2

slip out of bed leaving Mybell dozing, drape my dressing gown loosely around my shoulders, and head to the kitchen. On the way I pass Aly's open bedroom door. Unlike yesterday, she's on her back, half covered by the sheet, one tit exposed, one leg covered, the other drawn back, thigh gap, slit and fur patch beckoning. A stab of disappointment, a pang as I realize once again her un-daughterly behavior. She has never learned what's appropriate. Lord knows I've tried to teach her since her mother left.

I must keep trying. I can't send her into the world not knowing how to behave around men. It shouldn't be a matter of chance how she presents. She should understand expectations and always be thoughtful and considerate. In short, know her place. As they say, family female consideration begins at home. I sigh and move on.

***

I get a mug of coffee, go to the basement studio, and set to work. I'm almost caught up after this past month's excitement.

Welcoming Mybell to the family has been exhausting. Aly brought her home from college for the holiday week, and I claimed her t first night. She never went back. I had to overcome her resistance for a week or so. Sometimes she fought back physically—she's a strong little bitch when she chooses—and sometimes she tried to plead and manipulate. But I brought her round and now she's fully bedded in to her new role. As if born to it. Which she is. Though she doesn't know it yet.

Now if I could only bring Aly fully to hand too. Her mum never helped, and then she left, so Aly was never challenged to live up to expectations, and there are years of neglect and indiscipline to undo.

But enough rumination. The business won't run itself, and I fire up the servers and monitors. The equipment is state-of-art, and I'm practiced, skilled and focused. I work efficiently.

Soon the best selection of the past month's videos harvested from throughout the house are playing on six large monitors with audio muted. Each monitor has six video windows, and each window has a raw video clip. They're from the cameras in the kitchen, bedrooms, lounge room, etc. I can bring up others with a mouse click. I also have the video from the portrait session at Jimmy Jissle's studio that first Sunday.

The videos cover many events—initial expectation setting and discipline, Aly and me bringing Mybell to hand, Aly and Mybell sharing my cock, them playing together, and most of all me repeatedly claiming Mybell as she progressively submitted, accepted and then embraced me as her future. Each of the audios is muted to a whisper, but together they fill the studio like an orgy of lovers inspired by each other.

My fingers fly as I replay, edit, cut and paste the raw clips. The final result is two dozen ready-to-publish commercial-grade video packages ready for multiple market segments. Some are short clips that end just as the action gets going. These are for customers not yet fully committed, people who I tease with hints of fetish action just beyond their reach, ripening on my marketing vine. Others are medium length extended-play narratives that allow committed customers to participate vicariously in their favorite family character's—the member's of my family's—discipline, training, beddings, seedings and orgasms.

Finally, there are the customized extended collector's editions for long term VIP customers who enjoy ring-side seats. They get exclusive close-up camera views and occasional surprise gifts—delivered by confidential courier anywhere in the world—such as locks of hair, pony-tail ribbons, clean or fresh panties, red and white stained bedsheets. One gentleman on the live-feed channel, a orthodontist, even paid a premium for the orthodontic braces—after she outgrew them and they were removed from her teeth—of a favorite of his, Jill, a young niece of mine who often "opened wide" into the camera as she orgasmed. And still does.

Hell, I too liked and licked those braces and still recall the rasp of wire against my tongue as she came, her upper lip curled back beneath my own, her body trapped beneath me. Mine was the only tongue to ever feel the frisson of that rasp. I initiated her against her will over repeated seedings and taught her my Family expectations and now nineteen years later and well in hand she visits faithfully with my beautiful god-daughter Rachel, named for me, in ongoing family service. Like her mother before her, Rachel has a delightful mouthful of candy which will one day adorn my own collection. And like her mother and grandmother she's a screamer.

This memory reminds me that if these part-time family members have all learned their role and place, then Aly as a full-time member can too. Can. Should. Shall. Must. Soon. Before too late.

I finish the packages, staged ready for electronic delivery around the world to my eager, loyal and profitable clientele. I press enter and lean back in my padded office chair, as the packages zip to inboxes in every time-zone. My work done, the raw videos continue looping in their windows, row by row, cum by cum, my left hand edging my cock. I like my work and I'm proud of my product, my business, my family.

***

The door opens quietly behind me, and I smell Mybell as she enters.

She puts a fresh mug of coffee on the desk. She's naked under her loose house coat, untied, draped open around her breasts, belly curved enticingly above baby-bearing hips, slippers on her feet. She moves behind my chair and presses breasts and belly warm from our bed against my head. Her hands rest easily on my shoulders and slip gently down to comb through the gray chest hair she's come to love. Her scent swathes me, as mine does her. I breathe deeply and hold a lungful.

