Teaser:Victoria Blackwood thought she had it all — a wealthy husband, a luxurious estate, and a life of comfort. But when her stepdaughter Leslie arrives home for winter break, their fragile truce shatters. What begins as a tense confrontation spirals into a nightmare for at least one of them...
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The author of this story has read and accepted the rules for posting stories. They guarantee that the following story depicts none of the themes listed in the Forbidden Content section of the rules.
The following story is a work of fiction meant for entertainment purposes only. It depicts nonconsensual sexual acts between adults. It is in no way meant to be understood as an endorsement of nonconsensual sex in real life. Any similarities of the characters in the story to real people are purely coincidental.
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Title: Trophy Life Add title of the story here
Author: John Drake Add author of the story here
Chapter Tags: Lesbian, Incest, Domination, Brat Taming, Sadism, Oral sex
Content Warnings: Rape, Incest, Minor Homophobia
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Thank you for reading! I appreciate any feedback you may have. If you are interested in more stories by me, all of my work is available on my website with pictures at my website.
I take commissions!
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Trophy Life
Victoria sat on the edge of the bed, letting her silk robe slip strategically off one shoulder as she watched Richard pace. The dim evening light filtered through the curtains, casting long shadows across the Blackwood Estate master bedroom. Her husband looked like he might wear a hole in the floor as she walked back and forth in front of the window with Los Angeles laid out beneath him. His worry was a tangible thing, filling the room like expensive cologne.
And just like his cologne, she found it both irritating and useful.
"I can’t get out of this business trip," Richard said, his deep voice filling the bedroom. His fingers worked at his collar, loosening his tie as if it might help release the tension in his jaw. "It’s only for a week, but… Leslie's coming home for winter break tomorrow. I don’t like the idea of leaving you two alone."
Tori watched him from beneath lowered lashes. Richard Blackwood, the commanding presence that dominated boardrooms and courtrooms alike, reduced to nervous pacing over the prospect of his daughter and wife sharing space without his buffer. It was almost amusing. It would have been if daddy's precious little girl with her Columbia law school and her perfect grades and her perpetually judgmental stare wasn’t such a pain. The bitch had been a thorn in Tori's side from the moment she'd married Richard.
"It's been almost a year," Tori reminded him, her voice a perfect blend of patience and slight hurt. She'd practiced this tone for days before they'd married, finding just the right note that made Richard's protective instincts flare while avoiding any hint that she was complaining.
"Maybe I can reschedule the meetings," Richard continued, running a hand through his silver hair. It caught the light when he moved, expensive and distinguished like everything else about him. "Terrence can handle the preliminary negotiations. Then I can-"
Tori uncrossed her legs slowly, letting the silk whisper against her skin. Richard's eyes followed the movement, his pacing momentarily forgotten. She'd picked the champagne-colored robe specifically for evenings like this – it made her look both innocent and fuckable, a combination Richard had never been able to resist.
"It'll be fine," she purred, her feet sinking into the plush carpet as she stood. The cool air kissed her skin where the robe parted, revealing a flash of thigh that she knew would draw his attention. "Maybe it's a chance for us to bond."
The words tasted like vinegar on her tongue. Bond with Leslie? She'd rather drink bleach… but Richard needed to believe that fantasy. That someday his trophy wife and his perfect daughter might someday braid each other's hair and share secrets over wine.
Richard's expression softened, the worry lines around his eyes crinkling into something that resembled relief. Tori congratulated herself silently. She’d spent the whole time she’d known him, before and after she’d got her hooks in, learning exactly how to play him – when to push, when to yield, when to stroke his ego and when to stroke... other things.
"You're always so understanding," he said, crossing to her in three long strides. His hands settled on her hips, warm and possessive through the thin silk. "That's what I love about you."
He probably thought that was true. Tori was under no illusions. What he loved was having a beautiful young wife who made other men jealous at corporate functions. What is loved was being with someone who made him feel powerful again after the slow, painful decline and loss of his first wife. What he loved was having constant access to a tight pussy that made him forget he was pushing sixty. Understanding had nothing to do with it.
"I just want you to be happy," she whispered, placing a hand on his chest. She could feel his heart quicken beneath her fingertips, his body responding to her proximity like it was programmed. She traced the buttons of his shirt, watching his pupils dilate. "Don't worry about Leslie and me."
Richard sighed, pulling her closer, his hands sliding from her hips to grip her ass. The pressure of his fingers, the slight edge of desperation in his touch – she recognized the signs. He needed reassurance that she wasn't just with him for his money, that there was something real between them. Poor, predictable Richard.
He kissed her deeply, his mouth tasting of the expensive scotch he'd been nursing earlier. Tori allowed herself to melt into him, returning the kiss with practiced enthusiasm. She felt his member harden against her through his tailored slacks, pressing insistently against her stomach.
"I don't deserve you," he murmured against her lips.
No, you don't, she thought. The truth was that Richard really was a very decent man. He did deserve someone who actually loved him… but she kept that particular truth behind her teeth because he didn’t deserve that more than she deserved her happiness and comfort, and he’d never know the difference. Instead of thinking about it, she worked her hand between their bodies to cup his erection through his pants.
"Don't worry," she whispered, stroking him through the fabric. "I can handle Leslie."
Richard groaned, his breath catching as her fingers squeezed him with just the right pressure. "She can be difficult," he warned, even as his hips pushed into her hand. "She's protective of me."
Protective. That was one way to describe it. Territorial and hostile were the words Tori would have chosen. What Tori wanted was for Leslie to stay out of her way, to stop looking at her like she was something scraped off the bottom of an expensive shoe. But more importantly, she needed Richard to believe that she was trying.
"We're both women who love you," Tori said, the lie slipping out smooth as butter. Her fingers found his zipper, pulling it down with deft precision. "We have that in common, at least."
Richard's eyes fluttered closed as she reached inside his pants, her hand wrapping around his bare cock. His vulnerability in these moments never failed to amaze her – how quickly this powerful man, this shark of corporate law, turned to putty in her hands.
"God, Tori," he gasped.
She stroked him slowly, her thumb circling the head of his cock, gathering the moisture there. "I want you to focus on your work," she told him, her voice a breathy whisper that suggested she could barely control herself. "You’ll be back home soon. Leslie and I will… take some time and figure things out."
Richard pushed her robe from her shoulders, letting it pool around her feet. His gaze traveled hungrily over her naked body, the body she spent hours maintaining – yoga, waxing, creams, and skin treatments that together cost more than a months rent where she used to live. His expression as he looked at her was worth every painful minute.
"You're so beautiful," he said, palming her breast. His wedding ring, cold against her skin, was a reminder of what she'd achieved. Mrs. Victoria Blackwood. The name still gave her a thrill.
She guided him back toward the bed, their bodies tangled together. As she sank down onto Richard's penis, she watched his face contort with pleasure. "See?" she said, rolling her hips against him. "Everything's going to be just fine."
Later, with Richard snoring beside her, Tori stared at the ceiling. The sex had been perfunctory – it always was with Richard. He was attentive enough, but predictable, his desires as structured as his legal briefs. She didn't mind. Sex was just another transaction, another way to secure her position.
She thought about Leslie coming home, about Richard leaving them alone together. The beautiful young woman wasn't like her father – she couldn't be charmed or seduced or manipulated with a flash of skin and a well-timed compliment. Leslie saw through her in a way that was infuriating and slightly dangerous…
But Tori hadn't come this far to be intimidated by some bitch with daddy issues. She'd handled worse challenges in her climb from middle-class mediocrity to this – a mansion overlooking Los Angeles, a wealthy husband, and a prenup with enough loopholes to drive her Ferrari through.
She turned onto her side, watching Richard's chest rise and fall. One week alone with Leslie. How bad could it be?
"Don't worry," she whispered again, though this time the reassurance was for herself. "I can handle Leslie."
———————
Morning light sliced through the foyer's tall windows, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air like tiny, frantic witnesses. Tori stood beside Richard in the entryway, her hand resting on his arm in a gesture of wifely possession. She'd chosen her outfit carefully — a cashmere sweater in soft pink that made her look younger, more innocent, paired with fitted jeans that highlighted her figure without seeming too sexual. The perfect stepmother costume for Leslie's arrival. Richard checked his watch for the third time in five minutes, his eagerness to see his daughter so transparent it made Tori's teeth ache.
"She should be here any minute," Richard said, his voice warm with anticipation. "The car service texted that they picked her up from the airport on schedule."
Tori nodded, her smile fixed in place. She'd spent an hour on her makeup that morning, creating a look that appeared effortless and natural. Leslie would be scrutinizing her, looking for cracks in the facade, and Tori refused to give her the satisfaction.
"I can't wait to see her," she lied, squeezing Richard's arm. "It’s been since the wedding.”
"That’s right…" Richard muttered, his attention distracted by the sound of tires on gravel outside. His whole body seemed to straighten, years falling away from his face as he moved toward the door. Tori hung back slightly, watching as Richard threw open the heavy oak door before Leslie could even ring the bell. Cool morning air rushed in, carrying with it the scent of tobacco and expensive leather.
And there she was.
Leslie Blackwood stood in the doorway like she was doing the house a favor by entering it. A cigarette dangled from her lips, the smoke curling around her face in lazy tendrils. She wore black from head to toe – leather pants that hugged her long legs, a fitted blazer over a tank top that revealed toned arms, and motorcycle boots that added another inch to her already considerable height. Her dark blonde hair was slicked back on the sides but falling in a severe cut that framed her sharp cheekbones and piercing eyes. Those eyes – Richard's eyes – flicked over Tori with undisguised disdain before settling on her father.
"Welcome home, sweetheart," Richard said, stepping forward with his arms outstretched.
"Hey, Daddy," Leslie said, her voice a low, controlled contralto that carried easily across the foyer. She made no move to remove the cigarette, instead taking another deep drag that made the tip glow bright orange.
Tori's nose wrinkled in disgust at the cigarette. The smell would cling to the curtains, the furniture, her hair. "Richard the smoke," she blurted out, the words escaping before she could filter them through her usual honey-coated pretense. "This isn't a bar."
Leslie's eyes shifted back to Tori, one eyebrow arching in cool amusement. She held Tori's gaze as she deliberately took another long drag, exhaling the smoke. Then, with exaggerated slowness, she removed the cigarette from her lips and crushed it under the heel of her boot, grinding it into the expensive floor of the front step.
"Sorry, Mom," Leslie said, the word dripping with sarcasm. "Didn't realize it bothered you.”
Tori felt her cheeks flush with anger. The insolence, the deliberate disrespect—
Richard, however, didn't notice the tension crackling between the women. He stepped forward, embracing his daughter with an enthusiasm that made Tori's stomach twist. Leslie's arms wrapped around her father, her expression softening for the first time since she'd arrived. Richard kissed Leslie's forehead, his hands gripping her shoulders as he pulled back to look at her.
"Let me look at you," he said proudly. "Columbia's treating you well? Top of your class still?"
Leslie's mouth curved into a genuine smile, so different from the sneering expression she'd directed at Tori moments earlier. "Always, Dad. Professor Kline said my brief on transgender discrimination in healthcare was the best she'd seen in ten years teaching."
Richard beamed, his pride so naked and unrestrained that Tori felt a stab of something ugly. He'd given her all kinds of looks since marrying her but he had never once looked at her like that. He loved that girl. "That's my girl," Richard said.
The transformation in Leslie's face was subtle but unmistakable. The hard line of her mouth softened as she wrapped her arms around him, her height allowing her to rest her chin on his shoulder. "Missed you, Dad," she murmured, the words clearly meant for him alone, though Tori caught them anyway.
Richard finally backed up. "She’s going to make one hell of a lawyer, isn’t she?" he said, darting his gaze back to his wife.
"Incredible," Tori agreed, her smile stretched thin across her face. She stepped forward, not extending her arms for a hug she knew would be rejected… it would just make her look weak "It's so good to have you home, Leslie."
Leslie stiffened, subtly shifting away from Tori. Her eyes, cold as a winter lake, assessed her stepmother. "Hey Victoria," she acknowledged, her tone clipped and formal.
Richard, oblivious to the arctic chill between them, glanced at his watch and sighed. "I hate to do this, but I need to get going if I'm going to make my flight."
The regret in his voice was genuine, and Leslie squeezed his shoulder. "It's fine, Dad. Go make another million. I'll still be here for the rest of break when you get back."
He turned to Tori then, giving her a kiss on the lips that she couldn’t help but feel was perfunctory after the warmth he'd shown Leslie. "I'll be back in a week," he said, his hand lingering on her waist. "Call me if you need anything."
Tori leaned into him, deliberately pressing her breasts against his chest. "We'll be fine," she assured him, her voice pitched slightly higher, slightly breathier than normal. She was aware of Leslie watching the display with thinly veiled contempt. "Have a safe trip."
She walked Richard to the door, maintaining the fiction of the devoted wife sending her husband off to work. He kissed her again at the threshold, this time more deeply. "I'll be back before you know it," Richard promised, his eyes lingering on Tori for a moment before he stepped outside.
The heavy oak door closed behind him with a finality that seemed to echo through the foyer. Tori could hear the crunch of gravel as the car pulled away, taking Richard — and the thin veneer of civility between her and Leslie—with it.
She turned, composing her features into a smile of maternal warmth. Leslie had moved into the foyer properly now, her tall frame dominating the space. "Welcome home," she said sweetly. "It was a long trip. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Breakfast? You must be tired after your flight."
Leslie's lips curled into something too sharp to be called a smile. "You're not. My fucking mom," she spat coldly, the words landing like acid on Tori's carefully constructed manners. "So cut the Stepford wife bullshit."
The suddenness of the attack, the raw hostility in Leslie's voice, made Tori narrow her eyes for a moment. She recovered quickly, her own smile never faltering though it no longer reached her eyes. "I'm just trying to be hospitable," she said, her voice cooler now. "This is my home too, you know."
Leslie laughed, the sound sharp and devoid of humor. "This was never your home. This is where you fuck my father for his money. Don't confuse the two."
Before Tori could respond, Leslie grabbed her suitcase and headed for the grand staircase, her boots echoing on the marble with each deliberate step. Tori watched her go, fury building in her chest as Leslie's tall figure ascended toward the upper floor where her childhood bedroom was kept exactly as she'd left it for college – another reminder of her permanent place in the house and in Richard's heart.
The bedroom door slammed somewhere overhead, the sound reverberating through the house like a gunshot. Outside, the fading sound of Richard's car engine disappeared completely, leaving Tori standing alone in the vast foyer. Less than two years ago she had been showing properties to men like Richard; now she was married to one, mistress of an estate that made those properties look like starter homes.
One week. Seven days alone with a woman who despised her. Tori smoothed her sweater, taking a deep breath. She was going to have to deal with that… handle Leslie, make her less of a threat. She’d done it before with other hostile people – competing real estate agents, jealous friends, suspicious wives. Leslie was just another obstacle to navigate.
