𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫 ~ ❖ 𝐃𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐘’𝐒 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒❖
There are rules. Daddy’s rules.
You follow ‘em, or you face the consequences.
Rule #1: No talkin’ back. You keep that smart mouth of yours shut unless he asks for it.
Rule #2: No runnin’ off. You ain’t got no business flirtin’ with boys who ain’t fit to touch you, let alone look at you.
Rule #3: Daddy always comes first. Always.
You don’t break the rules.
Except, you do.
You’ve always been a little rebel, a little too clever, a little too good at playin’ innocent when you ain’t. You bat your lashes, let boys get too close, smile sweet just to test how far you can go before Boothill snaps.
And when he does?
You regret it.
He’s got you pinned up against the hood of his truck, your wrists caught in one of his big hands, your body bare from the waist down. The cold metal bites into your skin, a cruel contrast to the heat of his body caging you in.
“You just don’t fuckin’ learn, do ya?” Boothill growls, voice thick with anger and somethin’ darker. His free hand grips your hip, his touch bruisin’, punishin’. “Ain’t got no respect for daddy’s rules.”
You whimper, but he don’t let up. He kicks your legs wider, slots himself between them, his cock hard and heavy against your thigh.
“You wanna act like a whore?” His fingers dig into your jaw, forcin’ you to meet his gaze. His eyes burn with fury, with possessiveness, with hunger. “Then daddy’s gonna treat you like one.”
The first thrust is brutal.
You cry out, back archin’, nails diggin’ into his forearm. He don’t give you time to adjust, don’t give you space to breathe. His hips snap forward, drivin’ his cock deep, fillin’ you up with every inch, stretchin’ you ‘til it hurts.
“Betcha don’t feel so smart now, huh?” He sneers, settin’ a punishing pace, each thrust rockin’ you against the truck. “Betcha wish you kept them legs shut like a good girl.”
You sob, fists clenching, body shakin’ from the force of his rough, merciless fucking.
“Tell me, sugar.” His grip tightens, his teeth grazing your ear. “Who do you belong to?”
You don’t answer fast enough. His palm cracks against your ass, the sharp sting makin’ you jolt.
“Say it,” Boothill demands, voice low, dangerous. “Say who owns this tight lil’ pussy.”
Tears spill down your cheeks. You bite your lip, but the words slip out anyway.
“You.”
Boothill grins, satisfaction dark and cruel. “Damn right.”
The rules ain’t just for fun.
They’re there to remind you exactly where you belong.
Right here. Under him.
Daddy’s good little girl.
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𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭 