“Not yet.”

He edged me for what felt like hours. Tongue. Fingers. Then the vibrator—small, powerful, buzzing low against my clit while he fucked me slow with three fingers, stretching me, preparing me. He brought me to the edge six, seven, eight times—each one higher, sharper, more painful—until I was crying, begging, hips jerking uselessly against the cuffs.

When I was a trembling, sobbing mess—pussy swollen, clit throbbing, tears running down my temples—he finally climbed over me.

“Look at me,” he said.

I did—eyes glassy, lips parted.

“You’re not my best friend’s daughter anymore,” he told me, voice low and rough. “You’re Daddy’s wife in every way that matters. My...