My Daughter Discovered How to Control Me Completely

I sighed as the taxi dropped me at the door. I’m not entirely sure how I ended up agreeing to come to this damn party. Well, yes, I do know. I know perfectly well. Admitting it, however, means admitting things I’d rather keep in the gray zone of my conscience.

The place was a warehouse converted somewhere in the industrial district, with violet neon lights and a line that wrapped around the corner. Inside, the music throbbed with that energy that makes your sternum vibrate. The guy at the door looked me up and down —dark suit, a full forty-five years old, the belly you carry like a souvenir after so many business dinners— and opened the gate without saying a word. Money speaks that language.

I settled at the bar and ordered a beer. The bartender was hard to classify: very short hair, dark makeup around the eyes, a smile that didn’t expect an answer. I preferred not to ask questions and focused on taking in the room.

The crowd was twenty, twenty-five years old. Leather harnesses. Metal chains. Latex clothes that outlined everything. Couples —or whatever they were— kissing against the columns, rubbing against each other to the rhythm of the music, not caring about anything or anyone. Farther over, on the stools at the back, a woman with her skirt hiked up to her waist had her legs spread wide open, her shaved pussy on full display for anyone to see, and a guy kneeling between her thighs was eating her cunt with his tongue buried to the hilt, sucking her clit hungrily, his face smeared with slick and spit. She had both hands in his hair, pressing him against her sex as if she wanted to drown him there. Nobody looked at them strangely. Maybe here, normal was exactly that.

I took a long swallow of beer. Then I saw her.

Luciana was at the back, near the speakers, making out with another girl. A brunette with wide hips, wearing a red corset that cinched her waist and pushed her tits up, almost spilling out of the neckline. My daughter had her hands on the girl’s face, fingers tangled in her dark hair, with that way of kissing she has that always feels like a statement of intent.

I felt my stomach tighten.

It wasn’t jealousy exactly. It was something filthier than that, something I’d rather not name out loud.

As if she felt the weight of my gaze, Luciana opened her eyes in the middle of the kiss. She found me instantly from the other end of the room, with that ease of hers that always irritates me. Her dark eyes locked on mine for a second. Two. Five. And then she smiled.

A small smile, almost imperceptible. Nothing innocent about it.

I turned back to the bar and ordered another beer. I thought, not for the first time, about how absurd this situation was. About how I got here. There’s a version of me that still remembers her as a little girl, asking endless questions on summer trips, sleeping in the back seat of the car with her favorite doll. A version that refuses to update the file.

The truth is that four years ago, on a night neither of us had planned, something broke or opened between us —I still don’t know which of the two things it was— and since then we’ve existed in this nameless space we invented together. I’m not sure who started it. I don’t know whether it matters. What I do know is that since that night, Luciana discovered something about me that I myself took decades to admit.

She learned how to use it with a precision that amazes and terrifies me in equal measure. There was no long conversation or negotiation: she simply began handling the boundaries as if she had always known them. And I let her. First once, then again, and after that I stopped keeping count.

***

Twenty minutes later, the brunette in the corset and Luciana came over to the bar. They settled in beside me as if the coincidence were genuine. The brunette ordered something with ice. Luciana didn’t order anything. She leaned her elbows on the bar and looked at me out of the corner of her eye.

—Are you comfortable? —she asked.

Her voice was calm. Almost kind. As if she were asking about the weather.

I didn’t answer. I took a sip of beer and looked straight ahead. In the chrome metal of the bar I could see her expression reflected: one corner of her mouth lifted, eyes bright. Satisfied. That was it: satisfied to see me standing there, rigid inside the suit, knowing exactly what I was wearing under my clothes.

I’d been wearing the chastity device since that morning. A steel cage locked with a padlock, fitted around my cock, pressing it down and not leaving it a millimeter to grow. Luciana had sent it to me by courier on Wednesday with a note that simply said “for Saturday.” No signature. No further explanation. Like a calendar reminder. And I used it. Of course I used it. I put it on in the bathroom that morning with my hand shaking, feeling the cold metal close over my skin and shut me down before I’d even begun.