Yet as she stood in the quiet aftermath of Leslie's departure, Tori felt a little uncomfortable in her domain. For the first time since she'd set foot in the Blackwood Estate, Tori felt like an intruder.
———————
The day crawled by in tense silence, each woman avoiding the other in the sprawling mansion that suddenly felt too small. Tori had retreated to the master suite, making calls and pretending her stepdaughter didn't exist, while Leslie remained sequestered in her room. Night had fallen outside, turning the floor-to-ceiling windows into black mirrors that reflected the interior of the Blackwood Estate rather than the city lights beyond. As shadows spread across her house like spilled ink, the restless woman found herself prowling the hallways, restless and irritated.
The click of her shoes against the hardwood echoed like gunshots in the empty corridors, and when she heard the distinctive crack of billiard balls from the lounge, her steps faltered. A soft glow spilled from beneath the lounge door, accompanied by the faint click of pool balls colliding. Tori paused, her hand hesitating on the polished brass doorknob.
She hesitated at the threshold of the room, momentarily content to observe unseen. The lounge was all dark wood and leather, masculine in a way that spoke of old money and quiet power. Dim light from brass sconces cast long shadows across the room, the crystal chandelier above the pool table illuminating only what lay directly beneath it. The air hung heavy with cigarette smoke that coiled lazily toward the ceiling.
Leslie stood at the far end of the pool table, cue in hand, another cigarette dangling from her lips. She'd changed from her earlier outfit into black jeans that hung low on her hips and a white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms corded with lean muscle. Her hair was damp, as if she'd recently showered, and pushed back from her face in a way that emphasized the sharp angles of her cheekbones. She didn't look up when Tori entered, her focus entirely on the pool ball she was lining up.
The sight of the pool table made Tori's skin crawl — it reminded her of seedy bars and cheap men who thought buying her a drink entitled them to a feel. Men she'd had to endure before she'd learned to aim higher, to recognize that her body and face were assets that deserved better returns than watered-down cocktails and fumbling hands in parking lots. The Blackwood Estate's billiards room, with its hand-carved mahogany and Italian slate, was worlds away from those establishments, but the associations clung to her like cheap perfume.
"This isn’t a bar, Leslie,” she demanded sharply, letting the door close behind her with a deliberate click. “No smoking in the house."
Leslie's eyes flicked up, taking in Tori's silk pajamas and robe — chosen to be both modest and suggestive, the kind of thing a tasteful wife might wear around her stepdaughter. Leslie's gaze held none of the appreciation Tori was accustomed to receiving; instead, it dissected her with clinical indifference before returning to the pool table.
The cue struck the white ball with precise force, sending it into a perfect break that scattered the colored balls across the green felt. Two striped balls dropped into corner pockets with satisfying thuds.
"Didn't realize you were the fucking smoke detector," Leslie said, straightening to her full height. She took a long drag from the cigarette, holding the smoke in her lungs for a long moment before she exhaled with exaggerated slowness, the smoke rising toward the chandelier in a defiant plume. “Maybe I should have. You’re as annoying as one with a low battery. Stripes," she added, circling the table to line up her next shot.
Tori's hands clenched at her sides, manicured nails digging into her palms. "It's bad for the furnishings," she said, her voice tight with restrained anger. "It makes a mess on the ceiling. And it smells."
Leslie regarded her silently for a moment, smoke escaping from her nostrils in twin streams that made her look almost draconic in the low light. With exaggerated slowness, she moved to the edge of the pool table and stubbed out the cigarette on the ashtray she'd apparently brought with her.
"Sorry," Leslie said, not sounding sorry at all as she leaned across the table to shoot. Her leather pants stretched over her ass as she bent down, the material creaking slightly with the movement. The cue slid smoothly between her fingers, striking another ball that rolled neatly into a side pocket. "I keep forgetting this isn't my house anymore." Her voice was low and filled with annoyance. "Oh, wait. It is. You’re just visiting.”
"I’m your father’s wife," Tori said, her own annoyance filling her tone. "Whether you like it or not, this is my home now too."
Leslie straightened, abandoning her next shot to stare at Tori with open contempt. "You're my father’s midlife crisis with tits," she said flatly. "Don't mistake a legal document for belonging."
Fury flashed through Tori, hot and sharp. She'd endured plenty of snide comments about her age difference with Richard, but always behind closed doors, in whispers at parties that stopped when she approached. Never so baldly stated to her face.
"You don't know anything about our relationship," she snapped, stepping closer to Leslie. "Your father loves me."
"My father is lonely and likes fucking you," Leslie corrected, taking another drag from her cigarette. She chalked her cue with deliberate motions, eyes never leaving Tori's. "How old are you again? Thirty-five? Thirty-six?"
"Thirty-two," Tori corrected automatically, then cursed herself for the defensive response.
"Right," Leslie nodded. "And dad's what, fifty-eight now? That's quite the age gap. Almost as big as the gap between your bank accounts before you married him."
Tori's fingers dug into the soft flesh of her upper arms as she struggled to maintain her composure. "Your father and I love each other," she snapped. Who did this little bitch think she was? "Age is just a number."
"So is net worth," Leslie countered, moving around the table to line up another shot. "But I bet you know his down to the penny, don't you?"
"You're just jealous," Tori said, the words childish even to her own ears. "Afraid someone else might take daddy's attention away from his precious little girl."
Something dangerous flashed in Leslie's eyes, a cold fury that transformed her face from merely hostile to truly threatening. She stalked around the table toward Tori, her movements deliberate and predatory.
"Let's get something straight," Leslie said, her voice dropping to a low, steady tone that was somehow more frightening than any shouting. "I'm not jealous of you. I pity you. You're so fucking transparent that it's almost sad. The wide-eyed innocent act might work on a man his age, desperate to feel young again, but nobody else is buying it."
"You little bitch," Tori hissed, cradling her burned hand. "You don't talk to me like that in my own home."
Leslie's expression shifted, something dangerous flickering in her eyes. "Your home?" she repeated, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "My mother chose every piece of furniture in this room. She laid the first fire in that hearth. She's the one who picked out that hideous chandelier because she thought it looked like stars. And now she's dead, and you're sleeping in her bed.”
"I'm sorry about your mother," Tori managed, meaning it despite herself. "But Richard has moved on. Maybe you should too."
It was the wrong thing to say. Leslie's face hardened, all pretense of civility vanishing like smoke in a strong wind. "You don't get to make rules here. You don't get to tell me what to do in the house where I learned to walk." Leslie's free hand moved to the table beside Tori, fingertips tracing a series of small scratches in the wood. "See these marks? Dad and I made them when I was learning to play. I was ten, too small to reach across the table properly. He'd lift me up so I could take shots." Her voice softened at the memory before hardening again Then she turned and started walking away. "This table has history. This house has history. You're just... passing through."
She slammed the door as she left, leaving Tori fuming. That little bitch… Tori was going to get her. Leslie wasn’t going to be a problem anymore after this week, she was going to make sure of that…
———————
Morning light flooded the kitchen, reflecting off stainless steel appliances and illuminating a landscape of culinary devastation. Tori stood in the doorway, her silk robe clutched at her throat, surveying the disaster zone that had once been her immaculate kitchen. Pots and pans littered every surface, some still containing the congealed remains of whatever Leslie had cooked. Coffee grounds dusted the marble countertop like volcanic ash, and a sticky puddle of what looked like maple syrup spread across the island. The dishwasher stood open, empty, mocking her with its pristine interior while dirty dishes towered precariously in the sink.
In the center of the wreckage sat Leslie, perched on a barstool at the island, scrolling through her phone with casual indifference. She wore a faded Columbia Law t-shirt that had been cut off to expose her midriff and a pair of black shorts. Her legs, long and toned, were propped up on another stool, bare feet crossed at the ankles. A half-eaten plate of eggs and bacon sat beside her, along with a mug of coffee that had left a ring on the marble.
Tori's hands clenched at her sides, the bandaged one protesting with a sharp stab of pain. The housekeeper had spent two hours in here just yesterday, and everything had been perfect. Now it looked like a commercial kitchen in the middle of a Valentine’s day rush. "What the hell is this?" Tori demanded, stepping into the kitchen. She'd dressed carefully that morning—linen pants and a silk blouse, casual but expensive, her hair and makeup flawless despite a night of fitful sleep. Looking put-together felt like her only remaining armor.
Leslie took a deliberately slow sip of her coffee. "Breakfast," she said simply, gesturing with her free hand to a single empty plate in front of her. "Want some? Oh wait—" Her eyes widened in mock concern. "I ate it all. Sorry."
"And you couldn't clean up after yourself?" Tori asked, her voice tight with restrained fury.
Leslie tilted her head, studying Tori with the same clinical detachment she'd shown the night before. "I could have," she acknowledged, taking a sip of her coffee. "But then the help wouldn’t have anything to do.”
“The housekeeper isn’t back until tomorrow!” Tori protested."
“Funny. I see a housekeeper right there. Since my dad isn’t here, I suppose he doesn’t need you for what he’s been paying you for. I figured you could use a new way to contribute.”
The deliberate cruelty of the statement, the casual way Leslie dismissed her existence, sent a wave of heat through Tori's body. She'd dealt with passive-aggressive behavior before—catty remarks from jealous women, subtle digs from Richard's colleagues' wives — but Leslie's open hostility was different. It was an open declaration of war… and Tori didn’t lose wars like this. "Clean it up," Tori said, the words emerging harder than she intended. "Now."
Leslie's eyebrows rose, genuine surprise flickering across her face before being replaced by something colder. "Excuse me?"
“I am done being disrespected by you,” Tori snarled, emboldened by Leslie's momentary surprise. "This is my house too, and I won't have it looking like a frat house because you want to make some childish point."
Leslie barked out a laugh, the sound sharp and startling in the sunlit kitchen. "Respect is earned," she said, setting down her mug with a deliberate thunk. "And what exactly have you done to earn it, Victoria? Besides fucking my father?"
"I'm his wife," Tori snapped, dropping the pretense of calm. "Not that you seem capable of understanding what that means."
"Wife," Leslie repeated, the word dripping with disdain. She swung her legs off the stool and stood, stretching languidly like a cat. The movement exposed more of her flat stomach, a flash of hip bone above the waistband of her boxers. "You're number two, mom. The sequel. Never as good as the original."
Tori slammed the dishcloth down on the counter. "You don't know anything about our relationship."
"I know more than enough," Leslie said, her voice suddenly serious, all mockery gone. She leaned against the island, arms folded across her chest. "I know about Jeffrey Porter. And Michael Dawson. And Representative Coleman."
Ice flooded Tori's veins. Those names — men she'd dated before Richard, wealthy men who had provided apartments, jewelry, weekend trips on private jets. Nothing illegal, nothing explicit, but a pattern that someone like Leslie could easily frame in the ugliest possible light. How had she put them all together? "Doing your homework?" Tori asked, struggling to keep her voice neutral. "I'm flattered by the attention."
Leslie's smile was cold. "Dad may be blinded by your tits and what I assume is spectacular head, but I'm not… and turns out, part of being a lawyer is building relationships with personal investigators. I’ve had a few crawling all over me since I was a first year, and your history is plain to see once someone looks. You've been climbing the social ladder one dick at a time for years. My father is just the latest rung. Bitch, the only difference between you and a prostitute is marketing."
Rage surged through Tori, hot and clarifying. “Funny you should mention PIs,” she said coldly, her voice dropping in a low, furious register. “They might like cultivating long-standing relationships with lawyers, but do you know what they like even more? Money.” Her smile was cruel. "What would your father say," Tori asked, her voice silky with newfound confidence, "if he knew about your girlfriend?"
Leslie froze, her expression flickering for just a moment — a crack in her armor that Tori seized upon. "Oh yes," Tori continued, stepping closer now, emboldened by Leslie's momentary uncertainty. "I know all about her. The one you’ve been keeping a secret from daddy.”
“You think my dad would care?” Leslie said, her voice flat and stunned.
“Probably not,” Tori said, smiling. “There’s more than one reason you haven’t told him. I wonder how all of your fathers friends and rich clients would react to finding out his dyke daughter has been fucking her professor for her grades?”
The slur fell from her lips with deliberate cruelty, a calculated strike at Leslie's vulnerability. Leslie's jaw tightened, a muscle working in her cheek. For the first time since her arrival, she seemed genuinely rattled. "You don't know what you're talking about," she said, but the confidence was gone from her voice.
Tori pressed her advantage, circling Leslie like a shark that had scented blood. "Yes, you do,” she said, feeling victorious. “You and professor Kline. No wonder you’re the top student in your class. You two thought you were being discrete, didn’t you? I wonder what Richard will think of his perfect daughter after he and all his friends learn she’s lezzing out for grades."
Leslie rose slowly from her chair, eyes darkened, pupils dilating with fear. "Are you threatening me?" she asked, her voice so quiet Tori had to strain to hear it.
"Not at all," Tori replied loftily, enjoying the way that the balance of power had shifted in her favor. "Just making an observation. We all have secrets, Leslie. If you want to keep yours, I suggest you reconsider your attitude toward me." She gestured at the mess surrounding them. "Starting with cleaning up this kitchen, and see if you can learn some manners while you're at it." She turned to leave, believing she'd won the exchange, that she'd finally found the leverage she needed to keep Leslie in line and start the process of turning her into the obedient, well-behaved daughter. “And the next time I hear anything from you it had better b-”
She never finished the sentence. One moment she was turning away, the next she was slammed against the wall, the impact driving the air from her lungs in a startled gasp. Her world tilted sideways as Leslie's body collided with Tori's, driving her backward until her spine slammed against the kitchen wall. Pain radiated from the point of impact, forcing the air from Tori's lungs in a shocked gasp. Leslie's forearm pressed against her collarbone, pinning her with a strength that seemed impossible for someone so lean. There was no hesitation in the pressure, no uncertainty — just the leverage of a bigger woman who knew how to use it.
Tori's hands scrabbled against Leslie's arm, nails digging into skin, but Leslie didn't even flinch. "Get off me!" Tori hissed, her voice thin with the pressure on her chest. Her heart hammered against her ribs, pulse points throbbing with adrenaline.
Leslie leaned closer, her face inches from Tori's. "Make me," she whispered, her breath hot against Tori's cheek. There was something in her eyes — a glint of anticipation, of pleasure — that sent ice down Tori's spine.
Panic rose in Tori's throat, thick and choking. She'd never been in a physical fight before. Her battles had always been waged with careful words, strategic smiles, calculated displays of vulnerability. Her body was a weapon of seduction, not violence, and it had never failed her until now. But looking into Leslie's eyes, she realized with dawning horror that her usual arsenal was useless here.
Instinct took over. Tori jerked her knee upward, aiming for Leslie's groin, but Leslie shifted her weight, absorbing the blow on her thigh. In the same fluid motion, Leslie spun Tori around, slamming her face-first into the wall. The cool plaster pressed against Tori's cheek, her breasts flattened painfully against the hard surface.