"Good morning, Father, what are you doing?"

"Attending to business," I say, as I raise my left hand moist with pre-cum and stroke her left hand at my nipple. She raises my fingers to her lips.

"Is this what you do?" she asks.

"Yes, it's my business. I started in my teens and built it over the years. It is both my life and business. The best of both worlds. I call it The Family Practice. I turn pleasure into profit. And it's very, very pleasurable, and very, very profitable."

"How does it work, Father?"

"Simple really. There are cameras throughout the house controlled by motion sensors, and AI filters eliminate irrelevant action. I record all activity in the house—mostly with family, but also with visitors—and sell the content to paying customers. They range from casual drop-by's to long term VIP clients. Some even pay for special by- appointment-only real-time video feeds and Family merchandise. I'm now quite wealthy—north of nine figures in assets—and I retain a team of professionals on call to help manage emergent legal, security and technical issues."

She's looking at the monitors and points to a window. "Is that me?", she asks. I've learned she is naive but intuitive in these matters. I'm sure this is due to subtle guidance from her grandfather's and mother's relationship, and reinforced by her father's latent interests, interests he's never acted on, a weak man.

"Yes. That's the Saturday night when I first claimed you." I turn up the audio.

We watch in silence as on screen my cock—balls high and tight against the shaft—thrusts rhythmically in and out of her steadily creaming cunt. God, she was tight as I held her down and opened her for first seeding. I can still feel her cunt clamp rhythmically as she came unwillingly on me.

All the stars had aligned. She was ready for me—though to my utmost pleasure she did not know it and therefore resisted deliciously as I staked my claim and for weeks after—and her ovulation cycle was approaching peak. She was naive and innocent, though subconsciously ready to be taken. Again I must thank her childhood—her mother, father and grandfather each in their own way—for preparing her for ploughing and the yoke. But then, I knew that from my research before she arrived.

"Who's that?" she asks, pointing to another screen. "Aly?" It shows my cock thrusting into another creaming cunt.

I'm impressed. "Yes, very good. That's her. It's her daily seeding after you fell asleep in your new bed."

I reach up and back and grasp Mybell's hand, and bring her to her knees beside my office chair, which I recline to almost horizontal. My dressing gown is open. My hand twines in her hair and I push her head down to my belly, facing away from me, inches from my cock-head which I'm still edging. We both watch the monitor in front of us, the cock shuttling in and out of the frothing pussy before our eyes. Disembodied moans fill the studio. That's my cock in Aly's cunt.

Mybell mouth accepts my cock, and soon my thrusts into her throat and her rhythmic suction and tongue action are in synchrony with my cock thrusts into Aly's palpating pussy on the screen. All four of us—two on screen and two below—build and rise to four simultaneous orgasms—the wet blow-job below and the mounted petite mort on screen.

Our eyes, ears, minds and senses flow then overflow. We melt and meld.

"Aly!", I cry as I cum down Mybell's throat and into Aly on screen.

"Dad!", Aly cries on screen.

"Father!" Mybell grunts, muffled by my cock, as her working cheeks caress my hairy belly and my swollen shaft pulses on her tongue.

***

This morning something has shifted in Mybell. I don't know what, but I sense it. Unknown to her and me, in the wee small hours of a recent night, warm and moist, dreaming, breathing slowly, beside me, she conceived. A sperm I had planted in her met this month's egg and burrowed in. She and I don't know it yet, but her body does, and it's sending subtle signals throughout her being—to uterus, breasts, stomach, brain—to submit and cleave to me. And her body's scent is sending subtle signals to me—to my cock, body, brain, protective vital verve—to keep and protect her as my mated brood mare.

***

Ten minutes later Mybell has cleaned me up and I'm sipping coffee as she leans against the desk facing me. We're so close my leg presses hers—fatherly, familiarly, possessive. Her arms are crossed below barely B cup breasts and above sweetly curving belly and pubic thatch. All of it mine. Her house coat hangs loose as I keep an eye on my property. She is diffident not indifferent, submissive not passive, possessed and presenting.

"Father..."

"Yes, daughter?"

"Can we talk?"

"Of course... what is it?"

"It's... "

"...go on..."

"...it's about Aly, I'm worried..."

My heart jumps. My own worry about Aly surfaces and bubbles just beneath my brow. Tension zings across my forehead. Small muscles tighten around my eyes. I calm myself, focus and wait.

"What is it?" I ask.

"She... well I'm younger than her... but even I know... she doesn't... I don't know... she doesn't know how to be your daughter," and then it all comes in a tumbling rush.

