Captive Carnations: A Romantic Father/daughter Incest BDSM Short Story

 

Captive Carnations is an erotic father/daughter incest story with a focus on character, an established relationship, and some romance. Viewer discretion advised.

THIS IS A SAMPLE OF THE FULL BOOK.

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Idris was a natural leader. He had been the owner and operator of his own accounting firm before retirement, and had been the frontman of a band for decades. A frontman who maintained his anonymity with a fastidious control.

And, though he tried to be fair to her, he was a zero-compromise patriarch who led his daughter with a considered, calculated hand. That suited Ila just fine.

As their relationship had flourished into something more intimate, so too had the consensual cinching of his will over her. It was a game; a waltz of wills. Of course, Ila inherited some of her father's stubbornness, and she delighted in pushing him to his boundaries just as much as he loved to tip her over hers.

So, what he told her when he walked into the house shouldn't have been a surprise. After all, the indie metal scene and BDSM were practically kissing cousins. That still didn't stop her brows from rising right into her hairline when Idris came to her with his proposal, cocksure and casual and insufferably confident while she felt her heart stop. It felt like suicidal naivety, and she was beyond listening the moment she registered exactly what she'd just heard.

"I'm—I'm sorry, what?"

It was supposed to be a normal evening. He'd gone to the store to get dinner ingredients, and she'd crammed in some work before he got home. He wanted to distract her for most of the night with a movie marathon to usher in the weekend. She craned her neck to follow him as he ducked through the kitchen threshold to put groceries away and felt her head spin.

"Hold on, hold on. I will explain bintii, let me put this away—"

She felt something in her break and felt her voice rising before she could stop it. Panic rose as a living thing with it. It scorched her blood and made her pulse skyrocket.

"Oh no. No, no, no!"

Ila shot up from her position on the couch. In her scrambling, she startled their smoky Maine Coon, Cashew, who leapt from the cushion beside her with a soft meow. She strode into the kitchen and pointed up at Idris's face as he turned to blink down at her.

He opened his mouth to speak, but she beat him to it, her voice nearly a shout. "You mean to tell me, you told someone?!"

It was almost comical how frightened her seven and a half foot father looked in that moment. The old man held up his hands and attempted to soothe her with his tone calm and firm. "Habibtii. Please, please calm—"

Her expression screwed up in fear, then rage, and she bared her teeth up into his face. The words were out before she could stop them, before she could think to listen to him. "Calm down?! Fuck, abii! Let's just fucking trot down the police department and cuff ourselves! I'll call the local paper and out us myself so you don't fucking have to!"

He heaved a sigh, and just as she opened her mouth to say something else—something probably akin to, "you're going fucking senile"—he cut her off with a loud huff, then Arabic that flowed like water from his tongue. Understanding what he said at least made her stay her own tongue long enough to listen to what he had to say.

"Darnell knows the studio owner. He nudged at the possibility of me doing a rope demonstration for the local scene." His tone was quiet, edged with a growl. A lifetime of being raised by him told Ila to shut up before she said something she'd regret. She wanted to ask why he was being invited to do a shibari demonstration, but couldn't find the words and knew not to test his patience now.

He sucked on his teeth and pinched the bridge of his hooked nose, skewing his glasses. Just as quick as his switch to Arabic, he spoke in half-halted English. "Only the owner knows about us—no one else knows. I am an elderly Dominant with a young, pretty girl as my submissive. No one will blink at you calling me baba."

He gestured to himself, to his craggy lined face, more salt than pepper beard, and the long coiling hair that only held some black at his temples now. He raised a gray brow and tilted his head down to look at her over the rim of his glasses. "You are not the first woman—the first person—to call me Daddy. I grayed in my thirties, decades before you were even a thought to me."

His transition back to Arabic was smooth, seamless, and Ila's understanding only stalled for a half-second. Now that he'd pierced through her panic, staying silent and listening was easier than she expected it would be.

"I am your Master. I speak to you in Arabic, and I have demanded you use titles for me in only this way. That is all."

Ila rubbed at her flushed face, lip between her teeth. He was right, of course, but it still didn't stop her from feeling as though she were too close to a fire. The flames licked at her skin, and she couldn't help how the entire situation made her want to shrink away from the light, made her want to retreat to the shadows of what was familiar and certain. What if he was wrong?

Something he'd said dawned on her, and her eyes widened with alarm. "Wait—wait, local scene?"

Idris chewed the inside of his cheek. "Mmhh, I am sorry. I misspoke. Local to them—it is a six-hour drive from for us. That is intentional."

"Oh, thank god."

She paused, then inhaled. "Fuck, wait, a demo—"

He held up a gnarled hand, sighing through flared nostrils. Her heart was hard to ignore, a steady thrum of anxiety as worst-case scenarios cascaded through her mind.

"It is a live demo, for twenty people who know the studio owner. All recording devices are left at the door. I will ask anyone who does not comply to leave."

He let his hand drop, then skimmed his fingertips over her pale cheek, along the sharp edge of her jaw. "My heart, you act as if I put us at risk on purpose. As if I am not versed in the art of anonymity and have not been for decades." He frowned, the deep creases flanking his muzzle darkening. "I am more competent than you give me credit for…"

"I'm sorry, abii," she mumbled, pressing her face against his palm, kissing the strong pulse in his wrist.

