DaddyJo

⸻

The sun was warm on my bare shoulders as I tied the apron strings tight around my waist. The skirt of my maid-style outfit was scandalously short, but DaddyJo liked me in it when I worked outside for him. The ruffled trim brushed against my thighs as I stepped into the garden, already feeling a delicious flutter of nerves knowing his eyes would linger on every movement I made.

“Bring me the shears, sweetheart,” DaddyJo called from where he knelt among the roses. His voice was calm, deep, and so certain it made my knees feel weaker than they should.

“Yes, Daddy,” I answered, the word slipping out like honey. I crossed the garden path, the gravel crunching beneath my heels, bending just low enough as I fetched the shears from the bench. I knew the bow at the back of my apron would tremble, and I let him see it.

When I handed the shears over, DaddyJo’s gloved hand brushed deliberately against mine. A simple touch, but it carried weight. His gaze held me for a moment before he turned back to the roses. “Stay close,” he said. “You’ll learn.”

So I knelt beside him, the grass cool beneath my stockings, and watched as he clipped the stems clean, placing each perfect bloom carefully in the basket beside us. He moved with patience, but with a kind of strength that made me want to lean against him, to be guided.

“Your turn,” he murmured, passing me the shears. His hand lingered over mine, steadying it, shaping the angle as I leaned forward toward the rose bush. The closeness made me shiver—the press of his chest against my arm, the weight of his presence.

I tried, snipping carefully, but the cut came out crooked. I looked up, lips parting in apology, but DaddyJo only chuckled low in his throat. “That’s why you’re here, Karen,” he said. “To practice. To please me.”

My heart fluttered at the words. The basket began to fill slowly with roses, each one a small victory, each one placed in by his approval. When a bead of sweat rolled down my temple, DaddyJo’s thumb brushed it away, lingering just a second too long.

By the time the sun dipped lower, I was flushed, both from the work and from the way he never stopped watching me—like I was the most important part of his garden.

And when he finally stood, brushing soil from his gloves, he reached down to lift me to my feet. “That’s enough for today,” he said softly, but there was something heavier in his voice. “Now… come inside, little maid. You’ve earned my attention.”

DaddyJo’s hand was firm on mine as he led me out of the fading sun and into the cool hush of the house. The garden’s scent of roses clung to my fingers, mingling with the faint musk of soil, but all I could focus on was the sound of his boots against the floorboards and the sure grip that told me exactly where I belonged—at his side.

The short skirt of my maid outfit swished as I moved, still damp with the heat of the afternoon. I felt wickedly aware of how little it covered, how every step risked revealing more. When he closed the door behind us, the world shrank down to just the two of us: his heavy presence, my thudding heartbeat, the silence charged with expectation.

He didn’t speak at first. Instead, he circled me slowly, his eyes dragging over my body like hands. My stockings, streaked with grass stains from kneeling; my apron bow, askew from work; the smear of soil on my thigh that he brushed away with his thumb. Each detail seemed to please him.

“You look perfect like this,” DaddyJo murmured, his voice low, rough with approval. “My maid. My pretty little helper.”

The praise sent a shiver straight through me. I wanted to melt, to drop to my knees and beg for more. Instead, I whispered, breathless, “I’ll do anything for you, Daddy.”

His hand caught my chin, tilting my face up until my eyes met his. The intensity in his gaze stole the breath from my lungs. He leaned in close, his lips grazing my ear as he said, “Good. Because now it’s time for you to tend to me.”

The words sent heat pooling low in my belly. My knees gave way before he even pushed me down, the hem of my skirt flaring indecently as I sank onto the rug before him. I looked up, trembling, already flushed, my hands folded obediently on my lap.

DaddyJo’s smile was slow, dangerous, indulgent. His hand stroked through my hair, tugging just enough to remind me of his control. “That’s it, Karen,” he murmured, savoring my submission. “Show me how well you’ve learned to please me.”

And in that moment, the garden felt like a distant memory. I wasn’t his helper among the roses anymore—I was his maid, his doll, kneeling and ready to be used exactly how he wanted, for as long as he wanted.

The rug was soft beneath my knees, but it was nothing compared to the press of DaddyJo’s presence above me. I tilted my chin higher, trembling with the anticipation that thickened in the air between us. His thumb brushed over my lower lip, testing, teasing, making me open my mouth just a little in invitation.

“Obedient,” he murmured, that gravelly warmth in his tone making my stomach flip. “Just how I like you.”

His fingers tightened in my hair, guiding me closer, making sure I felt the weight of his control. I surrendered without hesitation, body alive with heat, breath shallow. Each sound he drew from me made him smile darker, deeper—every whimper and moan fuel for the hunger sparking in his eyes.

Time slipped away. There was only the rhythm he set, only the garden dirt still faint beneath my nails, only the growing ache of pleasure twined with the sting of his grip in my hair. My maid outfit, already scandalous, became disheveled under his hands—lace tugged aside, stockings slipping down, the apron bow coming undone. By the time he pulled me up from the floor, I was flushed and breathless, my body thrumming like a string drawn tight.

He kissed me then, hard, claiming. My back pressed against the wall, the frills of my uniform bunched up around my hips. Every touch was rough, but threaded with that careful control that told me I was safe, cherished, even as he made me his.

The hours that followed blurred together into a fevered haze. He carried me from room to room as though the whole house was his stage, bending me over the kitchen table, pulling me into his lap in the chair where he’d been watching me in the garden earlier, finally spreading me across his bed like a prize.

Sometimes he took his time—tracing me, teasing me, making me beg for more. Other times he was relentless, taking what he wanted with a growl in my ear. Every moment burned with the same truth: I was his maid, his doll, his crossdressed beauty, and I loved every second of surrendering to his command.

When at last the night softened and the frenzy ebbed, DaddyJo gathered me close against his chest. My body still hummed, sensitive and spent, but his arms were strong around me, grounding me. He whispered praise into my hair—how beautiful I looked, how well I pleased him, how proud he was of his little maid.

I drifted in and out of sleep there, wrapped in his warmth, his scent clinging to my skin, my uniform discarded in a heap on the floor. The garden felt like another world, but its roses lingered faintly in the air, as though the day’s work had bled into the night’s pleasures.