"Amateur move," Leslie murmured in her ear, one hand gripping the back of Tori's neck while the other twisted her arm behind her back. "Want to try again?"
Tori struggled, twisting against Leslie's grip, but it only resulted in more pressure on her already aching arm. Fear gave way to desperation. She lifted her foot and stomped down hard, aiming for Leslie's instep, putting all her weight behind the blow.
Her heel connected with Leslie's foot, but instead of the howl of pain she expected, Tori heard only a low chuckle. The grip on her neck tightened, fingers digging into the sensitive spot where her skull met her spine.
"Is that all you've got, mom?" Leslie asked, her voice almost conversational. "Fucking pathetic."
With a sudden, violent movement, Leslie yanked Tori away from the wall, spinning her around to face her. Before Tori could react, Leslie's palm connected with her cheek in a slap that snapped her head to the side. The sound was shockingly loud in the sunlit kitchen, the pain immediate and sharp.
"That," Leslie said calmly, "is for thinking you could threaten me."
Tori's hand flew to her stinging cheek, eyes wide with shock. No one had ever hit her before. Not her parents, not her boyfriends, certainly not another woman. The boundary between civilized disagreement and physical violence had been irrevocably crossed, and Tori had no map for this new territory.
"You're insane," she whispered, backing away, but Leslie matched her step for step, herding her against the island.
"You’re insane for thinking I’m going to let you threaten a good woman like Professor Kline just because she happens to be a little kinky. Now say you’re sorry," Leslie demanded, her voice flat and emotionless despite the violence of her actions. "For being so fucking arrogant to try to blackmail me in my own house!"
Tori's back was pressed against the wall, cutting off her retreat. "Fuck you," she spat, adrenaline momentarily overwhelming her fear and slipping into the foul language she’d trained out of her vocabulary to join the upper crust.
Leslie's hand struck again, harder this time, the force of it jerking Tori's head to the side. Pain bloomed across her cheekbone, hot and throbbing. "Wrong answer," Leslie said softly. "Let's try again. Apologize."
Tori tasted blood where her teeth had cut the inside of her cheek. Her vision swam, tears welling unbidden at the corner of her eyes. "You can't do this," she gasped, her voice cracking. "Richard will—"
Another slap, this one catching her other cheek. The kitchen lights seemed to dim for a moment as the pain registered, bright and immediate. "My father isn't here," Leslie reminded her, grabbing Tori's chin and forcing her to make eye contact. "It's just you and me. And you're going to apologize, or things are going to get much worse."
There was no bluff in Leslie's eyes, no hesitation. Just cold certainty that sent a chill through Tori's body. "I'm...sorry," Tori whispered, the words sticking in her throat like glass.
"For what?" Leslie pressed, her fingers digging into Tori's jaw.
"For threatening your professor," Tori managed, each syllable a small defeat.
Leslie nodded, a teacher acknowledging a student's correct answer. "Good. Now apologize for seducing my father."
Fury flashed through Tori, momentarily overriding her fear. "I love Richard," she insisted, the lie automatic after months of repetition. "I didn't seduce—"
Leslie's hand struck again, the slap so hard that Tori's ears rang with the impact. She would have fallen if not for Leslie's other hand gripping her arm. "Bullshit," Leslie hissed, her face inches from Tori's. "You saw a rich old man and dollar signs lit up in your eyes. Apologize for being a manipulative cunt."
Tears spilled over Tori's cheeks now, streaking her carefully applied makeup. Her face throbbed with each heartbeat, the pain radiating across her cheekbones, her jaw, her temples. She'd never felt so helpless, so thoroughly outmatched. "I'm sorry," she gasped, the fight draining from her with each admission. "I'm sorry I seduced your father."
Leslie's grip relaxed slightly, but her eyes remained hard. "And?" she prompted.
"For being manipulative," Tori added, the words bitter on her tongue.
"Now apologize for being so fucking rude since I got here," Leslie continued, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "For acting like you own this place, for treating me like an inconvenience in my home."
Another slap landed before Tori could respond, this one sending sparkles across her vision. She sagged against the island, her legs trembling beneath her. The kitchen seemed distant somehow, the edges of her vision graying as her body processed the repeated blows. "I'm sorry for being rude," she mumbled, the words slurring slightly. "For acting like I own the place."
Leslie's hand connected again, snapping Tori's head back. "Louder," she commanded. "I can't hear your apology."
"I'm sorry!" Tori cried, her voice breaking. "I'm sorry for being rude to you. For acting like I own your home."
Leslie watched her for a long moment, eyes searching Tori's face as if looking for signs of insincerity. Whatever she saw must have satisfied her, because she nodded slightly before delivering her final demand.
"Now," she said, her voice almost gentle, "I want you to say you’re sorry for what you really should be apologizing for… being a gold-digging whore who fucked her way into my father's bed for his money."
Something fractured in Tori then—some last barrier of self-respect, of dignity. "I'm sorry," she whispered, the admission scarcely audible over the hum of the refrigerator. "I'm sorry for being a gold-digging whore."
Leslie tilted her head, studying Tori's tear-streaked face with clinical detachment. "Again," she said softly. "Louder."
"I'm sorry for being a gold-digging whore!" Tori sobbed, the words torn from somewhere deep and wounded inside her. "For fucking your father for his money. I'm sorry."
The admission hung in the air between them, raw and ugly and undeniable. Tori's legs gave out then, her body slumping. Leslie’s hands, however, caught her… gripping her and holding her upright. "There it is," Leslie murmured, almost tenderly. "Doesn’t it feel good not to have to lie to me anymore?"
Tori couldn't answer. Her face pulsed with pain, her head spinning from the repeated blows. Tears and mascara streaked her cheeks, her carefully applied makeup ruined. The silk blouse she'd chosen that morning was torn at the collar, a button missing where Leslie had grabbed her. She barely recognized herself, this broken woman who had confessed to things she'd never admitted even in the privacy of her own thoughts.
Leslie's hands on her shoulders were the only thing keeping her upright now. She swayed in the other woman's grip, the kitchen blurring around her.
"Look at me," Leslie commanded, and Tori's eyes rose automatically to meet hers. There was something new in Leslie's expression—satisfaction, yes, but also a hint of something Tori couldn't identify. Not quite pity, not quite contempt. Something closer to ownership. "You said I’m whoring myself for grades," Leslie said quietly, her thumbs digging into the soft flesh beneath Tori's collarbones. "Your PI should have dug deeper. She’s the one who likes being tied up and helpless not me. I could forgive that… but you called me a dyke. You threatened my father, and my professor. Did you really think you could do that without consequences?"
Tori could only shake her head, a small, defeated movement. Her lips formed the words "I'm sorry" again, though no sound emerged.
Leslie's grip tightened, hard enough to bruise. "You will be,” she said. Then, holding her step-mother by the arm, she dragged her out of the kitchen.
The taller woman’s grip was iron as she dragged Tori up the grand staircase, her fingers digging crescents into Tori's wrist that would bloom into bruises by morning. Tori stumbled behind her, each step of her numb legs sending waves of dizziness through her already throbbing head. "Please," Tori gasped, her voice a ragged whisper. "Leslie, please stop."
Leslie didn't respond, didn't even slow her relentless pace toward the east wing of the mansion where her bedroom was located. Her hand tightened around Tori's wrist, the bones grinding together beneath her grip. Tori bit back a cry of pain, afraid that any show of weakness would only fuel whatever rage drove Leslie's actions.
At the end of the hallway, Leslie kicked open a door with her foot, dragging Tori inside before slamming it shut behind them. The sound echoed through the room like a gunshot, making Tori flinch.
Leslie's bedroom was a study in contrasts to the rest of the house. Where Richard and Tori's bedroom was all muted tones and traditional furnishings, Leslie's space was stark and modern — all clean lines and monochromatic colors, with strategic splashes of deep red in the form of throw pillows and art pieces. One wall was lined with legal textbooks and academic awards, pristine and organized on built-in shelves. A California king bed dominated the center, covered in dark red sheets and a black duvet.
Leslie shoved Tori toward the bed with enough force to send her sprawling across the dark sheets. The sudden movement made the room spin, and Tori clutched at the duvet to steady herself. “Profession Kline felt ashamed that she needed to be held down and have things done to her,” Leslie said as she approached the dresser by the bed. She yanked open the top drawer and rummaged inside, her back to Tori. Then she turned dangling a pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs from one finger. "She loves these... nice, gentle. Sweet." The innocuous item seemed obscene in the context of what was happening, a parody of playfulness in a situation stripped of consent. Tori's gaze fixed on the handcuffs, her mind struggling to process what was happening, what Leslie intended.
"But you?" Leslie continued, her voice hardening as she tossed the cuffs aside with contempt. "You don't deserve nice things." She went back into the drawer and instead pulled out a bundle of heavy-duty black zip ties.
"No," Tori whispered, scrambling backward on the bed until her spine hit the headboard. Her body felt distant, uncooperative, her limbs heavy with the aftermath of the slaps and the dawning horror of her position. "Leslie, this has gone far enough. I won't tell Richard about what happened, just let me—"
Leslie moved almost like a predatory cat on patrol, crossing the space between them in three long strides. She grabbed Tori's ankle, yanking her down the bed with enough force to send Tori's head snapping back against the mattress. Before Tori could recover, Leslie was on top of her, straddling her waist, her weight pinning Tori to the bed. "Shut up," Leslie hissed, grabbing both of Tori's wrists and dragging them behind her back. The zip tie made a soft ratcheting sound as Leslie looped it around Tori's wrists, pulling it tight with her teeth. The plastic bit into Tori's skin, instantly painful in a way that handcuffs might not have been. There would be no wiggling free, no leveraging of the restraint's weight or structure for escape.
Tori bucked beneath Leslie, panic giving her a burst of strength she didn't know she had left. "Let me go!" she screamed, her voice cracking with terror. "You can't do this!"
Leslie's response was methodical, unhurried. She shifted her weight down Tori's body, ignoring the thrashing legs as she secured another zip tie around Tori's ankles. The plastic snapped tight, binding Tori's feet together with the cruel bite of plastic. "There," Leslie said, rising from the bed to admire her handiwork. Tori's bound arms and legs made her look like a sacrifice on the dark altar of Leslie's bed. She twisted against the zip ties, but they only dug deeper into her flesh, the plastic unyielding.
Leslie walked to the dresser again, picking up her pack of cigarettes and flicking one out. The lighters flame illuminated her face from below as she pressed it between her lips, casting shadows that accentuated the sharp angles of her angry face and lit the cold determination in her eyes.
"What are you doing?" Tori asked, her voice small and trembling. The question was idiotic—it was obvious what Leslie was doing, what she had already done—but terror had reduced her capacity for rational thought.
Leslie took a long drag from the cigarette, the paper crackling as it burned. She held the smoke in her lungs, regarding Tori through half-lidded eyes before exhaling a perfect ring that drifted toward the ceiling. "Teaching you a lesson," Leslie answered simply, moving back to the bed. She sat on the edge, close enough that Tori could feel the heat from her body, smell the mixture of tobacco and expensive perfume that clung to her skin.
Tori twisted her body, trying to put as much distance between them as the restraints would allow. "People will look for me," she said, desperation making her voice high and thin. "The staff—"
"Will have the week off," Leslie finished for her, taking another drag from the cigarette. "I’ll call them and tell them. Give us some privacy to… bond, just the way daddy wanted.” Her lips curved into a cruel smile around the word "bond."
The cigarette glowed red as Leslie inhaled again, the cherry bright against the dim backdrop of the room. She leaned over Tori, close enough that Tori could see flecks of gold in her irises, could count her eyelashes if she'd wanted to. "This is my house," Leslie whispered, her breath hot against Tori's face. Her free hand shot out, fingers digging into Tori's cheeks, forcing her jaw open with painful pressure. Tori gasped at the sudden invasion, and in that moment of vulnerability Leslie flicked the ash from her cigarette directly onto Tori's exposed tongue.
The bitter taste hit immediately — acrid and foul, coating Tori's mouth in gritty particles that made her gag. She tried to spit, to expel the ashes, but Leslie's hand clamped over her mouth. "Swallow it," Leslie commanded. "Every last bit."
Tears leaked from the corners of Tori's eyes but she couldn’t breathe like this. Wincing, she choked down the hot ashes with a convulsive swallow that left her throat raw. The humiliation burned hotter than the slaps had, searing itself into her brain.
Leslie released her grip on Tori's face, watching with clinical interest as Tori coughed and spluttered, trying to clear the foul taste from her mouth. "Good girl," she murmured, the praise more degrading than any insult could have been.
Tori turned her face away, unable to meet Leslie's gaze. Shame washed over her in hot waves, mingling with fear until she couldn't separate the two emotions. She'd never felt so utterly powerless, so completely at another person's mercy. All her life, she'd used her beauty, her charm, her sexuality as weapons — tools to get what she wanted, to control situations and manipulate outcomes. Now those tools could do nothing at all for her because Leslie just didn’t care.
Her step-daughter took another drag from the cigarette, contemplative. "You know," she said conversationally, as if they were discussing the weather over tea, "I've been thinking about you for months. Ever since Dad brought you home like a stray cat he couldn't resist feeding." She tapped the cigarette, thankfully on the ash tray this time. "I tried to tell him you were using him. He didn't care." A note of genuine hurt entered her voice, quickly suppressed. "He said I was being overprotective, that I should give you a chance."
Tori remained silent, afraid any response would trigger more violence. The zip ties bit into her skin with every small movement, a constant reminder of her helplessness.
"I decided then that if he wouldn't protect himself, I would have to do it for him," Leslie continued, stubbing out the cigarette on a small ashtray beside the bed. "I just wasn’t sure about how. Now that you’ve forced my hand, though, I’m thinking I might have a solution.” Her eyes raked over Tori's bound form, assessing… and predatory. "One that keeps your pretty face around for Dad to enjoy, while ensuring you understand exactly who's in charge."
Fresh terror bloomed in Tori's chest at Leslie's words, at the implication of a prolonged subjugation rather than a single incident of violence. "You can't do this!" Tori screamed, the words tearing from her throat with a force born of pure terror. She thrashed against the zip ties, the plastic cutting deeper into her wrists and ankles and drawing thin lines of blood that stained the dark sheets beneath her. The pain was barely noticeable compared to the horror of her situation.
Leslie watched her struggle with the detached interest of an entomologist observing a pinned butterfly. She waited until Tori's struggling tapered off, until the desperate heaving of her chest had slowed enough for her next words to register. "I told you," Leslie said, her voice almost gentle in its reasonableness, "this is my house. I can do whatever I want here." She reached into the drawer again, extracting another zip tie—longer than the ones around Tori's wrists and ankles. This one she dangled in front of Tori's face, letting it sway back and forth like a hypnotist's watch. "Particularly," Leslie continued, "when no one can hear you. When no one is coming to save you. When the only person who even cares what happens to you is ten thousand miles away in New York."