She didn't realize she was shaking until she felt the solid stability of his hand, and she welcomed the contact as a balm against white-hot fear. It grounded her, helped her focus on her breathing, helped her remember nothing had come to pass yet. Half a decade later, and Ila was still just as skittish now about discovery as she was the first night they both confessed to wanting more than a familial relationship.

He huffed and pulled her against his body, running his knobby-knuckled fingers through her white curls. She rested the side of her head against the arch of his ribs and wrapped her arms around his lean waist, her fingers digging into the soft fabric of his hoodie.

~~~

Two weeks later, the drive went by in an uneventful blur. The closer they got to their destination, the harder Ila's heart beat. Her head pounded, and by the time the car stopped in an unassuming parking lot outside of an unassuming building, her hands shook.

Idris glanced at her, sliding his hand over hers and engulfing it in his firm, warm grip. "Breathe please, my love. Do you want me to get the owner so you can meet him out here and he can reassure you?"

Ila's eyes popped open, and she took in a deep, shuddering breath. "Nope, I'm sorry. I'm gonna go crazy if you leave for longer than two seconds."

He laughed softly and leaned down to press his crooked nose to the side of her head. He pecked her cheek and squeezed her hand held in his. "It is okay, habibtii, I promise. The demo will start and you will forget the fear."

Cheeks burning in embarrassment at just how mind-numbingly afraid she really was, she turned and pecked his lips before sliding out of the SUV. Her legs shook as she stood and shut the door. Idris slid smoothly out of the car, shut his door, and locked it. He looked down at her and offered his hand.

"It will be okay. Trust me?"

He smiled at her—genuine, confident, and easy—and she couldn't help but smile back. She slid her pale hand into his and said nothing, focusing on her breathing as he led her to the entrance.

~~~

Ila was not unaccustomed to rope. She'd spent her fair share of time in fetish clubs and the underbellies of bars in college, almost as much time as she'd spent doing anything else. Simple but artful rope harnesses beneath her clothes were not uncommon, just as bruises unfurling like rose petals on her skin weren't uncommon.

That had been over seven years ago, though. Not since the accident. It had been a long time since she'd stepped foot into a public kink space. And it had been never since she was the object of a Master's skill in the art of shibari.

She sat quietly on a stool toward the center of the staging area as people filed in from a door in the back. It was a pretty studio; all warm ambient lighting and dark brick with bright grout. The floor was a pleasant, smooth hardwood beneath her feet, and the space smelled of a heavy, cloying incense with an undercurrent of an astringent cleaning solution. It wasn't unpleasant, and it sent a little shiver down her spine.

She remembered scents like this in some fetish clubs that didn't smell more like alcohol and sweat than anything else, and it only made her anxiety flare a little brighter at the proximity of this—this and her father.

He'd spoken in hushed tones to the studio Master, who'd greeted them both with a warm smile and a firm handshake. An older gentleman, because of course he was. Long, silver-streaked black hair tied back into a convenient ponytail, his features sharp and elegant, his eyes soft and dark and so knowing that she felt like the ground would be ripped out from beneath her feet.

He noticed the tremor in her hand when she shook his and he smiled even wider at her, showing bright teeth. He had the barest hint of an accent that she couldn't place.

"You're both safe here, I promise. Darnell was adamant about discretion, and I understand why. No one but me knows, and I've never been one to judge consensual practices. Consider me a friend who forgets, hm?" He winked, and that coupled with Idris's large, warm hand settling on her shoulder made her stop shaking.

It was starting again now, though, as she watched Idris across the width of the warmly lit room. People were filing in, finding seats. She could hear them speaking in hushed murmurs, though she could parse none of it. He was checking the load-bearing ring and shuffling various widths and lengths of rope on a table at the back wall.

As he moved, quiet and calculated, he checked each element thrice-over, and her eyes followed each of his motions. He'd discarded his leather jacket on the table, wearing comfortable jeans and a snug tank top. She watched the corded, wiry striations of muscle beneath his dark skin flex and relax as he adjusted everything to suit his needs for the demo.

They'd played with rope before together—harnesses. But she'd thought that was where his knowledge ended and never pressed for more. It was such a rare occasion when they broke out the rope in favor of leather restraints or nothing at all that she'd never thought to ask about it. His hands, massive as they were, were all the restraint he needed in most circumstances.

Idris caught her looking at him and flashed his yellowed teeth in a warm smile, the weathered lines of his face wrinkling. "I am almost ready, my life," he said in Arabic. Judging by the quick glances Ila cast to the crowd, no one here understood a lick of Arabic. Good.

She tried to smile back with as much ease, but she faltered as she croaked, "Yes, Sir."

A few minutes later, Idris walked to where she sat and offered his hand. For the second time that night, she gripped it tight as she stood and walked to the spot he wanted her. He spoke to the assembly in English, and that was her cue to tune him out. Despite how interested she might have been otherwise, she wanted to keep her wits about her, and right now that meant ignoring everything that was not a direct word or touch to her, and her alone.

She allowed herself a modicum of modesty—not that nudity mattered to her—with a light gray tank top and a pair of light gray underwear. All the better for the rope to stand out against for the demo.

Idris's hand settled on her shoulder. She snapped to attention when he bent and spoke in a hush that sent a thrill racing through her limbs. "I am doing a simple harness first, my beloved."

"Yes, Sir."

"You remember what to say, if it is too much?" His rough fingertips swept down her back as he asked her to raise her arms with a firm, practiced touch instead of speech...

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