By morning, the light streamed gently through the curtains, warming my cheek where it pressed to his chest. DaddyJo stirred beside me, his hand sliding lazily down to rest at the curve of my hip. He smiled when my eyes fluttered open, and in that smile was both promise and command.

“Good morning, my maid,” he rumbled. “The day’s just beginning… and I’m not finished with you yet.”

The morning light felt different on my skin—softer, but no less exposing. My body was still tender from the night before, every step reminding me of how completely DaddyJo had owned me. Still, when he told me to dress again in the little maid outfit, I obeyed without question, smoothing the frills over my thighs and tying the bow at the small of my back.

Outside, the garden was washed in dew. The roses glistened like jewels, the air crisp and alive. DaddyJo settled himself in his chair on the porch, coffee steaming in his hand, his eyes locked on me with the same steady hunger he’d had since yesterday.

I knelt in the damp grass, my stockings brushing against the earth, and began to work. The soil was cool beneath my gloves as I pulled weeds, clipped stems, and straightened the neat rows of flowers. The ache between my thighs made every bend, every stretch, feel charged with memory.

“Look at you,” DaddyJo’s voice drifted over, deep and approving. “Back in your place. Back in my service.”

A shiver rolled through me. I glanced over my shoulder, letting him see the way the hem of my skirt lifted scandalously as I bent lower. His smile widened, slow and knowing, as if he could read every thought trembling inside me.

When I brought him a rose, plucked with care, I held it out in both hands like an offering. He took it, but instead of setting it aside, he tucked the bloom into the neckline of my dress so its petals brushed against my skin.

“A reward,” he murmured. “For my good maid.”

My breath caught. My heart beat faster than the work could explain. Every simple task—sweeping the path, brushing dirt from the stone, carrying tools to him—became another way of showing devotion, another way of performing for his eyes alone.

By the time the sun climbed higher, I was flushed and glowing, my apron streaked with soil, my chest rising and falling too quickly for garden work alone. And still, his gaze never left me—dark, commanding, patient, as though waiting for the right moment to remind me all over again just who I belonged to.

When his chair scraped softly against the porch, and I felt the shadow of his figure fall across me where I knelt among the roses, my breath caught in my throat. I knew, without a word spoken, that the garden was only the beginning of how I’d serve him that day.

The roses swayed lightly in the breeze, their petals catching the morning sun like velvet flames. I was still kneeling in the damp grass, apron smudged with soil, skirt ruffled from bending and working. My body hummed with the same sweet soreness from the night before, but there was something in DaddyJo’s steady gaze that told me he wasn’t ready for the garden work to be the end of my service.

He came down from the porch slowly, boots crunching against the gravel path. My heart thudded with each step he took closer. By the time his shadow fell over me, I could hardly breathe.

“Stay there,” he said softly, his voice like a command wrapped in velvet.

I froze, hands resting in my lap, tilting my chin up toward him. The morning air was cool, but the weight of his presence made my skin burn. He crouched beside me, brushing a streak of dirt from my thigh, his fingers lingering longer than they needed to.

“You belong here,” DaddyJo murmured, his eyes locked on mine. “Kneeling in my garden. Pretty little maid among the roses.”

The words made me tremble. My stockings were damp with dew, the lace trim of my skirt fluttering against my thighs as the breeze teased it higher. He didn’t miss a thing—his gaze swept over me slowly, deliberately, until I felt more exposed in the open air than I had even in his bed.

When his hand slid into my hair, tilting my head back just enough, my breath caught. The world narrowed to his touch, his control, the way the roses framed us like witnesses. He didn’t need to say much; the press of his hand, the low growl in his throat, the approving smile curving his mouth all told me exactly what he wanted.

And I gave it to him.

The garden became our stage—my body moving where he guided, his voice shaping every sound he drew from me. The air filled with the mingled scents of roses and earth, the rustle of leaves blending with the soft gasps he coaxed out of me. Every moment was a delicious tension between being hidden among the blooms and knowing that anyone could stumble upon us.

By the time he finally pulled me against his chest, holding me there with his arms tight around me, I was trembling from head to toe. My hair was mussed, my apron streaked with grass, my stockings damp with morning dew. But the glow in his eyes told me he saw only perfection—his maid, his doll, his crossdressed beauty, claimed and adored in the very heart of his garden.

“Beautiful,” he whispered against my ear, his breath warm. “The roses have nothing on you.”

And with my head against his chest, the roses swaying gently around us, I believed him.

The roses still clung to my skin as we stepped back into the house—their perfume mingling with the earthy smell of soil that clung to my stockings and apron. My body hummed from the garden’s passion, every nerve alive, but the cool shade indoors wrapped around me like a balm.

DaddyJo didn’t rush. He moved with the same deliberate authority as always, one hand resting at the small of my back, guiding me down the hall. His touch was steady, protective, reminding me that as much as he could be fierce, he could also be gentle.

When we reached his room, he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled me close between his knees. My skirts brushed against his legs, and his hands immediately found my hips, stroking slowly up and down. I melted into the touch, sighing, my forehead resting against his shoulder.

“You did well, Karen,” he murmured, his lips brushing against my temple. “Out there in the garden. Obedient. Beautiful.”

The praise made my heart swell, just as much as the fire from earlier had. I curled into him, letting his arms wrap tight around me. The ache in my body softened under his warmth, the soreness turning sweet, like a mark of pride.

When he eased me back onto the bed, it wasn’t with urgency this time. His hands moved slower, exploring, soothing. The frills of my outfit were smoothed back into place with careful fingers, my hair brushed from my face as though he was arranging me just the way he liked. His kisses were tender, unhurried, making my skin tingle without the rush.

We lingered like that—me sprawled across the pillows in lace and satin, him above me, savoring every sigh he pulled from my lips. It wasn’t the frenzy of the night before or the wicked thrill of the roses; it was something softer, deeper, like he was reminding me that I wasn’t just his maid or doll but also cherished.