"She doesn't know her place, she's lazy, she sleeps late, she leaves you and me to do all the work, and you work so hard, and she doesn't know how to please you, how to make you happy, how to satisfy you, how to support you in your role, follow your command, as the man the daddy the sire of our home. She should have learned long ago. I'm afraid it may be too late."

She takes a breath and looks at me.

My tension breaks. I smile. I see her frown. It's a serious subject and she's voiced exactly what has been on my mind, but there is a funny side—she could be describing herself as she was just a month and day ago, before she came to live at my hearth and under my mantle, protection and possession. She has accepted so fully being my new daughter as the natural order that she can't remember when she thought differently just one breeding cycle ago.

But I cannot tell her this, so I suppress my smile and clear my throat, and say, "Don't worry. I'm just so relieved because that's exactly what I've been thinking. But I have a plan I've been preparing and I'm ready to put it into action. And I'll need your help"

"Anything. What is it?" she says, relaxing into my control.

"Well, the root of the problem is that she was never taught her family female role. It's a combination of ignorance and neglect. Her mum didn't know her own place and so she couldn't teach her daughter. And then she left and before you know it Alison had left school and came to me to learn about sex. I taught her and she's good, but that's not the same as knowing how to be a daughter in a family."

I continue, "What she should have learned as a girl she will now learn as college girl. I can't wind the clock back, but I can wind her mind back. Starting today."

"How?" Mybell asks, trusting me and looking for information

"I'm going to initiate her into regression training. I'll ignore she's a college student, and treat her as a girl, and as a girl she will learn the lessons she should have learned long ago. When she has accepted and absorbed her true place as my daughter then and only then will I treat her as an adult again—but by then she'll be a reformed adult with corrected values. restored to ongoing service in the family."

"That's perfect!" Mybell exclaims, "It is so important to teach her how a man should be served. Expectations begin in the family, I always say. Know how to treat your father as he expects, then you'll know how to treat all men as they expect, and you'll expect and want them to treat you as they should!"

She pauses, then says in a whisper, low but rising "I only wish my dad had taught me that. How to serve him like I serve you. But he was too weak. And now I'm glad I'm here. I wish you were really my Dad." Her voice ends on a strong clear statement—said with emotion, conviction and force—for the first time speaking a truth she never dared to know.

My heart skips a beat at her words. I couldn't have hoped for a better turn of the conversation.

I tell her, "Mybell, there is one more thing. I have another plan I'm putting into action. It will be a surprise, but you will soon get your wish."

Her eye's redden, she swallows, she moistens her lips. Then, her voice rasping, she whispers, "Oh, Father, if only that could be now. I feel I'm your daughter in every way but on. I want to be your daughter legally, in Mybell's eyes, in my parent's eyes, in the world's eyes."

"Not too much longer, and that will happen," I say.

I flick her thigh and say casually, "Now get breakfast ready, and if Aly doesn't help, I'll take her in hand. Never too late."

Mybell kisses me then turns to the stairs and ascends slowly. Her baby-cradling hips sway beneath the house coat. Her body's already changing, and though I don't know it yet, my body will now defend hers against any insult or intimidation, even from her older little sister Aly.

I may not know, but my sire cock knows and I feel it rise and stiffen again.

***

I close down the studio equipment and make two phone calls.

One is quick. Nigel answers and I say, "Good morning, old cock. Can you do me a quick order for today? Sorry for such short notice but I'd like a full new outfit for Aly. Much younger. You have her size of course. No not the usual school uniform—I want pinafores that button up the back, white blouses, lace collars, training bras, plain panties and white socks—five complete sets but double up on panties—they tend to get messy—oh and throw in a few pair with hearts and strawberry decorations—you have good judgement in that department—and some sun dresses, and a bikini, and your best nighties—can you deliver at 1pm?—excellent, thanks, I owe you—text me the bill. Later, buddy!"

The other takes an hour. It's with Seymour L. the lawyer I retain for novel tasks. The 'L' separates him from his dad Seymour M, a mentor of mine. Seymour L. can turn his hand to the most unusual requests and always gets the outcome I want. In this case it involves family law. He has often helped me in this area. He'll negotiate with the parties and prepare the documents, then we'll execute them in a single meeting when and where I'm ready. It involves divorce, marriage, emancipation and adoption. I close the conversation when I'm confident he is clear on what I want, and confident he can do it.

I switch off the lights and head up to breakfast. Only 7:30am and a good day's work already done. I'm hungry as a sire of a family.

***

As I approach the kitchen I hear Mybell loudly holding Aly to account. I pause and listen.

"I am utterly fed up with you! You may be older than me but you are lazy and not pulling your weight. You are not being a full member of this family. You don't know your place as a daughter. First you wouldn't get out of bed, and then I told you to set the table and you are just sitting there. You wait till your father gets here."