Tori's eyes fixed on the zip tie, confused. The confusion vanished was Leslie looped the tie around her neck, the plastic feeling cool against the overheated skin. Tori froze, terror shortening her breath to shallow gasps as Leslie's fingers adjusted the makeshift collar.
"I thought about just driving you away," Leslie said conversationally, as if they were discussing dinner plans rather than Tori's freedom, her safety, her very life. "Just making you leave. It would be simpler, in some ways."
She pulled the zip tie just tight enough that Tori felt the pressure against her throat when she swallowed — not choking, not yet, but a constant reminder of its presence and purpose. She had to work to breathe now, and the restriction of her airway made Tori's heart race, adrenaline flooding her system in a useless evolutionary response to danger. "But then I realized," Leslie continued as she inspecting her handiwork, "that wouldn't actually solve anything. Dad’s lonely. I suspect in short order some other gold-digger would find a way to replace you. Another pretty face with dollar signs in her eyes would be here to cause me problems."
Tori's voice caught in her throat, the pressure on her neck silencing her more effectively than any gag could have. She stared up at Leslie, tears blurring her vision, mascara streaking down her temples into her hair. “Much better," Leslie said, stepping back to admire her handiwork — Tori splayed across the bed, wrists and ankles bound, a zip tie around her throat like a grotesque necklace. "Silence becomes you, Mom. I think I’m learning to live with you already."
She walked to the dresser and pulled open a lower drawer, the wood sliding smoothly on expensive runners. Tori twisted her head, trying to see what Leslie was retrieving, though part of her didn't want to know, wanted to retreat into the darkness behind her closed eyelids and pretend this wasn't happening. When Leslie straightened, however, she was certain she hadn’t wanted to know. Her step-daughter was holding a large, thick dildo attached to a black leather harness. The silicone caught the light, obscenely reflective, the shaft ridged and veined in a mockery of biological accuracy. It was larger than any real penis Tori had encountered, its dimensions veering into the territory of novelty gift rather than serious masturbatory aid. There was no way any normal woman would find pleasure rather than pain from something like that.
"Oh god," Tori whispered, the words barely audible through the constriction of the zip tie. Her stomach clenched with revulsion, with fear so intense it was almost nauseating. "No. Please, no."
Leslie ignored her, placing the harness on the bed beside Tori's bound legs. She stood at the foot of the bed, her eyes locked with Tori's as she slowly, deliberately unbuttoned her jeans. Her fingers casually popped the buttons one by one, and Tori watched, mesmerized with horror, as Leslie pushed the denim down over her hips, the fabric peeling away to expose black panties that clung to her like a second skin. Leslie stepped out of the jeans gracefully, a predator shedding its skin, and kicked them aside with one swift motion. Leslie’s hands moved to the hem of her shirt next, pulling it up over her head with practiced ease and revealing her lean torso inch by agonizing inch. Her skin was pale and flawless, a stark contrast against the black lace of her bra. She tossed the shirt aside and stood there, letting Tori take in the full measure of her physical presence. The simple, unadorned lines of her bra did nothing to hide the curves beneath it, and Leslie made no move to remove it right away. Instead, she let Tori see her like this, stripped down and exposed but utterly in control, aware of the effect she had and savoring it.
Tori’s breath came in short, panicked gasps, her eyes wide and terrified as they traveled over Leslie’s nearly naked form. She had always known Leslie was beautiful, but she had never once thought that Leslie might be more beautiful than she was until now. The woman was… intimidating.
Her step-daughter smirked at Tori's reaction, then reached behind her back to unhook the final barrier. The bra slipped away, revealing her breasts… perfectly shaped, her nipples pierced and hardening in the cool air.
Leslie stood there for a moment. Then Tori's stomach dropped as Leslie reached for the harness, fastening it around her hips, adjusting the straps with the casual familiarity of someone who had done this many times before. The thick silicone jutted obscenely from Leslie's pelvis, looking more like affixed bayonet than a sex toy, and Tori could only stare. "What's that face for?" Leslie asked, her tone mocking as she tightened the last strap. "Haven't you ever seen one before? I thought a woman like you would be familiar with dick. After all, you aren’t the dyke, right?"
Tori shook her head minutely, afraid to move too much against the pressure of the zip tie. "Don't," she pleaded, the word barely audible. "Please don't do this."
Leslie sat on the edge of the bed, her legs spread as she ran her hands over the dildo. The gesture was deliberately provocative, her eyes never leaving Tori's face as she caressed the length of silicone as if it were a real extension of her body. "What was it you said? That you wanted me to learn some god damn manners?" she sneered, her fingers tracing the ridges of the dildo with obscene slowness. "Let’s see if we can teach you some instead."
Leslie’s hand dipped into the nightstand again, rummaging inside for a few seconds. When Leslie's hand emerged, it was holding a bottle of hot sauce. The label gleamed in the dim light — some artisanal brand with a skull and crossbones logo, the kind of hot sauce enthusiasts bragged about surviving.
"You know what's funny?" Leslie asked, her tone conversational as she unscrewed the cap. "Dad can barely handle medium salsa these days. Doctor says his stomach lining is shot." She tilted the bottle, examining the viscous red liquid inside. "But he still loves the stuff, so I keep bringing it back home for him, and he always takes some anyway. Nostalgia, I guess. We used to compete with hot wings, back when I was in elementary school. I always won."
With deliberate slowness, Leslie tilted the bottle over the dildo. The hot sauce poured out in a thick stream, coating the silicone in a layer of crimson liquid that caught the light in viscous gleams. The pungent smell hit Tori's nostrils immediately — vinegar and capsaicin so concentrated it made her eyes water even from a distance.
"No," Tori whimpered, her heart hammering against her ribs with such force she thought it might bruise her from the inside. "Please, Leslie, don’t do this—"
Leslie met her gaze, her expression utterly devoid of mercy. "You don't get to make demands anymore, Victoria." She continued pouring, rotating her hand to ensure every inch of the dildo was covered in the caustic sauce. It dripped onto the sheets below, staining the expensive Egyptian cotton like little drops of blood. The bottle emptied, Leslie tossed it aside. It landed on the carpet with a soft thud, and before it had finished rolling her hands were gripping Tori's hips with bruising force, flipping her onto her stomach with an ease that emphasized the difference in their physical strength.
Tori's face pressed into the pillow, her bound wrists stretched painfully above her head. The position arched her back, forcing her ass into the air in a pose of unwilling presentation. The zip tie around her neck tightened with each panicked breath, black spots dancing at the edges of her vision.
"Did Dad ever fuck you like this?" Leslie asked, her voice closer now, her hands spreading Tori's ass cheeks. "Or was it always missionary, his eyes closed, pretending you're half the woman my mother was?" Before Tori could process the question, much less form a response, she felt the blunt head of the dildo pressing against her asshole. The initial contact burned even before penetration, the hot sauce an immediate caustic presence against the sensitive skin. "This is going to hurt," Leslie whispered, her voice dripping with malice. "But then, you already knew that."
Tori tried to scream as Leslie pushed forward, the thick silicone stretching her unprepared body as it forced its way into her virgin asshole. The sound caught in her throat, trapped by the zip tie, emerging as a strangled whimper that was utterly insufficient to express the way the penetration and the hot sauce worked together to set her insides on fire. The heat radiated outward from the point of penetration, scorching every nerve ending it touched. Tori's body convulsed, her back arching involuntarily, her muscles clenching around the invading object in desperately, pointless attempt to expel the thing that only increased the pain.
"There we go," Leslie murmured, pushing deeper, each inch an exercise in calculated cruelty. "I knew you could do it. Whore’s are good at taking it up the ass."
Tears streamed down Tori's face, soaking into the pillow beneath her cheek. The pain was unlike anything she'd experienced — a burning, tearing sensation that seemed to fill her entire body. Her insides felt as if they were being dissolved by acid and every slight movement of the dildo spreading the hot sauce deeper, letting it touch new nerve endings that screamed in chemical agony.
Leslie paused when the dildo was halfway in, allowing Tori to feel every excruciating millimeter of penetration, every ridge and vein of the silicone as it stretched her body beyond its limits. The brief respite was almost worse than the movement had been, giving Tori's nerve endings time to process the full extent of the burning sensation… it allowed the caustic substance to do its work, to seep into every microscopic tear the forced penetration had created. "Please," Tori sobbed, the word barely audible through the constriction of the zip tie and the pillow against her face. "Stop. Please stop."
Leslie's hand came down on the back of Tori's neck, pressing her face deeper into the pillow, further restricting her already compromised breathing. "You know what the difference is between you and me, Victoria?" she asked, her voice conversational despite the violence of her actions. "I don't pretend to be something I'm not. And I promise you no mercy."
With that, she slammed the dildo forward, burying it to the hilt in one brutal thrust. Tori's scream was silent, her vocal cords paralyzed by the combination of the zip tie and the shock of pain. Her vision went white, consciousness briefly receding before the burning agony dragged her back to the present moment, to the horror of her situation.
"Do you feel that?" Leslie asked, her voice a whisper against the shell of Tori's ear. "That burning feeling that hurts like hell and just won’t ever go away? That's what it felt like, watching you walk into our home, watching you hang on my father's arm, watching you replace my mother's things with your tacky bullshit." She pulled back slowly, the dildo dragging against Tori's sensitive tissues, before thrusting forward again with deliberate force. The hot sauce was working well as a lubricant, but that hardly benefited Tori at all.
Tori's teeth clenched on a scream that couldn't escape, her body rigid with a pain so complete it transcended physical sensation, becoming a state of being. Through the haze of agony, she registered Leslie's breathing — faster now, heavy with what she recognized as arousal. The realization that Leslie was enjoying this. The strap on couldn’t actually be giving her any pleasure, so the woman had to be turned on specifically by Tori's suffering. It added a layer of psychological horror to the physical torment.
Leslie thrust relentlessly, Her hands, which had been gripping Tori's hips, slid upward seeking new territories to conquer. She found Tori's breasts, hanging heavy and vulnerable beneath her body, and seized them with cruel strength. Her fingers dug into the soft flesh, kneading with a pressure that crossed the line from discomfort to outright pain, her thumbs finding Tori's nipples and pinching until Tori's body convulsed beneath her.
"Are these even real?" Leslie asked, twisting Tori's nipples with a methodical cruelty that sent jolts of agony through Tori's chest. "Or did you buy these? Another investment in your body to snare a meal-ticket?
Tori couldn't answer, couldn't form words through the pain radiating from multiple points in her body. The hot sauce continued its caustic assault on her insides, the dildo stretching tissues never meant for such intrusion, and now Leslie's hands adding fresh torment to her already overwhelmed nervous system.
"I asked you a question," Leslie said, her voice dropping to a dangerous register. She squeezed Tori's breasts harder, fingers digging into the flesh like claws, leaving behind crescent-shaped indentations that would bloom into bruises by morning. "Are these real?"
"Y-yes," Tori managed to gasp, the word barely audible through the restriction of the zip tie around her neck. "They're real."
Leslie laughed, the sound devoid of humor. "You know what? I believe you. I guess that makes them the only part of you that isn’t fake,” she said, twisting her step-mother’s nipples again and holding the pressure until tears streamed from Tori's eyes. "That's almost refreshing."
The dildo continued its relentless assault, each thrust spreading the hot sauce deeper… packing it further up her guts. Tori's face pressed into the pillow, soaking it with tears and saliva as she fought to maintain consciousness through the onslaught of pain. Part of her wished for the mercy of blacking out, for her brain to shut down and grant her temporary escape, but her body betrayed her, keeping her awake and aware for every excruciating second.
Leslie's hand moved to Tori's hair, yanking her head back with enough force that Tori felt strands tear from her scalp. The new position strained the zip tie around her neck, further restricting her already labored breathing. "We have all week," Leslie reminded her, establishing a slow, methodical rhythm with the dildo, each thrust precise and calculated for maximum pain. "Every day, I'm going to show you exactly what you are. What you've always been. If I’m not going to let you leave, then you are going to stay right here, playing the devoted wife to my lonely father. But you're going to understand your place before you get that chance.”
"Please," Tori whispered, the word a reflexive response now, stripped of specific meaning beyond her desperate need for the pain to stop.
Leslie thrust one final time, burying the dildo to the hilt, before releasing Tori's hair and standing up. The sudden absence of pressure on her back made Tori collapse fully onto the mattress, her body trembling with the aftershocks of pain and adrenaline. "Now," Leslie said, her voice almost gentle, "you are going to make a very long, very thoroughly apology to me.” Tori felt Leslie removing the harness, the buckles making soft sounds as they were unfastened. But to her horror, the dildo remained inside her, its presence a burning reminder of what had just occurred. Leslie had simply taken off the harness, leaving the dildo embedded in Tori's body like a grotesque spike.
Tori felt weak as a newborn kitten as Leslie turned her over onto her back. The movement caused the dildo to shift inside her, sending fresh waves of agony through her body as the raped flesh of her asshole protested again. “We are going to start your training. And how well you do is going to decide exactly how much sleep you get over the next week, because if I need to spend every single minute of it getting you up to par I will.”
Leslie moved higher, positioning herself over Tori's face, her thighs on either side of Tori's head. The panties she'd been wearing were gone, discarded at some point while Leslie was face down on the pillow. Now there was nothing between them, Leslie's exposed pussy hovering inches above Tori's mouth. "After all, if I can’t stop whores from digging their grubby little fingers into my father, than I’ll at least make sure dad is getting a decent deal for his money."
The words landed with sledgehammer force, the full implication of Leslie's intentions becoming horrifyingly clear. This wasn't a one-time punishment. This wasn't even about forcing her to leave Richard. This was about breaking her completely, reshaping her into something Leslie could control — a sex toy she would share with her father, a possession to be used by both of them in different ways.
Tori's eyes widened with this realization, a fresh wave of terror washing over her that had nothing to do with the immediate physical pain and everything to do with the future Leslie was describing. A future where she remained Mrs. Blackwood on paper, but belonged to Leslie in every way that mattered.
"No," Tori whispered, the word barely audible. "You can't—"
Leslie's thighs tightened around Tori's head, cutting off her protest. "I can," she said simply. "I am. And before the week is over, you're going to thank me for it."
She lowered herself further, her pussy now directly above Tori's mouth, close enough that Tori could feel the heat radiating from it, could smell the musky scent of Leslie's arousal. The evidence that Leslie was turned on by what she'd done, by Tori's pain and degradation, was horrifying. "Now," Leslie said, her voice soft but brooking no argument, "you're going to show me how grateful you are that I'm teaching you your place and letting you earn the right to call this your home instead of just throwing you out like the trash you are."