By the time the clock struck midday, I was glowing all over again—tired, adored, and utterly his. DaddyJo tucked me beneath the sheets, his arm draped over me, and whispered against my ear, “Rest now. Lunch can wait. You’ve served me perfectly.”

I closed my eyes, sinking into the warmth of his body and the lingering sweetness of his words. The house was quiet except for our breathing, but the garden’s perfume still clung faintly to my skin. Roses, soil, sweat, and satin—all blending into one memory of devotion I knew I’d carry long after the petals had fallen.

It arrived in a box, wrapped in black ribbon. The moment I saw it sitting on the bed, my pulse quickened. DaddyJo stood nearby, leaning casually against the doorframe, that knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Open it, Karen,” he said, voice rich and smooth, leaving no room for hesitation.

My fingers trembled as I untied the ribbon, lifting the lid. Inside lay the prettiest, naughtiest maid outfit I had ever seen—shorter than the black one I’d worn before, but this one in shimmering pastel pink satin trimmed with delicate white lace. A little apron barely larger than a handkerchief, a skirt scandalously small, and stockings with pink bows to match.

“It’s for you,” DaddyJo murmured. “My gift. Put it on.”

I obeyed instantly, slipping out of my clothes and into the uniform. The satin clung to me like it had been sewn just for my shape, the skirt swishing so high it was barely decent when I stood straight, and utterly indecent if I dared to bend. When I tied the tiny apron’s bow at the back, I caught sight of myself in the mirror: a doll, a fantasy, DaddyJo’s maid remade in soft pink.

I turned toward him shyly. “Do you… like it, Daddy?”

His eyes roamed over me slowly, dark and approving. “Perfect. Now, serve me dinner.”

The dining room glowed with candlelight, shadows dancing across the table. I moved carefully, balancing the tray in trembling hands, my heels clicking softly on the wooden floor. Every step made the skirt bounce higher, every bend to set a plate down made the lace hem ride up. DaddyJo watched in silence, sipping his drink, his gaze heavy and unrelenting.

I laid out the meal piece by piece, pouring wine into his glass, brushing close enough that he could smell the faint perfume he’d dabbed on my neck earlier. My body burned under the heat of his attention, but I never faltered—I was his maid, his gift-wrapped doll, and every small act of service was its own kind of offering.

When I set the final dish down, I dared a glance at him. His eyes locked on mine, full of that same hunger I’d seen in the garden, the bedroom, everywhere he claimed me.

“Kneel,” he said softly.

The word sent shivers all through me. I sank at his side, the pink frills of my skirt fanning against the floor. The candles flickered in the crystal glasses, the roses from the garden still blooming in the center of the table, their petals perfuming the air. And there I was—his maid in pink, kneeling in candlelight, ready to serve him in every way he desired.

“Good girl,” DaddyJo whispered, his hand brushing gently through my hair. “Dinner tastes better like this.”

And in that moment, surrounded by roses, satin, and flame, I felt like the prettiest, most cherished maid in the world.

The box was waiting for me on the bed, wrapped in a satin ribbon as if it held a secret meant only for us. My breath caught as I slid the lid open, revealing the soft shimmer of pink satin nestled inside. A maid uniform—shorter, naughtier, prettier than anything I had ever worn. The skirt was scandalously tiny, trimmed with lace; the apron barely more than a teasing square of fabric; the stockings white and delicate with pink bows at the tops.

Behind me, leaning in the doorway, DaddyJo’s voice filled the room: deep, steady, commanding.

“Put it on, Karen.”

I obeyed instantly. The satin kissed my skin as I slipped into it, the bow at the small of my back tying snug. When I glanced in the mirror, I barely recognized myself—cheeks flushed, lashes trembling, a maid dressed in pink who looked every inch a doll. My heart fluttered as I turned to him.

“Do you… like it, Daddy?”

The look in his eyes made me shiver. “Perfect. Now, serve me dinner.”

The dining room glowed with candlelight, shadows flickering across the walls as though they wanted to watch, too. I carried the tray carefully, every step in my heels making the skirt swish higher, every bend to set down a dish lifting the frills scandalously. The candles reflected in the wine glasses, the roses from the garden perfuming the air, but all I felt was the weight of DaddyJo’s gaze following me, unblinking.

I poured his wine with shaking hands, daring not to spill, and laid the last plate before him. Then I lowered my eyes, murmuring, “Dinner is served.”

“Not quite,” he said. “Kneel.”

The single word thrilled me. I sank at his side, the frills of my skirt spreading across the floorboards, stockings grazing against my knees. His hand came down to stroke my hair, slow and possessive.

“Good girl,” he whispered. “Dinner tastes better like this.”

He ate slowly, savoring each bite while I stayed at his side, trembling with the mix of nerves and devotion that always came with serving him. Every so often, he’d pause to tip my chin up, to brush his thumb across my lips, to let me feel his approval without words.

By the time the plates were empty, my heart was racing. I rose carefully, gathering the dishes back onto the tray, my tiny apron fluttering with each movement. Clearing the table felt almost more daring than serving it—leaning across the candlelight with my hem riding high, the flicker of flame painting satin and lace in soft gold.

When I turned back, the table empty, DaddyJo was already standing, his chair pushed back. His eyes pinned me in place.

“Now,” he said, his voice rougher, hungrier, “the real service begins.”

My knees weakened, but I managed a trembling curtsey, bowing my head. “Yes, Daddy.”

The candles burned lower as the night deepened, roses glowing softly in their vase. The dishes were forgotten, the wine half-finished. What lingered instead was the sound of my breath, the touch of his hands guiding me, and the satin whisper of the pink uniform as I surrendered again and again in the warm candlelight.

By the end, I was spent and glowing, cradled in his arms on the couch, his lips brushing my hairline as he whispered, “My maid… my perfect pink maid.”

And with the scent of roses and wax in the air, I felt like the night had bound me even closer to him—his doll, his treasure, his crossdressed beauty, devoted under the watch of flickering flame.

The pink satin still clung to me when I woke. The skirt was rumpled from the night’s service, the bow at my back loosened, stockings slipped halfway down my thighs. My body ached in the sweetest ways, but the ache was softened by the warmth of being held. DaddyJo’s arm was draped heavy across me, his breath slow and steady against the back of my neck.