"You're not my boss," grumps Aly. "I just wanted to sleep in. I'll get some cereal later when you and Dad have finished. You can't tell me what to do!"

Such disrespect is a challenge to my authority and role, and it bites deep. My vision clouds, muscles tense, cock surges. Aly's challenge to our family's stability is so threatening it is reflected in my recently serviced shaft.

Every member of a family must abide by his or her role for the protection of the family—the dad, mum, son or daughter, even a visitor under the family roof. The family is my responsibility, and a threat to me is a threat to the family, and a threat to the family is a threat to me. My body is reacting to Aly as to any threat and preparing to restore the offender to her proper family role—and as she is female my cock will restore her to her family female role.

"Yes, I can! Your father told me to get breakfast and that's what I'm doing, and he told me to have you help, and if you don't... he'll... he'll... put you in your place. Just you wait."

"I'm not allowed to do anything. I'm all grown up and I can do what I want. And in any case, you're not my sister. Not really."

Mybell's voice rises, "You don't know what you want, not really. You don't know how to be a daughter. You don't know how your father loves you. You don't know what he's going to teach you. You just wait and see. Now lay the table, young lady!"

Aly is yelling back now, "No I won't! I shan't! And you can't make me!"

My mind is clear and my body is ready for the challenge, not least my cock. I'll remind Aly of her place. Force and cock will be necessary and beneficial, as always when training a female.

I open the door and step in. Mybell is standing with her back to the kitchen counter, breakfast interrupted behind her, house coat loosely tied. Aly, is slouched in a kitchen chair at the end of the table with her dressing gown pulled tight around her, hiding her body, not even giving Mybell the courtesy of eye-contact. This is so disrespectful to our family—and me in particular—that I feel validated and doubly committed in my decision to begin regression training immediately.

I will take her back in time. Repair the damage. Teach her what her mother never modeled or taught. It starts now. I'm not even going to explain it to her. That comes later. Now she's going to enter regression training without warning. In the raw.

enter and close the door softly, and speak quietly. My deep staccato voice cuts through the kitchen.

"Alison. Stop it. This instant. You are being utterly disrespectful. To Mybell and me. You are a daughter in this house and you must do as you're told, whether by Mybell or me. And if I don't give you specific instructions, your job is to anticipate what I want and need. And then do it.

"You've gotten away with it for far too long. If you don't know how to behave in this family where I am head, then how can you behave with any man in any future family. I won't have that. It changes now. Do you understand?"

Aly is looking at me. She is still and her face has reddened.

Mybell is also looking at me, and her face has softened. She has visibly relaxed as I step in to protect her and—though we're not conscious of it yet—protect my baby that she is carrying

"Well?" I ask again. My voice fills the silence and pushes back Aly's shouts still echoing off the walls.

Aly pauses—open mouthed—then starts to speak, "But Dad, I don't..."

In two strides I tower over her.

***

In a single smooth motion I reach down with my left hand and grasp her by the nape. Left hand for force, right for control, a family tradition. No "but Dad's" about it; she will do whatever I want. I lift her swiftly, swing her round, thrust her out of the kitchen and upstairs to her bedroom, and press her prone to the unmade bed. Her face is hard into the mattress, barely breathing. It hurts when she resists so she lies still.

She's under control now, and I pause to let it sink in.

Then, with my right hand I casually roll up her nightie to bunch beneath her armpits, rolling her back and forth to wiggle it past her breasts. Her nips have hardened. Then I rest my hand gently on her lower back and slip it under her panty waist band to cup her ass, middle and ring fingers down the crack. It's warm, humid and promising. Then I twist my wrist and sweep the panties down and off. Her aroma is fully released. She is aroused, as am I.

I pause—always take time to appreciate those you love, I always say—then give her six very hard smacks on each buttock. Red splotches spread slowly as her body twists, contorts and jerks beyond control. Her legs clamp shut, her thigh gap disappears and her body writhes from side to side. Only her nape stays in position gripped in a finger vice.

***

In this new world I'm introducing her to, it's important she give full vent to all that she's submitted to, give fully to the experience, feel it without mediation. She must suck clean the bitter pain and humiliation. Only then can she move on.

So I wait. She needs to breathe so I turn her head toward me—I hate cruelty—and bring her face to the mattress edge while keeping my nape grip firm. My turgid cock has swung free from my dressing gown and presents itself. Her mouth is open, she licks her lips, her mouth is inches from my crotch should I require service.

Her lessons have begun.