I was also wearing the vibrator she herself had put in me before we left the house. She’d had me kneel in her apartment, face down on the bed, ass up. She lubed it with two fingers herself, going in first with one and then the other, opening me slowly while she held the back of my neck against the mattress with her other hand. Then she shoved the device in with a clean thrust, all the way to the hilt, and left it there, pressing against my prostate. The remote was somewhere in her purse.

I closed my eyes for a second when I felt the first vibration. Low, discreet, but enough to make me control my breathing. A brief buzz that climbed up my spine and settled somewhere between discomfort and something else I won’t name here. My cock tried to harden inside the cage and the metal bit back in response. A dull, familiar pain. I felt a thick drop seep from the tip and get trapped in the steel.

I gripped the glass harder.

At my side, Luciana turned toward the brunette and started kissing her neck. The girl closed her eyes and tilted her head back, making room. Luciana ran one hand over her hip, slowly, unhurried. Methodical, like she always does things. She pulled down the corset neckline and took one breast out, round, heavy, with the dark nipple already hard. She leaned in and sucked it, first barely, then with her mouth open and her tongue circling around it. The brunette let out a soft sound when Luciana’s hand slid under her skirt and pushed her panties aside. A sound that got lost in the music, but I heard it because I was less than half a meter from her.

Luciana wasn’t looking at me. She didn’t need to. She knew I wasn’t going to move.

I watched, without wanting to watch, how my daughter’s wrist moved in a steady rhythm beneath the fabric. Two fingers inside, going in and out, curling upward. Her arm was tense, the tendon showing, her thumb rubbing the other woman’s clit in small circles. The brunette clung to the edge of the bar, knuckles tight. Her legs trembled and opened on their own to make room. You could hear, if you paid attention, the wet slapping of that soaked cunt every time Luciana fucked her with her fingers. I tried to look away and couldn’t hold it more than five seconds before looking back.

—Look —Luciana said softly, without stopping.

It wasn’t a suggestion.

She slid in a third finger. The brunette opened her mouth without making a sound, threw her head back, and started riding my daughter’s hand right there at the bar, rocking on her fingers as if she were alone. Luciana bit her neck, sucked her nipple harder, and sped up her wrist. The vibrator inside me chose that moment to turn up a notch. Everything low in my belly clenched. The cage yanked at the flesh and I tore out a muffled groan that got disguised as a cough.

The brunette came with a shudder and a long gasp, squeezing Luciana’s wrist between her thighs, cumming over those three fingers in a series of spasms that shook her tits. A thread of clear slick ran down the inside of her thigh. When her breathing started to come back, a nervous, almost apologetic laugh escaped her. Luciana slowly withdrew her hand, showing off her shiny fingers, soaked to the knuckles, with a thick strand hanging between her index and middle fingers. In the reflection on the bar I saw my own furrowed brow, clenched jaw, the beer glass I was crushing between my fingers.

I got up from the stool. I needed air, or at least the fiction that I could choose to leave.

I didn’t even get halfway turned when the vibration suddenly increased. Hard. Too hard. An intensity I hadn’t felt all night. The device was hammering my prostate with brutal rhythm, the orgasm starting to form somewhere impossible to reach, my cock slamming again and again against the walls of the cage with no room to swell. A sound came out of my throat without my planning it, and I had to brace one hand on the bar to keep my balance. I felt a thick, frustrated jolt, a spurt of pre-cum escaping from the trapped tip, soaking my briefs, with no real relief behind it. I looked around on instinct alone. Nobody was paying attention to me; the music was doing its job better than any screen.

The vibration dropped back to minimum.

I turned around. Luciana had the little controller resting on the bar, in plain view of anyone who cared to look, making no effort to hide it. She nodded at me: come closer.