For a moment, I stayed there, nestled in his chest, listening to the rise and fall of his breathing. But then his voice, low and rough from sleep, rumbled against my ear: “Up, little maid. Time to serve me again.”

My heart skipped. I nodded, whispering, “Yes, Daddy,” and carefully slipped from his arms.

The morning sun spilled into the kitchen, painting the counters in gold. I moved about quietly, still dressed in the scandalous pink uniform he had given me. Each step in my heels made the hem swish indecently, each bend to reach into a cupboard made me blush at the thought of how short the skirt really was. The scent of coffee soon filled the air, joined by the sizzle of eggs, the sweet toast browning on the pan.

Balancing the tray, I carried breakfast back to the bedroom. DaddyJo was already awake, sitting against the headboard, his bare chest broad and commanding in the morning light. His eyes locked on me the moment I stepped in, and the weight of that gaze nearly made me drop the tray.

“Good girl,” he said softly, as I placed the tray across his lap. “Now, serve me.”

I poured his coffee carefully, hands trembling as I leaned close, the neckline of my uniform gaping scandalously. I fed him bites of toast, slices of fruit, every gesture an act of devotion. Each time his lips brushed my fingers, heat rushed through me, and his approving smile made me glow hotter still.

When the plate was nearly empty, he caught my wrist, holding it still. His thumb stroked slowly across the inside of my arm, the touch both tender and commanding.

“On your knees,” he murmured.

The tray rattled as I set it aside, my breath catching as I slid down beside the bed. The lace hem of my skirt fluttered as I settled into place, stockings brushing against the hardwood floor. His hand came down to stroke my hair, guiding me gently, deliberately, as though I was both his maid and his prized possession.

The air grew thick with unspoken tension—the scent of coffee and roses, the golden spill of sunlight, his fingers threading through my hair as I knelt obediently at his side. Every detail sharpened into something unbearably intimate.

“You look perfect,” DaddyJo said, his voice deep, reverent, yet laced with hunger. “Pink satin. Bowed head. Mine.”

The word mine made me shiver so deeply I thought I might break apart.

What followed blurred into a haze of heat and surrender. The breakfast tray was forgotten, the food cold, the coffee cooling in its cup. All that mattered was the way he commanded and the way I obeyed—the rustle of satin, the slip of lace, the delicious tremble in my body as I gave myself over to his will again and again.

By the time the morning light climbed high, I was sprawled across his chest once more, utterly spent, the pink uniform wrinkled and damp with effort. DaddyJo’s arms were tight around me, his lips brushing lazy kisses into my hair.

“You’ve served me well, little maid,” he whispered, his voice thick with satisfaction. “And the day has only just begun.”

I smiled against his skin, exhausted but glowing, knowing he was right. The pink satin was mine to wear, his gift and his claim—and as long as I wore it, I belonged wholly to him.

The afternoon sun hung heavy, its warmth clinging to my skin beneath the satin of the pink maid outfit. I had thought, after the night and the morning, DaddyJo might let me rest. But when he handed me the wicker basket of laundry and pointed toward the line strung between the rose bushes, I knew better.

“A maid’s work,” he said simply, “is never done.”

So out I went, basket balanced in my arms, the little pink skirt swishing with each step. The roses perfumed the air, their petals glowing in the light. The dew of morning had dried, leaving the grass warm against my stockinged knees when I knelt to pin the sheets.

Every time I stretched up to the line, the hem of my dress rode higher, exposing far too much. The breeze teased at the apron bow at my back, the satin clinging to me in all the wrong—and right—places. I could feel his gaze from the porch, hot and unrelenting, sipping his drink while I worked.

I bent lower than necessary, pinning the corners, arching my back in a way I knew he liked. A flush crept up my cheeks, half from the sun, half from the thought of being on display, a doll in pink satin hanging his laundry like some wicked fantasy.

When I dared glance over, his chair was empty. My heart skipped. Then I felt him—his shadow falling across me, his boots crunching the path behind me.

“Stay just like that,” DaddyJo murmured, his voice low and commanding.

I froze, bent forward, hands trembling on the laundry line. His hand slid over the curve of my hip, fingers pressing through satin, claiming, testing. I gasped softly, the sound swallowed by the garden breeze.

“You’re mine,” he growled, thumb brushing the edge of lace where it met skin. “Even out here. Especially out here.”

My whole body shivered, torn between the shame of being so exposed in the open air and the thrill of being wanted so completely. The roses swayed around us, their fragrance dizzying, their thorns sharp reminders of how delicate everything was.

He didn’t need to do much—the weight of his hand, the heat of his body close against mine, the authority in his voice was enough to make me tremble. Every pin clipped to the line after that felt clumsy, my breath catching, satin clinging tighter with sweat and arousal.

When the basket was empty, he turned me to face him. My hair clung to my temples, my stockings were smudged with grass, and the pink bow at my back was coming loose. But his eyes—dark, hungry, certain—saw me as perfect.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, brushing a stray lock from my face. “My maid among the roses.”

And right there, pressed against the fluttering sheets, I gave myself to him again—silk and lace, sunlight and roses, every gasp swallowed by his mouth until the garden itself seemed to pulse with our secret heat.

By the time he pulled me back inside, my apron was askew, my stockings damp with dew, the basket forgotten on the grass. But my heart was full, and my body glowed with the knowledge that I had served him yet again—maid, doll, treasure, his in every way that mattered.

After the long afternoon among the roses, I thought DaddyJo would simply keep me in the pink maid uniform. But when the sun began to set, painting the sky in gold and violet, he called me upstairs.

Laid out across the bed was something entirely different: a gown. Soft satin, midnight blue with a gentle shimmer that caught the light, the bodice trimmed in lace, the skirt flowing down in elegant ripples. Beside it lay delicate heels, and a pair of long gloves the color of moonlight.

I blinked, lips parting. “For me, Daddy?”

His smile was slow, certain. “For tonight. My maid has worked hard. Now, my princess deserves her place.”