All this—from kitchen chair to naked, writhing, red, displayed, nape gripped, eye to eye with my half mast shaft—has happened so fast and firmly she has not had time to react, except to snap her legs together, suck in a lungful of air, and hold it in preparation for whatever comes next.

Now that changes and her breath emerges, first as swelling moan, then rising to a high pitched wail, a wail that is relaxed as if it knows it has a long way to travel. Carrying a mix of pain, embarrassment and anger, it winds languidly through the house, to the furthest corners of the upstairs corridors and bedrooms, seeking someone, anyone, anything to acknowledge she is who she thinks she is. She finds no one. Even Mybell in the kitchen has turned her back and attends to breakfast.

After Aly's first wail fades she listens for a response, and hearing none takes another deep breath and sends forth again. This time the tendrils of her high pitched cry seek hidden closets, the attic, the garage, the garden shed—seek someone—anyone—to acknowledge her—acknowledge that this is not who she is. There must be some mistake. Again silence. The silence says to her—perhaps this is who you are.

And then again, slightly softer but still committed to marathon screams of righteous confusion and dislocation. She is still seeking acknowledgement—surely she must be who she knows—or is it knew—herself to be—but again finds silence. A small doubt is emerging in her darkness. A doubt that carries the promise of clarity and light—perhaps she is wrong about who she is—perhaps she should listen to the silence—perhaps this new experience it telling her who she really is?

Another breath and a fourth coil of pain, appeal and demand winds through the front door, across the yard, and down the drive to any stranger passing by. A banshee wail of supplication, foreign and animal, going on and on. But—belying her pain—she is now facing a new and growing understanding—she is not who she thought she was—that girl does not exist—she never existed—she's a now another person—someone she always was.

I am patient. She is thinking and feeling. I wait as long as needed. After perhaps fifteen minutes I sense clarity diffusing through her mind—clarity that no acknowledgement will be forthcoming, no rescuer, no purpose to continued wailing. The clarity becoming knowledge. Filling her brain and senses. Unwelcome knowledge but knowledge nevertheless. Her breathing settles to sobs and hiccups. Finally she is still.

She has yielded to her new truth.

***

Aly is no longer who she was just half an hour ago. That person is now forgotten, passed and gone, denied by the silence of the family and the house, denied by her father, denied by her mother's departure, and by her sister Mybell's occupation of their father's bed.

She is now who she is now—daughter, girl, naked, at the edge of her mattress, buttocks stinging, cunt wet, presenting to parental penis, prepared for service.

The only witness and acknowledgment is mine, and Mybell's who witnesses from the family stove downstairs. The only person speaking her name is me—the only comfort is from me—her father standing over—waiting for her to raise her eyes.

I see her seeing me seeing her, as she succumbs and sinks.

But just before she sinks I reach out.

I whisper quietly, "Aly, I love you," and she hears.

I caress her breeding hips, "Mine", and she feels.

I draw my finger across her cheek, "So soft", and she sighs.

I insert my finger between her lips, "Open!", and she opens.

I pass my finger along her tongue, and she closes and sucks. "Good girl. Until I tell you to stop."

I wait further, not because I have to but because I can. Another ten minutes as she absorbs this new reality. Lying quietly in her place, suckling gently. Where she has to be, must be, and will be, while ever I will it. Watching. Feeling. Waiting. I see the shift in her eyes as she accepts, feel the shift in her her body as it accommodates, know the shift in her soul as she submits.

I murmur, "Yes. Good girl. This is your place. I love you and you love me."

***

I soften my nape grip—it still imparts control but now also caresses—and with my right hand slowly palm each buttock then slide in and down between. I force my fingers between her tight clenched thighs, down past her asshole, to swollen pussy folds and damp curls. It is tight and warm, a delightful protected nest, inviting my investigation. It is sopping. I slick my fingers through the slot then down and under to her swollen unhooded clit, unhooding it a little more. She moans.

I pull her legs apart, and say matter of factly as I dip and swirl my fingers, "You're coming on. You've enjoyed it. Keep them spread." She's bucking into my hand.

Without warning I smack her ass again—left, right—then pause, keeping her on edge—right, left. Being practiced with recalcitrants, I knew to tighten my nape grip in anticipation and she doesn't disappoint. She yelps and twists and—her head pinned firmly to mattress—her ass goes up, her belly down, her back dips, and her legs spread wider. She is presenting nicely, and I tell her so.

"Good girl. You are presenting nicely. I'm pleased. Well done," and I watch her raise her eyes to mine for my acknowledgement, eye contact and approval.

***

I settle into the second stage, where the intensity of pleasure will displace the intensity of pain. The two will meld. Her memory will be of pleasure and of pain, but the after glow from pleasure. It's a the perfect reward for a family female in training—long used, tried and true—often used in this house—and has generated a princely profit.