Tori closed her eyes, tears leaking from beneath her lids, tracking down her temples into her hair. The dildo burned inside her, the zip ties cut into her flesh, and now Leslie's thighs pressed against her head in a cage of flesh and bone. There was no escape, no reprieve, no mercy to be found in Leslie's cold eyes or cruel hands.
Leslie's thighs clamped down on Tori's face with inexorable pressure, cutting off peripheral vision until all Tori could see was the ceiling beyond Leslie's torso and the dark triangle of pubic hair directly above her mouth. The weight was suffocating, Leslie's body heat radiating against Tori's tear-streaked cheeks. Tori's breath came in shallow gasps, each inhalation bringing the musky scent of Leslie's arousal into her lungs, an intimate invasion that felt almost as violating as the dildo still burning inside her.
"Open your mouth," Leslie commanded. Her hands braced against the headboard, creating a cage of flesh and bone around Tori's head that prevented any possibility of escape. "Lick me cunt and show me that this gold-digging mouth is good for besides lying."
Tori's stomach revolted at the command. Despite the pain radiating from multiple points in her body, despite the terror that had reduced her world to a series of desperate attempts to avoid further harm, this new demand triggered something primal in her — a last stand of dignity, of self-preservation more fundamental than physical safety. She turned her face away as much as Leslie's thighs allowed, her voice trembling. "Please, just let me go."
The words hung in the air between them, a final, futile resistance against the inevitable. Tori felt rather than saw Leslie's body tense above her, the muscles in her thighs contracting slightly as she processed the refusal.
"Uh oh," Leslie said, her tone eerily calm, almost playful. "Mom just had a little accident."
Before Tori could process the words, Leslie shifted her weight, freeing one hand from the headboard. She reached down and grabbed Tori's index finger where it was pinned half beneath her body. With absolutely no concern, Leslie bent it backward, applying steady pressure and pushing further and further until the bone snapped with an audible crack. Tori's scream tore through the room, raw and primal, the sound barely muffled by Leslie's body. The pain was immediate and overwhelming, a white-hot explosion that temporarily eclipsed every other sensation—the burn of the hot sauce, the ache of the zip ties, the humiliation of her position. For a moment, there was only the finger, the bone bent at an unnatural angle, nerves firing emergency signals to a brain already overwhelmed with pain.
"I should clarify something," Leslie said, her voice calm as if they were discussing the weather rather than sitting amid the aftermath of torture. "You don't have choices anymore. You have commands to obey, and consequences when you don't."
Tears streamed from the corners of Tori's eyes, tracking sideways into her hair. The broken finger throbbed in time with her racing heart, a persistent bass note beneath the symphony of pain playing throughout her body. She tried to focus on breathing, on not passing out, on maintaining the thin thread of consciousness that was her only connection to reality.
"Let's try again," Leslie continued, readjusting her position over Tori's face. Her pussy hovered inches from Tori's mouth, close enough that Tori could feel the heat radiating from it. "Lick. My. Cunt. Mom."
This time, there was no hesitation. Survival instinct overrode everything else — pride, disgust, moral boundaries — all of it swept away by the immediate need to prevent further pain. Tori extended her tongue, making tentative contact with Leslie's labia, the unfamiliar taste of another woman's arousal coating her tongue.
"That’s a good little girl," Leslie murmured. Her hand moved to Tori's hair, fingers tangling in the sweat-damp mess. "See? It's not so hard to do as you're told."
Tori's tongue moved reluctantly against Leslie's cunt, exploring unfamiliar territory with hesitant strokes. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, tracking sideways into her hair and creating dark patches on the pillowcase beneath her head. Tori had never been with a woman before, had never had any interest in female bodies beyond comparing her own favorably to others. Now she was forced into intimacy more invasive than anything she'd experienced with men — not because of the act itself, but because of its context. Every lick was an admission of defeat, every stroke of her tongue an acknowledgment of Leslie's complete dominance over her.
Above her, Leslie shifted slightly, reaching for something on the nightstand. The scratch of a lighter, a quick flare of flame, and then the acrid smell of tobacco joined the already overwhelming sensory assault as Leslie lit a cigarette, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling as she inhaled. "You need to be more consistent," Leslie said, her voice thick with post-orgasmic satisfaction but still carrying that edge of command. She took another drag from the cigarette, the cherry glowing bright orange in the dim room. "Establish a rhythm. Find what works and stick with it."
"Start with broad strokes," Leslie continued, smoke escaping her lips with each word. "Use the flat of your tongue, from the bottom of my pussy all the way up to my clit. Slow and firm."
Tori obeyed, adjusting her technique as instructed, her broken finger throbbing in time with her heartbeat—a constant reminder of the consequences of defiance. The taste of Leslie was bitter and foreign on her tongue, the intimate scent of another woman's arousal filling her nostrils with each labored breath she managed to take between Leslie's thighs.
"Good," Leslie murmured, her free hand moving to stroke Tori's hair in a grotesque parody of affection. "Now circle my clit with the tip of your tongue. Gentle but insistent."
The detailed instructions left no room for misinterpretation, no excuse for failure. Leslie wanted specific sensations, and Tori was expected to provide them with the precision of a trained whore. It was a reduction of her humanity so complete that Tori felt herself beginning to dissociate, to float somewhere above the scene, observing it as if it were happening to someone else, but Leslie wouldn't allow even that small escape. She ground down harder, the increased pressure forcing Tori's consciousness back into her violated body, back into the immediate reality of what was happening to her. "Focus," Leslie snapped, her fingers tightening in Tori's hair, pulling painfully at the roots. "I can tell when you're not paying attention."
Tori's tongue moved faster, more deliberately, finding the rhythm Leslie had demanded. The broken finger pulsed with each heartbeat, a metronome of pain keeping time with her desperate efforts to please her tormentor. Above her, Leslie took another long drag from the cigarette, her eyes half-closed with pleasure that was as much about dominance as it was about physical sensation.
"Better," Leslie acknowledged, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. "Much better. Dad's going to be so pleased with his improved wife when he gets home."
Leslie's free hand wandered down her own body, fingertips tracing patterns over her breasts, visible to Tori only as shadowy movements against the ceiling. "I wonder if he knows how bad you are at this," she mused, her voice deliberately casual. "Do you suck cock like this? Has been just been too polite to tell you that your skills are mediocre at best?"
The criticism shouldn't have hurt — not here, not now, not after everything else Leslie had done to her. But somehow it did, striking at the core of Tori's identity, at the one area where she'd always felt confident in her power. Sex had been her currency, her leverage, her way of securing what she wanted from men too blinded by desire to see her calculations. The idea that she might not even be good at it, that Richard might have been disappointed but too kind to say so—it was a humiliation that cut surprisingly deep.
"Don't worry," Leslie continued, taking another drag from her cigarette, the smoke drifting down to sting Tori's eyes. "I'll make sure you're properly trained before he gets back. You'll be the perfect little fucktoy for both of us."
Both of us. The words echoed in Tori's mind, their implication too horrific to fully process. Not just a one-time assault, not even a week of torture to be endured and then left behind, but a permanent restructuring of her place in the household — subservient not just to Richard but to Leslie as well, available for use by either of them whenever they desired.
Leslie's legs shifted, adjusting her position over Tori's face, giving her a clearer view of what she was doing. "Now use your lips too," she instructed, her voice clinical despite the intimate nature of the command. "Suck gently on my clit while you lick it."
Tori complied, her movements mechanical but precise, driven by the primal need to avoid further pain. The broken finger was enough; she couldn't bear the thought of what other injuries Leslie might inflict if she failed to satisfy her. The longer it went, however, the more Tori's tongue began to slow, fatigue and terror momentarily overriding her fear of punishment. She was almost grateful as Leslie rose up, even if it only lasted for a second while she turned around to sit on Tori’s face in the other direction.
"You really need to understand something," Leslie said, her voice taking on a conversational tone incongruous with the situation. "I’m being careful and gentle with you, mom.”
Tori's tongue faltered slightly at the non-sequitur, earning a sharp tug on her hair as punishment for the lapse.
"I said don't stop," Leslie reminded her, before continuing as if there had been no interruption. "I need to keep you around, which means I can’t give you marks where Daddy will see. It was a shame you slammed your finger in the door, but the bruises on your wrists and ankle fade before he returns. Your pussy, though…" Leslie’s voice dropping to a thoughtful murmur. "That's Dad's territory, isn't it? His property, really. But he's not very imaginative with it. Does he even look at it, I wonder?"
As she spoke, her free hand traveled down Tori's body, fingers skimming over her stomach, tracing patterns across her hips before coming to rest between her legs. The touch was deliberately light, almost teasing, a stark contrast to the brutality of earlier assaults. "I think," Leslie mused, "that what happens here—" her fingers spread Tori's labia, exposing her most intimate flesh, "—is between you and me. Our little secret. And I didn’t tell you it was OK to be lazy."
Without warning, she took the cigarette from her lips and, with easy cruelty, she pressed pressed the burning tip against the delicate skin inside of Tori's pussy.
Tori screamed, the sound muffled by Leslie's body still pressed against her face. The pain was immediate and overwhelming, a white-hot explosion that momentarily eclipsed every other sensation. "So, you aren’t going to be lazy anymore, right?" Leslie purred, lifting the cigarette away to examine the small, circular burn she'd created. "Unless you'd like another one?"
Tori resumed her desperate licking with renewed vigor, her tongue moving frantically against Leslie's clit, seeking to provide enough pleasure to forestall further punishment. The burn on her pussy throbbed with a pain so intense it seemed to have its own heartbeat, radiating outward from the small point of contact until her entire pelvis felt engulfed in fire.
"Better," Leslie acknowledged, taking another drag from the cigarette. Her free hand continued its exploration of Tori's exposed genitals, fingers tracing the edges of the fresh burn with clinical interest. "Much better. Fear is an excellent motivator, isn't it?"
Tori couldn't answer, couldn't do anything but continue to slap her tongue against Leslie… desperate to avoid another burning touch. Tears streamed freely now, soaking into her hair, the physical pain almost secondary to the psychological horror of being so completely at someone else's mercy.
"I think this burn will leave a scar," Leslie mused, her finger circling the burn mark, applying just enough pressure to send fresh waves of pain through Tori's body. "I wonder if you'll feel this every time he fucks you. I hope so… that way, you can remember what you’re doing this for. You can remember that it is this tight little cunt that is buying you your comfy little life."
Leslie straightened up, and despite herself Tori shuddered as she saw her light up a new cigarette. "Don't slow down again," she warned, taking a long drag from the fresh cigarette. "We have all night, and I have a full pack."
The threat hung in the air, as tangible as the smoke curling toward the ceiling. Tori's tongue moved with desperate energy, her entire being focused on providing the precise sensations Leslie had demanded, on avoiding another burning touch, another explosion of pain to add to the symphony already playing throughout her brutalized body.
Leslie's hand moved with deliberate slowness between Tori's legs, fingers tracing patterns across her exposed skin with a feigned tenderness that was more terrifying than outright violence. It meant that Tori kept expecting to feel a cigarette again. She kept her tongue dancing its desperate rhythm against Leslie's clit, driven by the primal need to avoid further punishment. A cigarette never came, but a second later Leslie's exploration transformed into something else entirely — her fingers tangled in Tori's pubic hair, gripping a sizable clump at the root, and yanked.
The pain was immediate and shocking, a white-hot streak that tore a scream from Tori's throat despite the pressure of Leslie's thighs against her face. The sound emerged muffled but unmistakable, a primal response to the sudden, violent removal of hair never meant to be extracted that way. The nerves in her groin fired emergency signals to her already overwhelmed brain, adding another layer to the symphony of agony screaming from her spice-baked asshole and burned cunt.
"It’s a mess down here," Leslie mused, examining the dark tuft of hair between her fingers like a botanist studying an interesting specimen. She discarded it casually, letting it fall somewhere beside the bed. "How’s daddy even supposed to see what he’s buying?" Before the first assault had even faded Leslie's hand returned, gripping another section of pubic hair and ripping it out with the same casual cruelty. Tears streamed from the corners of Tori's eyes, salt water mixing with the wetness of Leslie's arousal that coated her cheeks, her chin, the bridge of her nose.
Another clump torn away, another muffled scream. Tori's hips instinctively tried to twist away from the source of pain, but the zip ties around her ankles and her step-daughter’s thighs around her face prevented any real movement, ensuring she remained accessible for whatever torment Leslie decided to inflict next. Tori's tongue faltered against Leslie's clit, the pain between her legs momentarily overwhelming her fear of punishment for stopping. The rawness of her scalp where hair had been torn out pulsed in time with her heartbeat, each throb a reminder of her complete helplessness, her total subjugation to Leslie's will.
"I didn't tell you to stop," Leslie reminded her, her voice hardening. Her hand moved to another patch of Tori's pubic hair, gripping it firmly at the roots. "Keep licking while I clean this up for Daddy."
Tori forced her tongue back into motion, desperate to avoid whatever punishment Leslie would devise for disobedience. The taste of Leslie's arousal had become a constant, inescapable presence, coating her tongue, her lips, even invading her nostrils with each labored breath. Above her, Leslie continued her methodical destruction, ripping out Tori's pubic hair in clumps that left the sensitive skin beneath raw and burning.
"There," Leslie said after several more excruciating minutes, surveying her handiwork with clinical satisfaction. "Much better. Almost done, just a few more patches."
The respite was brief, just long enough for Tori to register the extent of the pain before Leslie resumed her assault, targeting the remaining areas where hair still grew. Each yank sent fresh waves of agony through Tori's pelvis, each torn-out clump another small death of dignity, of bodily autonomy, of the illusion that anything about her was still her own. The final clump came out with a particularly vicious tug that made Tori's vision temporarily white out, her consciousness retreating for a blessed moment before being dragged back to the horror of her situation.
"You're slowing down again," Leslie noted, her tone conversational despite the implicit threat in her words. Leslie could smell the final drag she took from the cigarette. "I thought we discussed what happens when you don't maintain your rhythm."
Tori's tongue moved faster against Leslie's clit, desperate to avoid what she knew was coming. But it was too late — Leslie had already made her decision. With teasing slowness she spread apart Tori's labia with her fingers, exposing the delicate inner flesh still tender from the first burn. Then she pressed the burning end of the cigarette against Tori's exposed flesh, less than an inch from the first burn site.
Tori screamed into Leslie's cunt, the sound vibrating against the very flesh she was being forced to pleasure. The pain was beyond description, beyond categorization—a white-hot supernova that momentarily obliterated all other sensation, all thought, all awareness of anything except the burning agony between her legs.
"There we go," Leslie murmured. Say, I wonder how many more I can fit in here. What do you think, mom?"
Tori couldn't respond, couldn't form words or even coherent thoughts through the haze of pain. Her tongue moved automatically against Leslie's clit, driven by the terror of what might happen if she stopped again. "This isn't just about punishment," Leslie clarified, as if reading Tori's thoughts. "It's about truth. About stripping away the lies you tell yourself and the lies you tell my father."