The words melted me. Carefully, I slipped out of the tiny pink uniform, folding it neatly, and stepped into the gown. It slid down my body like cool water, hugging in all the right places before flaring into graceful folds. The gloves whispered up my arms, and the heels clicked softly as I turned toward him.

“How do I look?” I whispered, shy under his gaze.

His eyes swept over me, dark and approving. “Like you belong at my side. Like the most beautiful thing in this garden.”

We dined beneath the stars, the table set among the roses with candles flickering in tall glass holders. The scent of flowers mingled with the aroma of the meal, but more intoxicating still was the way his eyes never left me, not even when he lifted his glass.

I ate slowly, savoring not just the food but the way he watched me, as though every movement—the lift of my fork, the tilt of my wrist—was part of a performance meant for him alone.

After dinner, he rose from his chair and held out his hand. “Dance with me.”

I hesitated only a moment before placing my gloved hand in his. The music was only the breeze and the quiet hum of night insects, but it was enough. He pulled me close, guiding me across the grass with slow, sure steps. The hem of my gown brushed the roses, the candles glowing soft around us.

In his arms, I felt small and cherished, but also claimed. His hand pressed at the small of my back, firm, reminding me that even dressed like a princess, I was still his.

“You serve me beautifully in lace and satin,” he murmured against my ear, “but tonight, you’re more. Tonight, you’re mine to worship.”

The words stole my breath. I melted into him, every step of the dance making the world fall away until there was nothing but his warmth, his strength, his voice. When he kissed me beneath the stars, it was slow and deep, a promise wrapped in hunger.

The gown rustled as he drew me closer, satin pressing to satin, roses swaying around us as though they, too, leaned in to witness. It wasn’t frantic like the garden earlier—it was drawn out, savoring, like a song played just for us.

By the time the candles burned low, I was flushed and trembling, my gown wrinkled from his hands, my heart soaring. He held me close, lips brushing my temple as he whispered, “Princess, maid, doll—it doesn’t matter what you wear. You’ll always be mine.”

And in that moment, swaying in his arms beneath the night sky, I believed him completely.

The gown was the first thing I felt when I stirred awake. Midnight-blue satin twisted around my legs, the lace bodice clinging uncomfortably from where I had fallen asleep in DaddyJo’s arms. My gloves were gone, my hair undone, but the gown still wrapped me in its soft shimmer, wrinkled from the night.

I blinked against the morning light, still hazy from the dreamy warmth of our garden dance. For a fleeting moment, I thought I might be allowed to change into something simpler. But then DaddyJo’s voice came, low and commanding.

“Don’t take it off, Karen. Not yet.”

I looked at him, still half-asleep against the pillows, his chest bare, his gaze dark and knowing. My lips parted to ask why, but he only smirked and added, “Serve me breakfast in the gown. I want to see you shine in the sunlight the way you did under the stars.”

A thrill ran through me—part embarrassment, part desire. The satin was hardly suited for cooking, much less kneeling or bending, but that was the point. He wanted me impractical, overdressed, his doll-princess pressed into service.

“Yes, Daddy,” I whispered, slipping carefully from the bed.

The kitchen seemed brighter than usual, the sun streaming through the windows, highlighting just how out of place I looked. The skirt brushed the floor, its hem whispering across the tiles, while the lace bodice clung a little too snugly to let me breathe easy. Each step made the satin swish, and each bend risked pulling seams tight. My reflection in the glass door showed a maid-turned-princess now reduced to kitchen service, still glowing faintly from the night before.

I moved carefully—pouring coffee, buttering toast, slicing fruit—trying not to ruin the gown. But there was no escaping the sheen of sweat on my skin, the tug of fabric each time I reached for something, or the way my heart raced at the thought of his eyes on me.

When the tray was ready, I carried it upstairs. DaddyJo was waiting, propped up against the pillows, watching me like a king awaiting his offering. His gaze traveled down the wrinkled satin, the flushed skin at my collar, the way the gown pooled around my heels as I set the tray on his lap.

“Perfect,” he murmured. “My princess, still working for me.”

I poured his coffee with trembling hands, the cup rattling against the saucer. He said nothing, only watched, letting the weight of his gaze unsettle me until I had no choice but to blush. When I fed him the first piece of fruit, his lips brushed my fingers deliberately, his smirk widening as I gasped.

“Clumsy this morning,” he teased softly. “Or just nervous?”

“I… I don’t want to ruin the gown,” I whispered.

His hand reached out, fingers sliding into the folds of satin at my hip, pulling me closer until I was kneeling at the side of the bed, skirts spilling across the floor. “You won’t ruin it. Dresses are made to be worn. And you, my girl, are made to serve.”

The words sank deep, setting my whole body trembling. I leaned into him, satin rustling, every movement a mixture of elegance and helplessness. The tray lay forgotten soon after—the breakfast growing cold as he claimed my attention entirely, reminding me that satin and lace were not protections, only invitations.

By the time the sun climbed high, the gown was hopelessly wrinkled, the bodice loosened, the hem stained faintly with a splash of coffee I hadn’t even noticed spilling. But none of that mattered. I lay against him once more, lips swollen from his kisses, the gown clinging damp against my skin.

“You served me well,” he whispered, stroking my hair, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Even in satin.”

And I smiled, exhausted but glowing, because serving him—even overdressed, even trembling—was exactly where I belonged.

The afternoon sun slanted through the curtains when DaddyJo called me into the bedroom. My heart raced even before I saw what he’d laid out on the bed.

This wasn’t a gown or a maid outfit. It was something in between—something meant for the world outside. A short summer dress in soft floral print, delicate straps at the shoulders, the skirt brushing only just to mid-thigh. Next to it, strappy sandals with a teasing heel, and a light cardigan that could cover just enough.

My breath caught. “Daddy… you want me to wear this?”

He gave me that look, slow and certain. “Yes. We’re going out.”

A thousand thoughts raced in my mind. Out? Dressed like this? The idea thrilled and terrified me all at once. But his tone left no room for argument, and deep inside, the trembling part of me wanted this—to be tested, to be displayed, to see if I could belong in the daylight as much as in satin shadows.

“Yes, Daddy,” I whispered, slipping into the dress.

