaxed. — Good girl. Daddy’s getting that tight little ass ready.

When she was loose and moaning, he positioned himself behind her, pressed the head of his cock to her ass, and pushed in — slow, relentless, inch by inch. Zoraida screamed into the mattress, her hands fisting the sheets, the cuffs still on her wrists trailing chains.

— Oh god, Daddy, oh god, it’s so big —

— Breathe, baby, — he said, his voice strained, his hands gripping her hips over the OWNED and CLAIMED tattoos. — Breathe and take Daddy’s cock in your ass. You’re doing so good. Such a good girl for Daddy.

He worked himself deeper, and deeper, until he was fully inside her ass, buried to the root. He held still, letting her adjust, rubbing her back, kissing the tramp stamp of his name.

— You okay, baby girl?

— Yes, Master — she sobbed. — Don’t stop, please don’t stop —

He fucked her ass slow and deep, and she came — hard, screaming, her pussy clenching on nothing, squirting onto the black sheets. He kept going, fucking her through it, and she came again, and again, until she was limp and shaking and begging.

— Daddy, please — she whimpered. — Please, I need — I need you in my pussy, please, I need your cum in my pussy, please —

He pulled out of her ass, flipped her onto her back, and uncuffed her wrists. Then he hooked her legs over his shoulders — folding her in half, opening her completely — and drove his cock into her pussy in one deep stroke, going so deep she screamed.

— Yes — he groaned, bottoming out, his balls slapping against her ass. — Yes, that’s where Daddy belongs. So deep in his daughter’s pussy.

He fucked her like that — deep, hard, relentless — her ankles by her ears, her collar tight at her throat, his name fresh in her skin. The bed rocked. The headboard banged the wall. She screamed and sobbed and begged, her nails raking his back, her septum hoops swinging.

— Come in me, Daddy — she screamed. — Please, Master, come in my pussy, I want your cum in me, please put it where it belongs —

— Where does it belong, baby girl? — he growled, pounding into her. — Tell me where Daddy’s cum belongs.

— In me! — she screamed. — In my pussy, Daddy, your cum belongs in your daughter’s pussy, please fill me —

He came with a roar — deep, so deep, his cock buried to the root, pulsing, pumping jet after jet of cum into her, filling her womb, where a father’s cum belongs. She felt every pulse, every throb, felt herself getting full of him, and she came with him, wailing, her pussy milking him dry.

He collapsed on top of her, both of them panting, soaked, shaking. He stayed inside her, keeping his cum in her, his face buried in her neck, breathing her in.

— Happy birthday, baby girl, — he whispered.

— Best birthday ever, Daddy, — she whispered back, her arms around him, her legs still over his shoulders. — I love you. I’m yours. Forever.

— Forever, — he promised, and kissed the fresh tattoo on her throat, right over his name. — My collared girl. My marked girl. My daughter. Mine.

Later, after he’d carried her to the bath and washed her gently — washing around the fresh ink, kissing every piercing, telling her she was beautiful — after he’d dried her and put her in his bed, in his arms, under the black sheets, she fell asleep with her head on his chest, his name in her throat, his collar around her neck, his cum warm inside her.

And Xavier lay awake a while longer, holding his eighteen-year-old daughter, his sub, his girl, and thought about tomorrow. About the next day. About all the days after that, stretching out in front of them — just him and her, in the black and purple house, with the dungeon and the rig and the rest of their lives.

Tomorrow would be the next chapter. But tonight — tonight was hers.