Her fingers traced the edges of the fresh burn marks, applying just enough pressure to send renewed waves of pain through Tori's body. "These are reminders. Every time you feel them, you'll remember what you are. Who you belong to."
The possessive language, the explicit framing of Tori as property to be used rather than a person with autonomy, should have sparked outrage, resistance, some final stand of dignity. But there was nothing left in Tori to resist with—no strength, no will, no sense of self strong enough to withstand the systematic destruction Leslie had engineered. The burn sites throbbed in unison, each pulse a reminder of her complete subjugation, her total lack of control over her own body. Leslie was systematically dismantling of Tori's sense of self, of agency, of the carefully constructed persona she'd created and maintained throughout her adult life. Leslie wasn't just hurting her body; she was rewriting Tori's understanding of her place in the world, in the Blackwood household. The proof was that Tori’s tongue continued its desperate rhythm despite Leslie’s torment.
And somewhere deep inside, in a place she couldn't yet access, the seeds of a new identity began to take root — one defined not by her own desires or ambitions, but by a simple, desperate need to avoid further pain. And if the only way to do that was by confirming to Leslie's vision of what she should be, then…
Tori cries and licked and licked and sucked and licked and hoped that she didn’t give the woman a reason to be angry again.
Slowly, Leslie's breathing began to change. It grew faster, shallower, her hips moving with more purpose against Tori's mouth. The signs of approaching orgasm were unmistakable, even to a woman with no experience with this like Tori — the tension in her thighs as they pressed against her smothered face, the subtle arching of her back visible as a shifting shadow against the ceiling, the increased wetness coating Tori's chin and cheeks. It should have disgusted her, being used this way and being shown that her abuser was enjoying it. Instead, she felt only desperation—a frantic hope that completion would bring some reprieve, however brief, from the relentless assault on her body and dignity.
"That's it," Leslie murmured, her voice husky with arousal. "Just like that. Keep doing just that and don't stop."
Tori's jaw ached, her tongue numb from the prolonged, repetitive motion of drawing it across her step-daughter’s clit before pressing down, but she didn't dare disobey or even slow. Every time her body wanted to quit, the way the burn marks throbbed in time with her pulse reminded her what failure to comply with Leslie's commands would bring. Instead, she focused all her remaining energy on maintaining the rhythm Leslie had demanded, on providing the precise stimulation that would bring this particular torment to an end.
She barely even noticed when Leslie’s hands moved, playing across her neck, her fingers finding the zip tie collar encircling Tori's throat. "Let's make this interesting," Leslie said. Before Tori could process what was happening, Leslie pulled sharply on the zip tie, the plastic ratcheting tighter around Tori's neck with a series of small, terrifying clicks. The pressure increased instantly, from uncomfortable to alarming to catastrophic in the space of seconds. Suddenly, Tori couldn't breathe at all — not the restricted, labored breathing she'd managed to sneak around Leslie’s suffocating pussy but absolutely nothing at all, her windpipe compressed by the unyielding plastic.
Panic exploded in Tori's chest, a primal, overwhelming terror that transcended all other concerns. Her lungs burned immediately, desperate for oxygen they couldn't access. Her bound hands jerked uselessly behind her back as she tried to bring them to her neck on pure instinct. "Struggle all you want, but don't stop, Mom," Leslie commanded. Her hips continued their rhythm against Tori's mouth, untouched by the life-or-death struggle occurring beneath her. "That would be a mistake. You get to breathe after I get to cum."
The instruction registered through Tori's mounting panic, its implications clear and horrifying. Her life now literally depended on her ability to make her step-daughter orgasm — and quickly, before the lack of oxygen caused permanent damage to her brain, before the darkness already gathering at the edges of her vision consumed her completely. Desperation lent energy to her exhausted muscles. Tori's tongue moved with renewed vigor against Leslie's clit, applying pressure in the precise patterns Leslie had demanded earlier. Each second without air felt like an eternity, each heartbeat a countdown to unconsciousness, but she forced herself to focus on the task at hand, to channel every remaining ounce of her will into bringing Leslie to climax.
"That's better," Leslie acknowledged, her voice thick with pleasure as she ground down harder against Tori's mouth. "Much better. I think I understand you better already, Mom. Fear is what really gets through to you, isn’t it?"
The sound of Leslie's voice seemed to come from far away now, muffled as if Tori were underwater. The darkness at the edges of her vision expanded inward, narrowing her world to a contracting tunnel of awareness. Her lungs screamed for air, each cell in her body sending increasingly desperate signals that went unanswered. Her chest heaved in automatic attempts to inhale, but the tight plastic around her neck allowed nothing to pass.
"Almost…" Leslie moaned.
The words registered dimly through Tori's oxygen-deprived brain, barely understandable through the overwhelming panic. She redoubled her efforts, focusing every remaining particle of consciousness on the movement of her tongue, on maintaining the precise rhythm and pressure that would bring Leslie to orgasm in the shortest possible time.
Leslie's thighs trembled against Tori's face, her breathing growing ragged, her hips moving more erratically — all signs that she was approaching climax. Tori couldn’t seem to push her over the edge, however. It was like Tori was resisting, deliberately prolonging the experience… extending her pleasure at the direct expense of Tori's dwindling oxygen supply. Her thighs already blocked most of the light, but the dark spot danced across what little vision Tori had now, consciousness slipping away despite her desperate attempts to cling to it. Her broken finger pulsed with distant pain, the burn marks between her legs registered as phantom fire, but both sensations were secondary to the overwhelming need for air. Her tongue moved automatically now, muscle memory continuing the motion even as her conscious control began to fade.
"Almost there," Leslie said, her voice distant and distorted, as if reaching Tori through layers of thick glass. "Don't stop. Don't you dare stop."
The world began to dissolve around Tori, reality fragmenting into disconnected sensations—the pressure of Leslie's thighs against her face, the taste of another woman's arousal on her tongue, the burning in her chest that had transformed from urgent to agonizing to a strange, distant ache. Death felt close now, a hovering presence at the edges of her awareness, waiting for the final surrender of consciousness.
Finally Leslie's body tensed above her, thighs clamping down with bruising force as orgasm finally overtook her. A low, guttural sound emerged from Leslie's throat, a primal expression of pleasure that seemed to last forever as she rode out her climax against Tori's gaping mouth. "Yes," Leslie hissed, her body shuddering with waves of pleasure, her weight pressing down even harder on Tori's face. "That's it. Just like that."
Time lost all meaning to the suffocating trophy wife as Leslie prolonged her orgasm, grinding against Tori's mouth with deliberate slowness, extracting every last sensation from the experience while Tori's consciousness flickered like a dying flame… her life completely dependent of Leslie’s promise that her pleasure would earn her the right to breathe air again. Finally, after what could have been seconds or minutes or hours—Tori had no way to measure time in her oxygen-deprived state — Leslie rose up slightly, her weight lifting from Tori's face.
"Look at you," Leslie murmured, her voice foggy and distant to Tori's failing senses. "So pathetic.”
Through the narrowing tunnel of her vision, Tori could make out Leslie getting up and looking down at her. There was no mercy in her expression, no concern for the life literally ebbing away beneath her. Her step-daughter stretched, her movements lazy and satisfied, in no apparent hurry to alleviate Tori's suffering. There was no hurry in her movements as she crossed to the nightstand once again, her naked body gilded by the dim lamplight, sweat gleaming on her skin from the exertion of her prolonged orgasm. Tori watched through eyes that struggled to focus as Leslie's hand emerged from the drawer holding a knife.
Leslie sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight, drawing Tori's bound body slightly toward her like a planet pulled by gravitational force. The knife gleamed in the dim light, its blade catching and reflecting the warm glow of the bedside lamp.
"It would be so easy," Leslie mused, running the bladed tip gently over Tori's pussy, then her breasts, and finally her neck — tracing a path of potential destruction across the most vulnerable parts of her body. "So clean just to let you die. Dad would be devastated, of course. The tragic accident that befell his beautiful young wife while he was away on business." She slowly slid the cold metal against Tori's skin. "The police might suspect something, at first," Leslie continued, the knife now tracing lazy patterns across Tori's stomach. "But what evidence would they find? My prints in my own childhood home? My DNA in my own bedroom? Did you know that… some people… like using autoerotic asphyxiation when they are doing a bit of self-pleasure… and you’re all alone with my dad here. A tragic accident, they'd conclude. Sex game gone wrong."
Leslie's eyes met Tori’s nearly vacant gaze, cold and assessing, as if weighing the value of Tori's life against some private calculation only she understood. The knife continued its journey, coming to rest against the pulse point in Tori's neck, where the carotid artery throbbed visibly beneath the skin, broadcasting her terror in a visible rhythm. Time stretched, elastic and subjective, as Leslie held the position, the decision to end Tori's life or allow it to continue suspended in the air between them. Then, with a movement so sudden it made Tori flinch, Leslie flicked the knife and sliced through the zip tie. The plastic parted with a soft snick, falling away from Tori's neck, leaving behind a raw, red indentation where it had dug into her flesh.
"But that would be too easy," Leslie said, her voice hardening as she tossed the remnants of the zip tie aside. "Too quick. And I don’t want to disappoint my dad.”
The relief of being able to breathe again was so intense it took Tori a moment to even process the words. Leslie stood, knife still in hand, watching Tori gasp and cough as her body struggled to normalize its oxygen levels. There was no sympathy in her expression, no recognition of Tori as a fellow human being deserving of compassion or dignity. Only the cold assessment of a predator observing the continued struggles of already-subdued prey.
"Why?" Tori managed to rasp when she could finally form words, her voice a broken whisper of its former self. Air flowed freely into her lungs now that the zip tie was completely removed, each breath a painful reminder of how close she'd come to asphyxiation. "Why are you doing this? Why won't you just let me leave?"
The question was plaintive, desperate—a plea for understanding as much as for mercy. Tori had offered to disappear from their lives, to walk away from Richard, from the mansion, from everything she'd schemed and calculated to obtain. Yet Leslie seemed determined not just to punish her but to reshape her, to keep her tethered to a life that had become a prison.
"It's too late for that," she said finally, setting the glass down with deliberate care. "If you'd left yesterday, I might have let you go. But now—" she gestured toward Tori's bound, violated body, "—now I own you."
The words landed with sledgehammer force, their implication so monstrous that Tori's mind initially rejected them as hyperbole, as another psychological tactic designed to break her will. But Leslie's eyes held no exaggeration, no performative cruelty meant to frighten rather than inform. They contained only cold certainty, the absolute confidence of someone stating an established fact. "My daddy bought you," Leslie continued, sitting back on the edge of the bed, "because he thought you are going to make him happy. I don’t want you to go away… I want you to make him right about that. And that means that I’m going to make sure you are the best little fucktoy on the planet... for my dad, and for me."
Terror washed over Tori in a cold wave, the full implication of Leslie's words finally penetrating the protective fog of shock and pain that had enveloped her consciousness. This wasn't just about tonight, about punishment for perceived wrongs or revenge for insults given. This was about a fundamental restructuring of her place in the Blackwood household, a permanent repositioning from Richard's wife to a captive… in her house, in her marriage, and in her life. "You can't," Tori whispered, her voice cracking. "You can't just— I'll tell someone. The police, Richard, someone will—"
Leslie's laugh cut her off, the sound genuinely amused. "Who are they going to believe, skank? My father's only child and an up-and-coming lawyer? Or some gold-digging whore?" She idly played with one of Tori’s nipples as she spoke. “Do you think my dad will believe that about me? Or will you just cost yourself your livelihood and reputation for nothing at all?”
The brutal assessment silenced Tori, the truth of it undeniable. Leslie was the blood relation, the Blackwood heir, the Columbia law student with a sterling reputation. Tori was the trophy wife, the beautiful interloper, the woman who had married a man thirty years her senior after a whirlwind courtship that raised eyebrows throughout Richard's social circle. In any contest of credibility, Leslie would win without effort.
Tori's silence was answer enough for Leslie. "That's what I thought," she said softly, reading the defeat in Tori's eyes with practiced ease. She reached out, brushing a strand of sweat-dampened hair from Tori's forehead in a gesture that might have seemed tender if performed by anyone else in any other context. "So here's how this is going to work. You're going to be the perfect wife to my father for as long as you both shall live — attentive, loving, sexually available whenever he desires, and adventurous. You can’t match up to my mother in any way, but you do have one perk over her in this… she had dignity and self respect, and you don’t anymore. Anything you could do to make him happy, you are going to do. And when he's not around—"
She leaned down, her lips brushing against Tori's ear, her breath warm against skin still chilled with fear. "You're going to be whatever I want you to be. My toy. My pet. My property. So you can beg me for forgiveness for daring to intrude into my life. Are we clear?"
The words hung in the air between them. It wasn’t really a question at all… it was a statement of terms, a declaration of ownership that brooked no argument, no negotiation, no escape. Tori cried softly as her step-daughter’s hands, cool against Tori's heated skin, flipped her gently back over. Her face was pressed against the sheets that she now realized were soaked with Leslie’s orgasm. The zip ties cut deeper into her wrists and ankles as her position shifted, but that minor pain receeded into the background as Tori registered a sound that sent fresh terror coursing through her veins — the soft rustle of leather straps and the clink of buckles.
"No," Tori whispered, the word muffled by the sheets, her voice a raw, broken thing after hours of screaming and the traumatic compression of the zip tie around her throat. "Please, no more."
Leslie's weight settled on the bed behind her, the mattress dipping slightly under the new distribution of mass. Tori didn’t need to twist her head to see what Leslie was doing… the sudden jostling of the thick dildo wedged up her ass confirmed all of her worst fears — Leslie was putting the harness back on. "Please… I’m sorry!” she begged. The attempt to apologize was idiotic and pointless and she should have known it, but terror had reduced her capacity for rational thought — for anything beyond her desperation to delay the inevitable.
Leslie chuckled softly. "I know you are," she said, her voice conversational, almost friendly. "This isn’t punishment anymore. This is training."
"Please," Tori tried again, the word emerging as little more than an exhale. "I've… I’ve already learned my lesson! I understand now. I'll do whatever you want, be whatever you want. Just please stop hurting me."
Leslie tilted her head, studying Tori as if she were an interesting specimen under glass rather than a human being pleading for mercy. "You think you've learned your lesson?" she asked, the question clearly rhetorical. "You think a few hours of discomfort have undone a lifetime of calculation and manipulation? Of entitlement and bitchiness? Of thinking you can get away with the bare minimum?"
She reached forward, gripping Tori's chin with fingers that dug into the soft flesh beneath her jaw, forcing eye contact. "This isn't like your relationships with men, Victoria. You don't get to fuck your way to instant forgiveness. You don't get to offer your body as currency and expect the debt to be paid after a few thrusts." She shook her head before releasing Tori's chin with a dismissive flick of her wrist. "But I do think you just demonstrated you are further away from ready than I thought."