It floated over my body like a whisper of fabric, light enough that the breeze would surely play with the hem. The cardigan did little to conceal how short it was, how bare my shoulders felt. My legs looked endless in the sandals, my heart hammering with every adjustment.

When I turned toward him, shy and uncertain, his approving smile eased my nerves. “Perfect. Pretty enough for the world, but still mine.”

The drive felt surreal. I clutched the hem of the dress with trembling fingers, every passing car a reminder that I wasn’t hidden anymore. But DaddyJo’s hand rested firm on my thigh, grounding me, reminding me who I belonged to.

He took me to a quiet café with outdoor tables shaded by umbrellas. The scent of coffee and fresh bread mingled with the warm air. It wasn’t crowded, but there were enough people that I felt every gaze, every whisper of fabric against my thighs as I sat carefully across from him.

He ordered for both of us, never once asking what I wanted—because he already knew. The confidence in his voice steadied me, even as my cheeks burned under the occasional glance from passersby.

When the food arrived, he made me feed him a bite, just as I had at home. My hand trembled, the fork clinking lightly against the plate, but he only smiled, his eyes full of wicked pride.

“You’re doing beautifully,” he murmured across the table. “My pretty girl, serving me even here.”

The words wrapped around me like a spell. I straightened, braver now, daring to cross my legs slowly, daring to let the hem of the dress rise just a little. A couple at the next table glanced over; my face flushed, but DaddyJo’s approving smirk told me that was exactly the reaction he wanted.

After lunch, he walked me through the nearby gardens, hand resting possessively at the small of my back. The breeze teased at my dress, and I clutched it nervously, but he whispered low in my ear: “Let them look. They’ll never know you the way I do.”

By the time we returned home, my nerves had transformed into exhilaration. I had done it—stepped into the world at his side, trembling but radiant, daring to be seen.

Back inside, the door closed behind us, he pressed me against it, his lips brushing mine, voice thick with pride and hunger.

“You did so well, Karen. Out there, you were mine. In here, you’re still mine. Always.”

And when his hands claimed me again, I knew he was right.

By the time the sun set, I thought my adventure was over. The afternoon café had left me flushed with nerves and pride, and I was still glowing from DaddyJo’s praise. But when he called me upstairs again, I knew he wasn’t finished with me yet.

Laid out on the bed was a new outfit. Sleek. Dangerous. A cocktail dress of black satin, shorter than the floral one, hugging every curve with unapologetic boldness. Its neckline dipped just low enough to tease, its hem cut daringly above the knee, the fabric shimmering like wet silk. Next to it sat strappy heels, taller than the sandals I’d worn earlier, and a pair of glittering earrings that would catch the light every time I turned my head.

My breath hitched. “Daddy… this is so… bold.”

“That’s the point,” he murmured, his voice like velvet and steel. “Tonight, I want them to look. I want every man and woman in that bar to envy me. But only I will know who you truly are.”

Shivers rippled down my spine. My hands shook as I slipped into the dress, the satin sliding over me like liquid fire. The zipper drew up tight, sculpting me into something daring, almost decadent. The heels forced my posture taller, hips swaying whether I wanted them to or not. When I clipped on the earrings, they sparkled like tiny stars, drawing all eyes to my neck, to the pulse fluttering there.

When I turned to face him, his gaze was molten, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “Perfect. My doll turned queen.”

The bar was low-lit, all warm amber light and polished wood, music humming just under conversation. Heads turned the moment we walked in—curious, admiring, hungry. My cheeks burned, but DaddyJo’s hand at my waist steadied me. He guided me to a booth in the corner, sliding me in first, keeping me on display yet safe within the circle of his presence.

He ordered cocktails without asking, his confidence absolute, and when the glasses arrived—tall, jeweled with fruit and frost—he pushed one toward me. “Drink, princess.”

I sipped, the sweet burn slipping down my throat, heat curling through me. His eyes never left mine, even as others in the bar snuck glances. I could feel their stares—the shimmer of my dress, the height of my heels, the soft shine of my lips—all of it chosen by him, for him, and now offered to the world as a spectacle.

When the second drink came, he leaned closer, his lips brushing my ear. “Cross your legs slowly. Let them watch.”

My heart thundered, but I obeyed, satin shifting as I slid one leg over the other. A man at the bar turned to look, his eyes lingering too long. My cheeks burned, but DaddyJo only chuckled, squeezing my thigh under the table.

“Good girl,” he whispered. “You’re mine, and they can see it.”

He made me feed him again—small bites from the little plate of olives and cheese, his lips brushing my fingers with every offering. Each time, I felt the stares around us, the prickle of envy and curiosity, and the slow throb of heat low in my belly.

When he finally rose from the booth, he held out his hand. “Dance with me.”

There was no dance floor, only a small space near the bar where couples swayed lazily to the low music. But when his hand settled at the small of my back and pulled me close, satin clinging to satin, I forgot everyone else. His voice was soft at my ear, his words meant only for me.

“You’ve been so brave, Karen. So beautiful. You shine for me here, just as you do at home.”

I melted against him, trembling, glowing, every nerve alive. The bar, the stares, the music—it all faded until there was only his strength, his claim, his pride burning into me.

By the time we left, the night air was cool against my overheated skin, the streetlights casting us in golden halos. In the car, his hand found my thigh again, possessive, praising.

“You’ve done perfectly,” he said. “And tomorrow… we’ll see just how far you’re willing to go.”

I shivered, half in fear, half in desperate anticipation.

The suitcase was already packed when I walked into the bedroom. I hadn’t even known DaddyJo was planning anything, but there it was on the bed, the zipper drawn tight, and beside it a small black garment bag. My heart skipped as he looked up from where he was adjusting his watch.

“Come on, little one,” he said simply. “We’re leaving for the weekend.”

My pulse quickened. “Where are we going?”

A slow smile tugged at his lips. “Somewhere no one knows us. Somewhere you’ll belong only to me.”

The drive took hours, the scenery shifting from the familiar streets of home to winding coastal roads lined with cliffs and crashing waves. By the time we pulled into the secluded boutique hotel, the sun was melting into the ocean, painting the sky in gold and crimson.