With my palm I again cup her asshole from behind and slide my fingers between her labia majora, toying along her protruding labia minora. Then with force I push my middle and ring fingers into her. She is tight—still resisting, bless her soul—but oh so warm and wet that I get in without much fuss. I set a regular rhythm and pace—tweaking her clit with my index finger—to bring her on and up. I feel her backside lift to my intrusive hand, hear her grunt and squeal in rising response, smell her aroma of desire and cunt, know her fear and yearning, welcome her resistance, demand her submission.

My dressing gown is fully open and my full stand cock is bobbing inches from her open eyes and mouth. She breathes in the scent of pre-cum. I soften my nape grip. She knows she's still under sire control, but now also knows sire caress and guidance. The two will meld—the memory will be of both—of control and caress—but the long after glow will be of cuming on my fingers and paternal love.

She has brought her feet beneath, her thighs apart, and her ass up as much as she can, seeking deeper and deeper thrusts, I momentarily remove my left hand from her neck, reach back and smack her as hard as I can on each ass cheek, and simultaneously twist my left hand to hook my fingers downwards and engage her G-spot. I get my left hand back to her neck just in time to hold her firm as she orgasms hard. Her scream echos through the house.

I picture Mybell's satisfaction as she listens in the kitchen. Aly's wet mouth is open before my cock.

I don't wait for her orgasm to end and while she is still convulsing—her pleasure is mine to do with as I wish—I thrust into her presented mouth. She wraps her tongue around the shaft and I thrust her head back and start to fuck into her throat. Her cry is cut short.

Mybell smiles again as she puts motherly touches to our breakfast.

As I cum, my nape grip has becomes a full hold on Aly's neck—no caress now—and, holding her firm, I bend forward trapping her head between my hairy belly and the mattress, and thrust deep. A minuter later I'm as deep as I can get as I cum down her throat, my balls against her chin. Aly lies still, absorbing all I giver her, and her throat muscles swallow rhythmically and massage my cock-head as it spurts.

After a few minutes, I stand and say, "Clean my cock, put your nightie on, and come to breakfast. You can clean up later."

At that moment Mybell's voice comes up the stairs, "Father... Aly... just in time... breakfast's ready. Come while it's hot."

Aly groans through a wan smile.

***

Mybell has thoughtfully spread a towel on Aly's chair and served up a big breakfast. The smell of sex is in the air, but no one remarks. We eat in silence, with big appetites. After breakfast I sit back and watch my two girls.

Mybell is fussing and solicitous of Aly. She asks if Aly would like some more pancakes. She says she's a growing girl and needs her strength.

Aly smiles and says, "Yes, please! I love the pancakes you make. Can I have extra maple syrup?" She's still sweating, diffusing to a glow.

"Of course, Aly baby," Mybell replies, "Now drink your juice while I make them."

When Aly is finally finished—she's an enthusiastic eater—I tell her she is to help Mybell this morning in the kitchen. A visitor is coming at 1pm and they must both be ready. He's bringing a special gift for Aly.

Aly is delighted. Her voice cracks between her normal low pitch and a new and unfamiliar high pitch, "For me? Oh wow!" (Low.) "That is so special. (High.) I can't wait. (Low.) I'll be ever so good this morning. (High.) Mybell, can we make cookies? (Low to high.) I'd love to thank him with cookies! (High.)" She pauses to catch her breath. She's a bit confused at the sound of her changing voice, but I find the squeal attractive and I think she likes it.

"Of course, Aly baby. We can do that. We'll make chocolate chip. Now help wash the dishes and we'll get going."

As I leave the kitchen, Aly is clearing the table while dancing and twirling in excitement. Mybell and I both laugh and watch. Aly is finally acknowledged, and she loves it.

"I'll see you two at lunch," I call above Aly's delighted and delightful squeals, and head to the studio. I have to organize some things, as Aly is about to become my intern. It's time she learns the business.

***

Just before noon, Aly comes bouncing down the stairs and twirls across the floor to my chair. I catch her in my arms and swing her face down across my lap, pulling her dress up and her panties down. She squirms and says, plaintively, "Dad... I just came to tell you lunch is ready... what are you doing... I don't like..."

She yelps and stops when I smack her.

"All in good time," I say and thrust my hand between her legs. "I just want to check you, You need to be smelling sweet when our visitor arrives."

She is not as pulpy as she was at breakfast but still sticky. I let my left hand drift to her neck and grip hard in anticipation, then my right thumb finds her asshole and two middle fingers enter her her cunt. Never too early in training to learn the bowling ball grip. She squirms and yelps again as I grip harder with both hands.