She reached down, and came back up with the bottle of hot sauce once again that had been used earlier. Tori's eyes widened with renewed terror, a whimper escaping her lips before she could suppress it. Leslie uncapped the bottle with deliberate slowness, the pungent smell of capsaicin immediately filling the air between them.
"No," Tori gasped, instinctively trying to squirm away despite the restraints that held her immobile. "Please, not again! I'm sorry! I won't question you again! Please!"
Leslie ignored her pleas, moving between Tori's bound legs with the hot sauce bottle in hand. "This part? This is punishment,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper that was somehow more terrifying than any shout could have been as she spread Tori's pussy lips wide. Then she upended the bottle, pushing it inside, and left it there.
The hot sauce poured directly into Tori's exposed flesh, coating the cigarette burns and seeping into every wrinkle and crease in some of the most sensitive flesh her body had to offer. Tori screamed, the sound tearing from her damaged throat with such force it felt like something physical ripping inside her. The pain was immediate and overwhelming, a chemical burn that seemed to melt her flesh from the inside out. Her back arched against the restraints, her body contorting in a desperate, futile attempt to escape the liquid fire consuming her most intimate areas.
"There we go," Leslie said, her voice almost soothing as she watched Tori writhe beneath her. "Now you remember who's in charge." Then she began to thrust, raping her step-mother up the ass with the punishing dildo for the second time. Tori's screams took on a different quality now, a broken, animal sound that seemed to come from somewhere beyond conscious thought. The renewed assault on her body was too much, too soon after the last violation, with no time for recovery or adjustment. Each thrust sent fresh waves of agony through her pelvis, the hot sauce burning like acid as it was forced deeper into her body from both ends.
"You thought we were done?" Leslie asked, maintaining a steady rhythm with the dildo, each word punctuated by another thrust. "You thought a few hours would be enough?" She leaned forward, her weight pressing down on Tori's back as she flattened her body down against the sheet, pressing her lips against her step-mother’s ear. "We're just getting started," she whispered, her breath hot against Tori's tear-streaked face. "This is 10 am on day two. We still have… five days and nine hours before Dad gets home, and I mean to take every last second of it to get you ready."
The precise calculation, the reminder of how much time still stretched before them, broke something fundamental in Tori's spirit. This wasn't a single night of torture to be endured and survived. This was the beginning of a systematic, prolonged destruction of her body and mind, a marathon of pain with no end in sight.
"I've been thinking about our schedule," Leslie continued, as if discussing a business meeting rather than ongoing sexual torture. Her hips maintained their relentless rhythm as she raped Tori, driving the dildo deeper with each savage, long thrust when the hot sauce ensured that even the slightest movement was agony. "About how to structure the remaining time to maximize your education. Tomorrow I thought we'd focus on your oral skills," Leslie mused, her free hand reaching beneath Tori to squeeze her breast with punishing force. "You've made progress tonight, but there's still so much room for improvement. We’ll need to work on ways you can please both me and my father, so we’ll see how motivated you can be with Mr. Dildo down your throat.”
Tori's mind tried to retreat from the horror of what Leslie was describing, to find some safe corner where these words couldn't reach her. But Leslie's voice followed her, relentless in its calm description of the days to come.
"Wednesday we'll work on your attitude," Leslie continued, twisting Tori's nipple until a fresh scream tore from her raw throat. "Your posture, your tone of voice, the proper way to address each of us in different situations. By Thursday, I think you'll be ready for some role play — practicing scenarios you are going to propose to my father once Dad returns, ways you can make his sex life more exciting. Of course, we’ll periodically give you a pop-quiz on your mouth’s proper use."
The planned curriculum of degradation stretched before Tori like a roadmap to hell, each day a new circle of torment designed to strip away another layer of her humanity, her agency, her sense of self. And through it all, Leslie's voice remained calm, almost cheerful, as if discussing vacation plans rather than systematic torture.
"And Friday," Leslie said, her voice dropping to a whisper that vibrated with anticipation, "Friday is graduation day. When we test everything you've learned, make sure it's really sunk in. That you understand, bone-deep, exactly what your place is in this family." She punctuated the statement with a particularly vicious thrust that sent the dildo impossibly deeper, the hot sauce burning like fire in Tori's most intimate tissues. Black spots danced at the edges of Tori's vision, consciousness beginning to fragment under the assault, but Leslie seemed unconcerned with whether Tori remained fully aware of her torment.
"Five days," Leslie repeated. "Five days and nine hours remaining before Dad gets home."
The reminder hung in the air between them, a promise and a threat combined. Tori's tears flowed freely now, soaking into the pillow beneath her face, her body wracked with sobs that her damaged throat could barely voice. The realization that this was just the beginning, that Leslie had planned a systematic program of torture and degradation that would span Richard's entire absence, was almost more than her mind could process.
"Don't worry," Leslie said, her tone softening into a mockery of comfort as she continued thrusting. "By the time he gets back, you'll be perfect. The ideal wife. The perfect fucktoy. Something we can both be proud of."
(This story is a bit too long for one post. See next post)
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Thank you for reading! I appreciate any feedback you may have. If you are interested in more stories by me, all of my work is available on my website with pictures at my website.
I take commissions!
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Trophy Life, by John Drake
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This forum is for publishing, reading and discussing rape fantasy (noncon) stories and consensual erotic fiction. Before you post your first story, please take five minutes to read the Quick Guide to Posting Stories and the Tag Guidelines.
If you are looking for a particular story, the story index might be helpful. It lists all stories alphabetically on one page. Please rate and comment on the stories you've read, thank you!
Story Filters
Language: English Stories | Deutsche Geschichten
Consent: Noncon | Consensual
Length: Flash | Short | Medium | Long
LGBT: Lesbian | Gay | Trans
Theme: Gang Rape | Female Rapist | SciFi | Fantasy
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John_F_Drake
- Sophomore
- Posts: 43
- Joined: Wed Apr 23, 2025 6:15 pm
Re: Trophy Life, by John Drake
———————
Morning light streamed through the kitchen windows of the Blackwood estate, casting long golden rectangles across the marble countertops and expensive appliances. Leslie sat at the dining room table, sipping her coffee with one hand while scrolling through her phone with the other. She looked perfectly ordinary in silk pajama top, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail… the picture of a young professional enjoying a lazy morning at home, or of a dedicated student making use of her break to study.
The phone beside her laptop lit up, vibrating against the table's surface with a soft buzz. Leslie glanced at the screen, a small smile touching her lips as she recognized her father's number. She picked up the device, swiping to answer.
"Hi Daddy," she greeted, her voice warm with all the affection in the world. “I was just thinking about you!”
"Leslie-bear," Richard's voice filled her ears, delighted and casual and kind. "How's my favorite daughter?"
Leslie laughed. "Still your only daughter, Dad. Unless there's something you haven't told me." She settled back in her chair, shifting her legs a little. The movement causing a soft rustling sound from the space below. If Richard had been present rather than thousands of miles away, he might have noticed the subtle shift in Leslie's position, the deliberate widening of her stance. He might have wondered why the tablecloth hung a little awkwardly where it draped down.
He might have wondered what was hidden beneath.
"God forbid," Richard chuckled. "One of you is quite enough for any man to handle."
Leslie huffed out a tiny, amused breath. “I think you could handle anything. How is New York?” she asked.
"The negotiations are dragging on," Richard's voice came through the phone, tired but warm. "This merger… the firms are meticulous. Everything has to be reviewed a dozen times before they'll sign."
"That's why they're successful," Leslie replied. Her free hand dropping below the table, fingers brushing something smooth and supple. "Attention to detail matters."
Her father sighed. "I suppose so, but it comes with a cost,” he grumbled. "Leslie-bear, I’m sorry, but… these negotiations are taking longer than expected. That's actually why I'm calling. I… might need to stay longer, and I wanted to check in and see how you and Tori are doing first."
Leslie looked down.
Beneath the table, in the shadowed space between Leslie's spread legs, knelt Tori. She was nearly unrecognizable from the proud, beautiful woman who had greeted Leslie at the door five days ago. A leather hood completely encased her head with her hair sticking out the back in a ponytail that she doubted the trophy wife had ever word in her life. Inside it, Tori's world was reduced to darkness, to the muffled sounds that penetrated the thick material, to the smell of her own sweat and tears, and to the taste of whatever Leslie decided to feed her. The only gap in the mask were two tiny holes for her nose, and an opening for her mouth which was currently occupied between Leslie’s spread thighs. The masking hood transforming her from person to object… in fact, it made her almost impossible to see as anything else.
Over the last five days, Leslie had systematically dismantled every aspect of Tori's identity, every shred of dignity or autonomy she had once possessed. Through calculated application of pain, humiliation, and psychological manipulation, she had broken Tori down and rebuilt her. The woman who had married Richard Blackwood with visions of social ascendancy had been methodically dismantled, leaving behind a creature defined solely by Leslie's will. By now, she knew that she existed solely to serve, to please, to obey without question or hesitation.
Beneath the table, Tori's tongue continued its work, her movements mechanical and precise — the result of hours of detailed instruction on exactly how Leslie liked to be pleasured. She had already brought her step-daughter to orgasm twice this morning, and Leslie was pretty sure she was well on her way to the third one after she got off the phone. It was a shame that she was forced to use gentler means of restraint after that first day to make sure all the marks had healed, but Tori’s wrists were still bound behind her back with padded leather cuffs connected by a short chain, her ankles similarly restrained, forcing her to remain on her knees.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," Richard was saying, his voice carrying clearly through the phone's speaker. "I know we were supposed to have more time together during your break. But it looks like I'll need to stay a few more days. The Nakamura team wants to renegotiate some of the secondary clauses."
Leslie's fingers found the back of Tori's hood, gripping the leather straps that crisscrossed her stepmother's skull. With subtle pressure, she guided Tori's exposed mouth even more firmly against her cunt as she reached for her coffee cup with the other hand. "Don’t worry about it too much, Dad," Leslie said, her voice betraying no hint of what was happening below. "It's totally fine. School doesn't start for another two week. We've got plenty of time to catch up when you get back."
Beneath the table, Tori worked with all the enthusiasm of a loyal dog, her tongue tracing across Leslie's clit in just the right way. She ought to by now… Leslie had spent hours training her over the past five days, teaching her exactly how to provide pleasure with her mouth, rewarding successful performance with basic necessities like food and water, punishing failure with increasingly creative applications of pain. The system had proved remarkably effective.
"How about Tori?" Richard asked, concern evident in his voice. "I feel bad leaving her alone with you for so long. I know you two have had your... differences."
Leslie's lips curved into a smile that her father couldn't see, her eyes dropping to the hidden space beneath the table where her stepmother knelt in absolute subjugation. "You know," she said, her voice perfectly modulated to convey sincerity, "I think she and I are finally starting to understand one another.”
Tori's rhythm faltered slightly at cruel half-truth. Leslie's thighs tightened painfully around her head in warning, fingers tangling in her hair through the opening in the hood, giving a sharp, punishing tug. Tori immediately corrected her pace, working her tongue with renewed diligence… and Leslie smiled. They had indeed reached an understanding — one built on her understanding that Leslie had complete control over every aspect of Tori's existence. By now, the woman understood that she wasn’t really Tori’s step-mother… she was the Blackwood family whore, and she would never be allowed to forget her place in the household hierarchy.
"Really?" Richard's surprise was evident even through the phone connection. "That's... that's wonderful, Leslie. I was worried you two would never find common ground!"
"We've discovered we have more in common than we thought," Leslie said, her hips shifting slightly, pressing more firmly against Tori's mouth. The movement was subtle, controlled, nothing that would be audible through the phone. "We've spent a lot of time getting to know each other better."
The understatement was so extreme it bordered on absurdist humor, though there was nothing humorous about the reality it obscured. The "getting to know each other" had included methodical sexual torture, psychological breaking, and a complete restructuring of Tori's life. Her father, completely unaware of the irony, seemed excited. "That's great," Richard said, the relief in his voice palpable. "I was hoping you two would eventually warm up to each other. Tori's really a lovely person once you see her for who she is."
"Well, I won’t pretend that I completely understand what you see her in,” Leslie admitted diplomatically, “but I have found some of the upsides to having her around, and gotten a grasp on her worth as a person. As a foundation for getting closer with someone, it’s doing pretty good.” Beneath the table, she increased the pressure on the back of Tori's hood, driving her mouth more firmly against her clit. The message was clear—perform better, more enthusiastically, with greater attention to detail. Tori complied immediately, her tongue working faster, applying more pressure in the precise patterns Leslie had taught her over the endless days of "training."
"Is she there?" Richard asked. "Can I talk to her?"
"She's actually in the shower." Leslie replied, her breath catching slightly as Tori hit a particularly sensitive spot. She disguised it with a small cough. "We exercised together this morning. Took a run on the that trail behind the estate you're always talking about."
The lie came easily, containing enough truth to be convincing. The two of them had been “working out” this morning, but they certainly hadn’t been hiking. In reality, Tori hadn't seen daylight in five days, hadn't worn clothing or spoken an unprompted word or made a single decision about her own body since Leslie had first zip-tied her wrists.
"A run? Together?" Richard sounded genuinely pleased. "That's... that's really great, Leslie. I was so worried you two would never get along. This means a lot to me. Having the two women in my life get along."
"I know it does, Daddy," Leslie said, and there was genuine affection in her voice. For all her hatred towards the gold-digging slut that Tori had been and complicated, cruel affection towards the pet she was becoming, her love for her father remained real and uncomplicated. "That's why we've been working so hard to get along. We both want you to be happy." Even if they would be going about that goal very differently from now on.
Beneath the table, Tori's shoulders shook with silent sobs, but her mouth never stopped its mechanical work. Five days of conditioning had taught her the consequences of faltering, regardless of her emotional state.
"Tell her I called?" Richard asked. "And that I'll be home in a few more days? I miss you both."
"Of course," Leslie promised, her free hand stroking the leather hood almost tenderly, a perverse caress that emphasized Tori's objectification rather than offering genuine comfort. "We miss you too, Dad. The house isn't the same without you."
Her father gave the sigh of a man setting down a heavy burden after too long, clearly pleased that a conflict that had been weighing on him was no more. “Give my love to Victoria, will you?"
"Oh, I will," Leslie promised, her smile widening to show teeth. "Every day until you get back."
Leslie ended the call, still basking in her father warm voice… the relief he felt in knowing his daughter and wife were finally bonding, developing the relationship he had hoped for since bringing Tori into their lives. Leslie set the phone down beside her laptop, her attention returning fully to the woman kneeling beneath the table.
"Did you hear that?" she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper audible only to Tori. "Dad misses us both. Isn't that sweet?" She shifted in her chair, spreading her legs wider. Tori couldn’t see, but she didn’t need to to understand exactly how to behave… her mouth latched onto Leslie’s clit, applying exactly the pressure and rhythm she had been taught was correct. "Good girl," Leslie murmured, the praise both reward and reinforcement of Tori's new status. "You've learned so well. Dad's going to be so pleased with his improved wife when he gets home."