The room overlooked the sea, its balcony framed in wrought iron, curtains billowing in the breeze. I barely had time to take it in before he unzipped the garment bag.

Inside hung outfits he’d chosen for me—deliberately. A flowing sundress in pale yellow, perfect for walking through town. A daring bikini in soft blush pink, scandalously small. A short white slip dress that was sheer enough to turn heads but lined just enough to be wearable in public. And, folded neatly at the bottom, a lace nightgown that looked more like lingerie than sleepwear.

My cheeks burned. “Daddy…”

“You’ll wear each of them when I tell you,” he said smoothly, brushing his thumb under my chin. “This weekend is mine.”

The first night, he put me in the slip dress. We dined on the balcony, the ocean murmuring below, candles flickering against the glass doors. The dress clung to me each time the breeze lifted, making me clutch it nervously, but he only smirked, enjoying my discomfort. He fed me forkfuls of seafood and fruit, sipping his wine as though watching me squirm was the sweetest dessert.

“Everyone on the beach could look up right now,” he murmured, his hand sliding along my thigh under the tablecloth. “But only I know what’s under this little slip.”

The next morning, he took me into town in the yellow sundress. It was airy, playful, almost innocent, but the skirt was so short I felt every eye on me as we walked the cobbled streets. He made me carry his bag, made me pause for photos by the fountain, made me sip an iced coffee while sitting on a bench with my knees neatly crossed just as he instructed. Every movement was both ordinary and charged, every gesture an act of silent obedience.

That afternoon, it was the bikini. The pool was private, but the staff passed by often enough that I blushed furiously as I stretched out in the sun, the fabric barely covering me. DaddyJo lounged beside me, sunglasses on, sipping from his glass, looking every inch the man who owned me. When I slipped into the water, he ordered me to swim laps—slow, graceful, deliberate—so he could watch the wet fabric cling to me when I climbed back out.

That night, the lace nightgown. He lit no candles, only left the curtains open so the moonlight spilled silver across the bed. The gown was transparent in places, every line of me exposed yet softened by the delicate fabric. When I climbed into his arms, trembling, he kissed me like he had waited all weekend for that moment.

By the end of the getaway, I was wrung out, glowing, every nerve alive. I had been his doll, his maid, his princess, his prize, his plaything—dressed and displayed in ways I never thought I’d dare. But through it all, I had never felt more seen, more wanted, more entirely his.

On the drive home, I leaned against his shoulder, watching the sea fade into city streets, whispering, “Thank you, Daddy.”

His hand squeezed my thigh, firm and possessive. “This is only the beginning, little one. Next time, we’ll go further.”

I shivered, not with fear but with anticipation. Because I knew he meant it. And I wanted it.

It began with a box delivered to the house, slim and black, tied with a ribbon. When I lifted the lid, I gasped.

Inside was a dress unlike anything DaddyJo had chosen before. Midnight velvet that shimmered like liquid ink, with a bodice cut daringly low and a skirt slit high up one thigh. Alongside it lay a delicate lace mask, black as midnight, designed to hide just enough of my face while leaving the curve of my lips, the flutter of my lashes, completely bare.

I looked up at him, trembling. “What is this for?”

His smile was slow, deliberate. “Tonight, you’re coming with me. A private gathering. Everyone there will know what you are—and they’ll know you belong to me.”

My breath caught. The thought of others seeing me like that—dressed, displayed, claimed—was terrifying. And yet, beneath the fear, a deep heat bloomed.

That evening, he dressed me himself. The velvet clung to me like a second skin, the slit in the skirt flashing glimpses of thigh as I moved. He fastened the mask gently, his fingers brushing my cheek before settling under my chin, tilting my face up to him.

“Perfect,” he murmured. “My doll, ready for the world.”

The party was held in a mansion on the edge of the city, its windows glowing with candlelight. Inside, the air hummed with music and laughter, a crowd of men and women dressed in gowns, suits, and masks. I felt my knees weaken at the sight of them, at the thought of stepping into that world. But DaddyJo’s hand at my waist steadied me, guiding me forward as though I was the most precious thing he had ever brought anywhere.

Eyes turned. I felt them—hungry, curious, admiring—lingering on my dress, my mask, the way I clung to DaddyJo’s side. My cheeks burned under the lace, but he only smiled, his hand stroking down my spine, possessive.

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered in my ear. “Every look at you tonight only proves how lucky I am.”

We mingled through the rooms, sipping champagne, talking little. Mostly, he showed me off—introducing me with a nod, letting others see the way I blushed when he guided me, the way I obeyed when he asked me to fetch a drink, the way I looked up at him with shining eyes when he praised me softly.

Later, when the music swelled, he led me to the dance floor. My heels clicked on the polished marble, the slit of the dress swishing open with every step. His hand pressed at the small of my back, leading me firmly, his body close, his voice low against my ear.

“They’re watching us,” he murmured. “Watching you.”

I trembled, but his grip made me feel safe, anchored. I dared to lean into him, daring to sway my hips more boldly, daring to meet the eyes of a masked stranger across the room before dropping my gaze shyly.

The champagne, the music, the heat of so many gazes—it was intoxicating. For the first time, I wasn’t just his maid or his princess hidden in the garden. I was his possession in public, his jewel displayed among others who knew exactly what they were seeing.

When the night wound down, he took me by the hand and led me outside, the cool air shocking against my overheated skin. The mask still framed my flushed face, the velvet dress clinging to me as though it had been poured on. He pressed me against the car, kissing me hard, claiming me under the stars before the world could take another look.

“You were perfect tonight,” he whispered against my lips. “Every eye on you, but every inch of you mine.”

And as we drove home, the mask still tied in place, my body aching from his hands and my heart soaring with pride, I knew I had never felt more displayed, more claimed, more wanted.

We arrived back at DaddyJo’s house under a moonlit sky, the city quiet around us, the night still humming in my veins from the party. My mask still clung to my face, velvet framing my flushed cheeks, the slit of the dress teasingly high. I was aware of every inch of myself, every curve, every sway of my hips as he guided me inside.

