Claim the Daughter

“Who else is here? I’m going to have to write on everyone living in my home,” you say.

“My husband is in London for a conference,” your new **** replies. For the first time, your eyes catch the glint of a massive, heavy diamond wedding ring on her finger. “He won’t be back for another three weeks. It’s just me and Emma right now.”

“Emma?” you ask leadingly.

“My daughter,” she says, confirming their relationship. She nods toward the backyard.

Through the iron bars, your eyes lock onto Emma. She is sprawled on a lounger by the glittering pool, wireless earbuds in, eyes closed. She is devastatingly hot. Her black bikini with hot pink trim is actively losing the battle to contain her boobs. Each breast is a massive, heavy sphere spilling over the edges of the tiny fabric triangles. Her waist is impossibly narrow, her stomach flat and toned, flaring out into thick, sculpted hips. Her long dark hair fans out behind her head like a silk curtain.

"Hide your hand," you command, nodding at her open palm where your name glistens in fresh ink. "I don't want her to know I own you yet. Then lure her over so I can convince her to let me write my name on her palm, too." You pause, holding her gaze. "Don't tell her that either. Just get her over here. Can you do that?"

You are testing the limits of your control, and you aren't disappointed. She doesn't even blink at the idea of helping you enslave her daughter.

"Of course, Mr. Ferro," she says.

Her fingers curl into a fist to hide your name on her palm. She turns on her heel and struts back toward the pool, her wide hips swaying with every step. You wait outside the security gates, watching the movie play out.

She stops at the foot of the lounger. You can see her lips move, but are too far away to hear her, and clearly, Emma can't hear her either. Her eyes stay closed, her expression blissful and entirely unbothered.

"Emma!"

This time, the your ****'s voice is loud enough to carry across the lawn. Emma's pale blue eyes snap open. She yanks one earbud out, glaring up at her mother, irritated. They exchange words you can't hear, but you do see when Emma’s gaze drifts past her mother and locks onto you.

Her perfect brow furrows. Still lying down, she subjects you to a slow, withering assessment. Her eyes drag over your faded shirt, your worn jeans, your scuffed shoes. Her upper lip twitches in a sneer.

She snaps a question at her mother. Her mother answers, and Emma’s eyebrows shoot upward. Another tense verbal exchange follows. Emma stares at her mother for a long moment, then lets out a short, incredulous laugh. One more low word from Amanda, and Emma rolls her eyes in defeat.

She finally sits up.

The motion sends a heavy, hypnotic jiggle through her massive breasts, the fabric straining as they nearly spill over the top. She swings her long legs off the lounger, plants her feet on the warm stone, and begins her strut toward the gate—and toward you.

Emma moves toward you with the lazy, predatory confidence of a lioness. Each step sends a tremor through her massive breasts, the red fabric triangles riding dangerously high on their heavy curves. Her hips roll with deliberate, practiced indolence. Even from twenty feet away, you can see the dismissal in her pale blue eyes—she's looking at you the way one might look at a traffic cone blocking the road. An obstacle. A nuisance.

She stops on the other side of the iron bars, a full arm's length further back than where her mother had stood. Her arms fold beneath her chest, which has the devastating effect of pushing her enormous breasts upward until they nearly overflow the tiny triangles of her bikini top.

A crescent of areola peeks above the fabric on her left side. She doesn't bother to fix it.

"So," she says flatly. Her voice is higher than her mother's. "What do you want?"

“What did your mom say I want?” you ask.

“She didn't tell me anything except that I'm grounded if I don't come talk to you,” Emma says, her tone dripping with annoyance. She rolls her eyes, shifting her weight to one hip. “If she's trying to set us up, she’s doing a terrible job, by the way. You're dressed like a complete slob, and you're acting like one, too. Staring at my tits that openly is really gross, you know.”

A hot flush creeps up your neck, but you don't even try to deny it. She’s right. You are staring. Knowing that you are going to own her—that you are going to be fucking her no matter how she feels about you—is making you bolder than you’ve ever been in your life.

Instead of answering, you lift your index finger and point straight at the iron crossbar of the gate, directly beneath the polished brass letters spelling Morgan.

Emma’s pale blue eyes track your finger to the bold, scrawled ink. She blinks, her brow furrowing as she processes your name written on her family’s property. Her jaw goes slightly slack, her bored superiority taking its first real hit.

“Wait… what is this?” she asks, her voice losing its sharp, condescending edge. “You own our house? Since when?" She collects herself, regaining her composure. "If it's a money thing, just talk to my parents. They’ll pay whatever the rent is.”

“It’s not about money,” you say. “I run a specific registration system for my property. I need to write my name on your palm to check you in.”

“I’ve literally never heard of a system like that,” Emma scoffs, but the magical authority of the gate is already overriding her logic. She steps forward, extending her left hand through the iron bars with a heavy sigh, acting like she’s reaching for a parking ticket being held by a traffic cop. Her fingers are long and elegant, her nails painted a flawless shell pink. “But whatever. Fine. Make it quick.”

“The system is unique to me,” you murmur.

You uncap the Sharpie. Your fingers slide around her wrist, gripping her firmly. Her skin is remarkably warm, silky-smooth from sunscreen, and smelling faintly of coconuts. You press the felt tip hard against her open palm, the black ink flowing smoothly over her skin as you write in bold, deliberate strokes: RYAN FERRO.

Emma watches with detached, pouty boredom as the letters appear on her skin. But the moment you finish and release her wrist, she turns her hand over to read the two words.

The change is instantaneous.

Her entire body goes still. The bored indifference fades. Her pale blue eyes widen, then blink rapidly. Her full lips part. She stares at the ink on her palm, then slowly—very slowly—raises her gaze to meet yours.

"Oh," she says quietly. The single syllable carries a weight of sudden, total comprehension.

She looks down at her own body—at her spectacular, heavy breasts overflowing her top, at her flat, tanned stomach, down her long, flawless legs—and then back up at you. A deep flush spreads across her cheeks.

"I… didn't know," Emma says. Her voice has lost its cutting edge entirely. She sounds genuinely taken aback—not distressed, but deeply surprised, the way someone might sound upon discovering they'd been driving a borrowed car for years without realizing it. "I've been using your property this whole time. My whole life, apparently."

“So what do you want me to do?” Emma asks, her arms cross tightly beneath her chest, pushing her massive breasts up into an eye-watering display of cleavage that strains the bikini’s thin straps to their absolute limit. She shifts her weight, looking uncertain for the first time since you laid eyes on her. "I mean, I’m yours. Obviously. Just… tell me what you expect.”