"Settle down," I say, "it's just a little status check. And also I need to know you'll be obedient when our visitor is here."

"I will, I promise Dad!" she squeals as she fights to lie still.

I work my two fingers in her to generate more juice—she starts nice and tight but widens as I work—then pull them out and slide them forward either side of her clit, pinching and massaging the protruding bud between them. She gasps and dips her back. But I don't let her come, and after a minute I remove my fingers, give her a second hard smack on each ass cheek, release my nape grip and let stand her. She's a bit wobbly.

"You'll do nicely now. A nice slow simmer. Pull down your dress and leave your panties off."

She does so, and opens her mouth to say something—perhaps a protest, perhaps a thank you. She doesn't know whether to scowl or smile. She thinks I don't see, but I do, and I know why. The dignity of the college girl is affronted, but it means so much to be acknowledged, and that in itself is dignifying. Talk about conflict—the trainer's friend.

She lived in neglected shadows for so long when her mum was here and didn't control her, and it hurt. Now she is learning to like control, to be seen, to be acknowledged, to feel good. She rubs her backside as she goes up the stairs again, and when she thinks I'm not looking sneaks a hand under her dress.

"Don't be long... I will get cold... I mean it will get cold," she sings over her shoulder in her new girly voice.

I power down the system and follow her, rubbing my crotch.

***

We've just finishing lunch when the door bell rings.

"Aly, you answer the door. Remember, use your best manners," I say, and she twirls out of the kitchen and skips down the hall. The scent of arousal is strong.

We hear the door open, muffled voices, then a signal squeak, and she comes back, frowning, followed by Nigel. He is looking appreciatively at her tight butt, and sniffing his fingers. We've known each other—and our peccadilloes—for decades. He winks. He's pulling an enormous wheeled suitcase behind him.

"How's it going, Nigel, old cock" I say. It's a statement not a question, as I can see how it was going a moment before. "Come and have a seat."

Mybell says to Aly, "Aly baby, did you greet Mr Tupper properly? Now be a good little hostess like I told you."

"Mr. Tupper, would you like a drink? I can offer you water, milk or juice, and chocolate chip cookies, I made the cookies myself!" Aly says proudly.

"That's very sweet of you, young Ms Alison. I fancy a tall cool glass of milk and some fresh gooey cookies," replies Nigel, and she giggles. She get's a glass, fills it, puts it and the cookies on a tray, and brings it to him. She carries it carefully with two hands so as not to spill any. She frowns in concentration, and her tongue protrudes ever so slightly between her lips. Nigel is hypnotized by the sight, but not so much that he can't reach out to guide her between his knees. She puts the tray on the table beside him and he closes his knees, trapping her side-on.

"Thank you, me darlin'," he says, and eats and sips slowly while eyeing Aly looking up at him, his hand, pressed below her rump by his squeezing thigh, casually fiddling beneath her dress hem.

"Delicious," he says ambiguously, "Are you sure you made them all yourself?"

"Yes," she smiles, delighted with yet more acknowledgement. She could get used to this. He releases her and she takes her seat again where she waits demurely, on her towel, hands in her lap.

"So, Nigel, enough of the courtesies, I believe you have something for my favorite daughter who's name begins with an 'A' for 'apple of my eye'", I say. Aly giggles, and slides forward on her chair, expectantly. The towel ruffles but she doesn't notice, though Nigel does.

"I certainly do. Here, young Mistress Alison, you take this suitcase to the living room and open it. We'll be there in a minute."

***

Before long the house is resounding to squeals of happy laughter and delight, and Nigel and I move to the living room and sit in two comfortable armchairs to watch the fun. Aly has opened the case and discovered the immense treasure trove of lovely new clothes. They are not what she's used to wearing at college, which are misshapen, baggy, drab, and hide her best features. These are pretty, in bright or pastel colors, and cut to accentuate her figure—tight butt, slim waist and hips, barely B-breasts. They are slimming and younger-ing—if I may invent that word—and Nigel has even included a selection of hair ribbons, scrunchies and makeup.

"What are you going to try on first?" I ask, and she holds up a sundress, panties with hearts, and a frilly shear blouse. She looks at me questioningly.

"Well go on, get changed," I say, and then reach out and grab her as she starts to slide past me to her bedroom to change. I grip her upper arm and bring her back.

"No, you should change here." I give her a light swat on her backside. "That's is how it is. You'll learn. If we can't see you then how on earth can we appreciate how pretty you are. You may as well get changed in a closet."

She scowls. "But... dad...!"