She reached for her coffee, taking a sip as she continued to direct Tori's movements with subtle pressure on the hood, the multitasking as natural as breathing after five days of constant control. The morning sunlight continued to stream through the kitchen windows, illuminating a scene of domestic tranquility that concealed the darker reality beneath its surface.
"Don't worry," Leslie said, her voice soft with mock tenderness. "Dad won’t be hard to please. He’ll be overjoyed when you tell him how much you’ve missed him, how his absence has inspired you to welcome him home so… enthusiastically. How you enjoyed it so much that it taught you the sort of things you’d like him to do for you from now on. That you've simply become more... accommodating during his absence. More attuned to his needs. More eager to please him in all things."
Tori didn’t even pause in her licking… the idea of practically becoming her father’s sex slave, of inspiring him to fuck her ass, of waking him up with blowjobs and worshiping his body every chance she got no longer phased her, not when the alternative was her new Mistress’s anger. In that, Leslie saw victory… a vacancy where pride had once lived, the hollow acceptance that had replaced calculation and ambition. She yanked the other woman off of her cunt by the air, and she barely even cried out. Leslie looked down at her for a moment, considering her placid obedience. Then she spat in the woman’s mouth.
Tori didn’t even flinch.
"You finally have learned," Leslie observed, a small, genuine note of admiration in her tone. "Wasn’t even as hard as I expected. You're a quick study when properly motivated."
"Now," she said, picking up her coffee cup and taking a leisurely sip. "Where were we? Oh, right." She spread her thighs again, guiding Tori's hooded head back into position. "We were discussing our new understanding. Please continue the conversation, Mom. I find your arguments quite... persuasive."
As Tori resumed her mechanical service, Leslie reopened her laptop, the picture of a dedicated law student preparing for her future. The sunlight continued to stream through the windows, bathing the kitchen in warm, golden light that belied the darkness it contained. In three days, Richard would return to a house that appeared unchanged, to a daughter who had always been his pride, and to a wife who would greet him with perfect obedience and practiced smiles.
And beneath it all, invisible but inescapable, the new order that Leslie had established would continue — a perverse bound not by love or respect, but by secrets too dark to ever see the light.
“I did tell my father the truth,” Leslie purred, her breath starting to hitch as her whore of a step-mother started making real progress towards her latest orgasm. I am glad we finally understand one another, Victoria.”
The End
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Thank you for reading! I appreciate any feedback you may have. If you are interested in more stories by me, all of my work is available on my website with pictures at my website.
I take commissions!
Morning light streamed through the kitchen windows of the Blackwood estate, casting long golden rectangles across the marble countertops and expensive appliances. Leslie sat at the dining room table, sipping her coffee with one hand while scrolling through her phone with the other. She looked perfectly ordinary in silk pajama top, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail… the picture of a young professional enjoying a lazy morning at home, or of a dedicated student making use of her break to study.
The phone beside her laptop lit up, vibrating against the table's surface with a soft buzz. Leslie glanced at the screen, a small smile touching her lips as she recognized her father's number. She picked up the device, swiping to answer.
"Hi Daddy," she greeted, her voice warm with all the affection in the world. “I was just thinking about you!”
"Leslie-bear," Richard's voice filled her ears, delighted and casual and kind. "How's my favorite daughter?"
Leslie laughed. "Still your only daughter, Dad. Unless there's something you haven't told me." She settled back in her chair, shifting her legs a little. The movement causing a soft rustling sound from the space below. If Richard had been present rather than thousands of miles away, he might have noticed the subtle shift in Leslie's position, the deliberate widening of her stance. He might have wondered why the tablecloth hung a little awkwardly where it draped down.
He might have wondered what was hidden beneath.
"God forbid," Richard chuckled. "One of you is quite enough for any man to handle."
Leslie huffed out a tiny, amused breath. “I think you could handle anything. How is New York?” she asked.
"The negotiations are dragging on," Richard's voice came through the phone, tired but warm. "This merger… the firms are meticulous. Everything has to be reviewed a dozen times before they'll sign."
"That's why they're successful," Leslie replied. Her free hand dropping below the table, fingers brushing something smooth and supple. "Attention to detail matters."
Her father sighed. "I suppose so, but it comes with a cost,” he grumbled. "Leslie-bear, I’m sorry, but… these negotiations are taking longer than expected. That's actually why I'm calling. I… might need to stay longer, and I wanted to check in and see how you and Tori are doing first."
Leslie looked down.
Beneath the table, in the shadowed space between Leslie's spread legs, knelt Tori. She was nearly unrecognizable from the proud, beautiful woman who had greeted Leslie at the door five days ago. A leather hood completely encased her head with her hair sticking out the back in a ponytail that she doubted the trophy wife had ever word in her life. Inside it, Tori's world was reduced to darkness, to the muffled sounds that penetrated the thick material, to the smell of her own sweat and tears, and to the taste of whatever Leslie decided to feed her. The only gap in the mask were two tiny holes for her nose, and an opening for her mouth which was currently occupied between Leslie’s spread thighs. The masking hood transforming her from person to object… in fact, it made her almost impossible to see as anything else.
Over the last five days, Leslie had systematically dismantled every aspect of Tori's identity, every shred of dignity or autonomy she had once possessed. Through calculated application of pain, humiliation, and psychological manipulation, she had broken Tori down and rebuilt her. The woman who had married Richard Blackwood with visions of social ascendancy had been methodically dismantled, leaving behind a creature defined solely by Leslie's will. By now, she knew that she existed solely to serve, to please, to obey without question or hesitation.
Beneath the table, Tori's tongue continued its work, her movements mechanical and precise — the result of hours of detailed instruction on exactly how Leslie liked to be pleasured. She had already brought her step-daughter to orgasm twice this morning, and Leslie was pretty sure she was well on her way to the third one after she got off the phone. It was a shame that she was forced to use gentler means of restraint after that first day to make sure all the marks had healed, but Tori’s wrists were still bound behind her back with padded leather cuffs connected by a short chain, her ankles similarly restrained, forcing her to remain on her knees.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," Richard was saying, his voice carrying clearly through the phone's speaker. "I know we were supposed to have more time together during your break. But it looks like I'll need to stay a few more days. The Nakamura team wants to renegotiate some of the secondary clauses."
Leslie's fingers found the back of Tori's hood, gripping the leather straps that crisscrossed her stepmother's skull. With subtle pressure, she guided Tori's exposed mouth even more firmly against her cunt as she reached for her coffee cup with the other hand. "Don’t worry about it too much, Dad," Leslie said, her voice betraying no hint of what was happening below. "It's totally fine. School doesn't start for another two week. We've got plenty of time to catch up when you get back."
Beneath the table, Tori worked with all the enthusiasm of a loyal dog, her tongue tracing across Leslie's clit in just the right way. She ought to by now… Leslie had spent hours training her over the past five days, teaching her exactly how to provide pleasure with her mouth, rewarding successful performance with basic necessities like food and water, punishing failure with increasingly creative applications of pain. The system had proved remarkably effective.
"How about Tori?" Richard asked, concern evident in his voice. "I feel bad leaving her alone with you for so long. I know you two have had your... differences."
Leslie's lips curved into a smile that her father couldn't see, her eyes dropping to the hidden space beneath the table where her stepmother knelt in absolute subjugation. "You know," she said, her voice perfectly modulated to convey sincerity, "I think she and I are finally starting to understand one another.”
Tori's rhythm faltered slightly at cruel half-truth. Leslie's thighs tightened painfully around her head in warning, fingers tangling in her hair through the opening in the hood, giving a sharp, punishing tug. Tori immediately corrected her pace, working her tongue with renewed diligence… and Leslie smiled. They had indeed reached an understanding — one built on her understanding that Leslie had complete control over every aspect of Tori's existence. By now, the woman understood that she wasn’t really Tori’s step-mother… she was the Blackwood family whore, and she would never be allowed to forget her place in the household hierarchy.
"Really?" Richard's surprise was evident even through the phone connection. "That's... that's wonderful, Leslie. I was worried you two would never find common ground!"
"We've discovered we have more in common than we thought," Leslie said, her hips shifting slightly, pressing more firmly against Tori's mouth. The movement was subtle, controlled, nothing that would be audible through the phone. "We've spent a lot of time getting to know each other better."
The understatement was so extreme it bordered on absurdist humor, though there was nothing humorous about the reality it obscured. The "getting to know each other" had included methodical sexual torture, psychological breaking, and a complete restructuring of Tori's life. Her father, completely unaware of the irony, seemed excited. "That's great," Richard said, the relief in his voice palpable. "I was hoping you two would eventually warm up to each other. Tori's really a lovely person once you see her for who she is."
"Well, I won’t pretend that I completely understand what you see her in,” Leslie admitted diplomatically, “but I have found some of the upsides to having her around, and gotten a grasp on her worth as a person. As a foundation for getting closer with someone, it’s doing pretty good.” Beneath the table, she increased the pressure on the back of Tori's hood, driving her mouth more firmly against her clit. The message was clear—perform better, more enthusiastically, with greater attention to detail. Tori complied immediately, her tongue working faster, applying more pressure in the precise patterns Leslie had taught her over the endless days of "training."
"Is she there?" Richard asked. "Can I talk to her?"
"She's actually in the shower." Leslie replied, her breath catching slightly as Tori hit a particularly sensitive spot. She disguised it with a small cough. "We exercised together this morning. Took a run on the that trail behind the estate you're always talking about."
The lie came easily, containing enough truth to be convincing. The two of them had been “working out” this morning, but they certainly hadn’t been hiking. In reality, Tori hadn't seen daylight in five days, hadn't worn clothing or spoken an unprompted word or made a single decision about her own body since Leslie had first zip-tied her wrists.
"A run? Together?" Richard sounded genuinely pleased. "That's... that's really great, Leslie. I was so worried you two would never get along. This means a lot to me. Having the two women in my life get along."
"I know it does, Daddy," Leslie said, and there was genuine affection in her voice. For all her hatred towards the gold-digging slut that Tori had been and complicated, cruel affection towards the pet she was becoming, her love for her father remained real and uncomplicated. "That's why we've been working so hard to get along. We both want you to be happy." Even if they would be going about that goal very differently from now on.
Beneath the table, Tori's shoulders shook with silent sobs, but her mouth never stopped its mechanical work. Five days of conditioning had taught her the consequences of faltering, regardless of her emotional state.
"Tell her I called?" Richard asked. "And that I'll be home in a few more days? I miss you both."
"Of course," Leslie promised, her free hand stroking the leather hood almost tenderly, a perverse caress that emphasized Tori's objectification rather than offering genuine comfort. "We miss you too, Dad. The house isn't the same without you."
Her father gave the sigh of a man setting down a heavy burden after too long, clearly pleased that a conflict that had been weighing on him was no more. “Give my love to Victoria, will you?"
"Oh, I will," Leslie promised, her smile widening to show teeth. "Every day until you get back."
Leslie ended the call, still basking in her father warm voice… the relief he felt in knowing his daughter and wife were finally bonding, developing the relationship he had hoped for since bringing Tori into their lives. Leslie set the phone down beside her laptop, her attention returning fully to the woman kneeling beneath the table.
"Did you hear that?" she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper audible only to Tori. "Dad misses us both. Isn't that sweet?" She shifted in her chair, spreading her legs wider. Tori couldn’t see, but she didn’t need to to understand exactly how to behave… her mouth latched onto Leslie’s clit, applying exactly the pressure and rhythm she had been taught was correct. "Good girl," Leslie murmured, the praise both reward and reinforcement of Tori's new status. "You've learned so well. Dad's going to be so pleased with his improved wife when he gets home."
She reached for her coffee, taking a sip as she continued to direct Tori's movements with subtle pressure on the hood, the multitasking as natural as breathing after five days of constant control. The morning sunlight continued to stream through the kitchen windows, illuminating a scene of domestic tranquility that concealed the darker reality beneath its surface.
"Don't worry," Leslie said, her voice soft with mock tenderness. "Dad won’t be hard to please. He’ll be overjoyed when you tell him how much you’ve missed him, how his absence has inspired you to welcome him home so… enthusiastically. How you enjoyed it so much that it taught you the sort of things you’d like him to do for you from now on. That you've simply become more... accommodating during his absence. More attuned to his needs. More eager to please him in all things."
Tori didn’t even pause in her licking… the idea of practically becoming her father’s sex slave, of inspiring him to fuck her ass, of waking him up with blowjobs and worshiping his body every chance she got no longer phased her, not when the alternative was her new Mistress’s anger. In that, Leslie saw victory… a vacancy where pride had once lived, the hollow acceptance that had replaced calculation and ambition. She yanked the other woman off of her cunt by the air, and she barely even cried out. Leslie looked down at her for a moment, considering her placid obedience. Then she spat in the woman’s mouth.
Tori didn’t even flinch.
"You finally have learned," Leslie observed, a small, genuine note of admiration in her tone. "Wasn’t even as hard as I expected. You're a quick study when properly motivated."
"Now," she said, picking up her coffee cup and taking a leisurely sip. "Where were we? Oh, right." She spread her thighs again, guiding Tori's hooded head back into position. "We were discussing our new understanding. Please continue the conversation, Mom. I find your arguments quite... persuasive."
As Tori resumed her mechanical service, Leslie reopened her laptop, the picture of a dedicated law student preparing for her future. The sunlight continued to stream through the windows, bathing the kitchen in warm, golden light that belied the darkness it contained. In three days, Richard would return to a house that appeared unchanged, to a daughter who had always been his pride, and to a wife who would greet him with perfect obedience and practiced smiles.
And beneath it all, invisible but inescapable, the new order that Leslie had established would continue — a perverse bound not by love or respect, but by secrets too dark to ever see the light.
“I did tell my father the truth,” Leslie purred, her breath starting to hitch as her whore of a step-mother started making real progress towards her latest orgasm. I am glad we finally understand one another, Victoria.”
The End
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Thank you for reading! I appreciate any feedback you may have. If you are interested in more stories by me, all of my work is available on my website with pictures at my website.
I take commissions!
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Shocker
- Pillar of the Community
- Graduate
- Posts: 364
- Joined: Mon Feb 24, 2025 5:25 pm
Re: Trophy Life, by John Drake
A very exciting story, thoroughly enjoyed it, certainly more than Torie. I first thought the two estranged women would bond getting raped side by side, but this was much more ingenious.
My collected stories can be found here Shocking, positively shocking
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John_F_Drake
- Sophomore
- Posts: 43
- Joined: Wed Apr 23, 2025 6:15 pm
Re: Trophy Life, by John Drake
@Shocker Your idea would have been lots of fun as well 
I wrote this one for an anthology of about female rapists though, so it will have to be saved for another story down the line!
I wrote this one for an anthology of about female rapists though, so it will have to be saved for another story down the line!