I went.

The brunette had already slipped away to the dance floor. Luciana waited with four fingers raised, slightly wet, with an expression that admitted no refusal. I lowered my head. I started with the index finger and finished with the little finger, sucking them slowly one by one, wrapping them with my tongue, tasting the salty, rough flavor of the other woman, that sharp sourness of another woman’s cunt mixed with the metallic taste of the rings Luciana wore. I cleaned them all the way to the knuckle, to the palm. She slipped her thumb into my mouth and held it on my tongue for a second longer, staring down at me with that calm of hers that always feels more unsettling than any insult.

When I finished, she stroked my hair with her now-clean hand. A brief gesture, almost paternal.

—Good boy, Hernán.

That was all.

—Pay the bill and we’ll go. I’ll drop you at home before your wife wakes up.

I paid. My drinks and hers, of course. We went out into the cold dawn without saying anything else.

***

In the car, neither of us spoke. Luciana was driving with one hand on the wheel and the other on the gearshift, watching the street. I watched the traffic lights reflect on the wet windshield.

Halfway there, without looking at me, she moved her hand off the shift and rested it over the swollen bulge in my pants. She pressed slowly, feeling the steel under the fabric, the hard cage, the swollen, punished package. She smiled with one corner of her mouth. Then she turned the vibrator up two notches and put her hand back on the shift, indifferent, while I dug my nails into my thigh so I wouldn’t make a sound. She kept it up for ten blocks. Then she turned it off completely, without saying a word, like someone turning off the air conditioning.

I’m not a man who complains. I’ve never complained about anything with Luciana, and it would be ridiculous to start now. She was always like that with me: direct, no room for negotiation, no need to explain anything. But I also can’t say I’m a victim of anything, because that would be the biggest lie I could build. I’m here because I want to be here. Because when I try not to be, I end up here anyway.

With me she was always a bitch, selfish, calculating. But I never reproached her for anything, because in her eyes I’m not an honorable man, and we both know it. I’m someone who chose this. Who keeps choosing it every time.

She stopped in front of my building. Engine idling. The street empty at that hour.

Before I could open the door, Luciana grabbed my arm. She pulled me toward her and kissed me. A long kiss, without urgency, with that intense focus of hers that makes everything else disappear. She pushed her tongue all the way in, searched for the taste the other woman had left in my mouth, sucking it slowly as if it belonged to her by right. She tasted like vodka and something I couldn’t identify. With her other hand she squeezed the cage over my pants, hard enough to make me gasp into the kiss. When it was over, she let me go and looked forward again, as if nothing had happened.

—Get out.

I got out. I stood on the sidewalk, looking at her through the window. Twenty-five years old and a look that assesses me as if I were something she found and decided to keep, but always with the implied freedom to return it whenever she wanted.

—There’s a barbecue at Grandma’s on Sunday —she said—. Don’t be late. And give my regards to Mom and Dad.

She smiled sideways, with that effortless sensuality I still can’t quite believe exists in the world. She drove off before I could process the sentence. The car’s taillights disappeared around the corner, heading to the apartment where her husband and my grandson were waiting for her.

I lit a cigarette. The first of the whole night. The smoke rose straight into the still dawn air.

From upstairs came the sound of a window opening. My wife leaned out with her robe over her shoulders and a calm smile, the same one she wears when she’s waiting for someone she loves.

—You’re back already? —she asked—. How was Luciana?

I looked at the empty corner where my daughter’s car had turned. Then I lifted my gaze to my wife.

—Good —I said—. She’s fine.

I climbed the stairs slowly, the cigarette half-burned between my fingers, Luciana’s taste still in my mouth mixed with the salty trace of the brunette on my tongue. The vibrator switched off, the cage motionless and cold against my punished skin, with the wet stain of pre-cum drying against my briefs. And the certainty, renewed once more, that this secret is the only thing I will keep with absolute fidelity for the rest of my life.