“You did well tonight,” DaddyJo murmured, his hand at the small of my back, fingers pressing possessively through the velvet. “Every eye on you, every glance, mine alone.”

I shivered, the praise mingling with residual adrenaline, making me ache in all the sweetest ways.

When we entered the living room, I froze slightly—another figure was there. Tall, confident, with a smile that was warm but knowing. He had a light laugh and eyes that seemed to appraise everything at once. DaddyJo introduced him smoothly.

“This is Alex,” he said. “A very old friend. They understand… our world.”

Alex extended a hand to me, their touch firm but gentle, and I felt a shiver run through me at the acknowledgment in their eyes. “You’re stunning,” Alex said, their voice playful. “That dress, the mask… you could make anyone dizzy.”

I blushed furiously, aware of every inch of velvet clinging to me, the slit of the dress, the heels making my posture arch just so. DaddyJo’s hand tightened at my waist, grounding me, claiming me.

“They’re mine,” he murmured softly, lips brushing the side of my ear. “Every bit.”

Alex only smiled knowingly. “Oh, I understand. And lucky you,” they said, glancing at him with something like admiration. “You get to display them like that.”

The conversation flowed around me, but all I could focus on was DaddyJo’s eyes, dark and molten, following my every movement. He made me fetch drinks, guide the glasses across the table, each gesture an act of service. Every time I leaned over, the slit of the dress teased, and he pressed close, whispering praises only I could hear.

Then came the part I had been secretly hoping for—the dance. The music was softer now, slow and intimate. DaddyJo drew me close, hand at the small of my back, guiding me across the room. Alex watched with a smile, sipping their drink, but they didn’t interfere—only appreciated, as if to confirm what I already knew: I was his, and tonight, I was displayed.

The mask kept my identity half-hidden, but I knew they could see the flush rising to my cheeks, the shimmer in my eyes, the way I trembled at his touch. He held me close, lips brushing my temple, whispering, “Every look you got tonight, every eye that lingered… mine alone owns it.”

Even as I twirled under his hand, velvet sliding over velvet, I felt Alex’s eyes on me again—not judging, not challenging, just appreciating the work of DaddyJo’s hands and guidance. “Beautiful,” they said softly. “Every bit.”

By the end of the night, I was glowing, breathless, trembling, a cocktail of embarrassment, pride, and desire. DaddyJo held me in his arms, the mask still tied perfectly in place, and whispered, “You’ve pleased me tonight, Karen. And tomorrow… we’ll see what else you can handle.”

I melted into him, knowing exactly what he meant—and wanting it more than I had ever wanted anything.

The city stretched beneath us, lights twinkling like a field of stars. The rooftop was private, just DaddyJo, Alex, and me. A soft breeze lifted the hem of my velvet dress, the slit brushing daringly against my thigh. The mask hid half my face, but my heart was laid bare—thrumming with anticipation, nerves, and the residue of excitement from the party.

DaddyJo guided me to the edge, his hand firm at the small of my back. “Look at this,” he murmured, his voice low and commanding. “No one can see us here, but everything is exposed. And you… you’re mine in every way.”

I shivered at the thought, the wind teasing my hair, the dress clinging to me in all the right places. My knees felt weak under the heels, my fingers clutching at the fabric for balance. Alex stood nearby, leaning casually against the railing, their gaze appreciative but respectful.

“You’re breathtaking,” Alex said softly. “Even with the mask, even at this height… the way he’s claimed you, it’s mesmerizing.”

I flushed, aware of every inch of skin the velvet hugged, the way my chest rose and fell under DaddyJo’s steady hand. His thumb brushed my hip possessively, reminding me who I belonged to, even as Alex watched.

“Do you feel that?” DaddyJo murmured, pressing closer. “That thrill of exposure? That delicious fear mixed with pride?”

“Yes, Daddy,” I whispered, voice trembling.

He guided me slowly to the center of the rooftop, every step deliberate, my heels clicking against the stone tiles. The wind lifted the slit of my dress just enough to make me gasp softly, and he leaned down, lips brushing my temple.

“You’re mine to show, mine to tease, mine to adore,” he murmured. “And tonight… you’ll learn to love it.”

Alex smiled, moving a step closer. “You’re handling this beautifully,” they said. “Bold, controlled, yet still trembling just enough to show it’s exciting.”

I blushed, the mixture of attention from DaddyJo and Alex almost too much. DaddyJo’s hands pressed against my waist, guiding me into a slow turn, showing the velvet shimmer in the moonlight. Every glance, every movement, was deliberate—display, service, and seduction all rolled into one.

The wind caught my hair and the hem of my dress, and I instinctively reached down to smooth it. DaddyJo’s hand caught mine, holding it at my side, firm and possessive. “No,” he said softly. “Leave it. Let the dress and the night do the work.”

Alex chuckled softly. “They’re right. Every bit of you on display, and every inch claimed—mesmerizing.”

My pulse thundered as DaddyJo pulled me close, forehead to forehead, lips brushing near my ear. “You’re safe,” he murmured. “But you’re mine, and tonight, everyone—just for a moment, Alex included—sees it too.”

We moved together under the stars, the city sprawling beneath us, the night alive with possibility. The heels dug into the stone as he guided me through slow spins, teaching me control even as I shivered with the thrill of exposure. Every handhold, every whisper, every glance became a game of dominance, admiration, and surrender.

When the wind gusted sharply, lifting the dress higher than comfortable, I gasped softly. DaddyJo pressed his palm to my back, steadying me, and whispered, “Perfect. That’s the edge—feel it, love it, know it’s mine.”

Alex’s eyes gleamed in the moonlight. “Incredible,” they said. “Every second, you’re radiating. The dress, the mask… the tension… it’s art.”

By the time we returned to the stairs, my legs trembling from heels and exhilaration, my chest still racing, I felt utterly alive. DaddyJo’s hands never left me, fingers brushing every curve, lips occasionally grazing my hair, murmuring, “Mine. All mine.”

And under the midnight sky, with the city sprawled beneath, the velvet clinging to me, the mask framing my flushed face, I knew he was right. I belonged entirely to him, displayed, teased, and adored, and I had never felt more alive—or more cherished.