Anticipating resistance, I have kept hold of her arm and now pull her down and across my left knee, her head and chest between my legs, and clamp my thighs to pin her.. I am now free to use both hands. I pull up her dress—or rather, down—and give her a hard smack on each cheek while her legs dance in the air and her crotch winks at Nigel.

"Now apologize to me and Mr. Tupper. I expect better behavior from my daughter."

A muffled, "I'm sorry Mr. Tupper," emanates from between my legs, the chair, and carpet. I release her red faced to stand in front of us. She's tugging at her dress.

I settle back in my seat and she begins to strip. She quickly drops her dress, panties and bra, then sits on the floor to take off her shoes and socks. Her crotch splays and she seems unaware, though I notice she turns slightly and Nigel gets a better view as she humps her pussy forward. Nigel is adjusting his crotch, and I ask her if she likes the clothes he's picked.

"Oh yes. They're lovely. Thank you Mr. Tupper," she says in a sing-song voice, then gets up and bends to carefully pick up the new outfit behind her. She's ever so careful and takes her time.

"Make yourself comfortable, Nigel," I say as we wait, and I see his movement in the deep armchair as he unzips and releases his cock. His left arm is moving as he strokes slowly. Aly turns her head to glances behind her and does a wide-eyed double-take. "Wow," she says, "that's big".

It's not really, but she knows instinctively how to flatter a man and get him ready.

She turns back to us and dresses in the new outfit—heart panties, pretend training bra trapping her B-cup breasts, yellow flouncy sundress, frilly blouse, and short white socks. She even puts two matching yellow ribbons in her hair, one on each side.

***

She pirouettes slowly in the middle of the room, scanning Nigel's and my faces for approval. We of course are long past approval, we are completely bowled over at the transformation. Like most freshman college girls she usually presents as drab and lumpy as a bag of potatoes. That's not the case now, and Nigel's left hand is working double time.

"Aly, do you notice the state Nigel is in? Do you think he might need a hand? You should have noticed this by yourself and offered to help. You have to learn. Now get over there and help him out."

"But dad, that's not fair. I don't want to. His thing smells. Can't I just try on more clothes?"

"No you may not, young lady. You know what's expected of you. Now do it!" and I get out of my chair and nape grip her.

I move her into kneeling position between his knees. I fluff out her sundress then bend her forward with my left hand nape grip, and lower my right hand to grip her pussy from behind. I can now guide her forward to his cock. I push her head down till she takes it. Then I sit down again, unzip myself, and watch.

For ten minutes all I see is Aly on her knees between his legs, largely hidden from view. Her bottom sticks out in its yellow sundress glory—a nodding sunflower comes to mind—while the top of her head is just visible above the padded arm rests. Her head and yellow ribbons bob up and down with Nigel's fingers wound in her hair. After ten minutes she stops moving and he goes rigid, lifts his pelvis up off he chair, grips her head tight, and groans.

"Fuck and shit," he says, and a minute later I hear his cock pull from her mouth with a plop.

I get up and nape grip her again before she can get up, and with my right hand reach to her pussy and swiftly bring her off. She needs as many after-glows as possible if she is to get accustomed to following my will. As she cums, her cunt clamps my fingers tightly and quivers, and she moans into Nigel's crotch. He's as dazed as a stunned mullets as she collapses into his crotch, breathing hard. I sit down again.

"What grade would you give her, Nig," I ask, and he replies, "Definitely an A+ for enthusiasm, skill and results, though only an B+ for initiative because you had to coach her. All in all, excellent work by young Miss Alison."

"Yes, she learned a lot in her gap year before college, and is technically skilled, but she is now in remedial training. She's still learning her family role and place in the world."

I can't keep the pride from my voice, and Aly's face lights up at the praise and acknowledgement. She sits back on her haunches and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

***

At that moment Mybell comes in with a tray of drinks. There are two beers for Nig and me, and a fizzy for Aly. Mybell has a shandy. As she gives Aly her fizzy, she carefully wipes some cream and spittle from Aly's chin.

"Are you having a good time, Aly baby?" she asks, and adds with a proud motherly smile, "I'm sure you're being very helpful."

"Thank you, Mymy," Aly answers. It's the first time I've heard her address Mybell with that affectionate diminutive. It seems very fitting. "I tried really really hard," she says, and beams.

***

After Nigel has gone I tell Aly to hang all her new clothes in her closet, and pack all her college clothes into the suitcase. Then she must haul the suitcase—it's almost bigger than she is—down to my studio and put it at the back of the store room. I tell her it'll stay there until she goes back to college. Until then she should wear the new clothes that Mr. Tupper brought her. Then she should come back to the living room. There's a hint of relief in her face as she listens to my clear instructions. She needs direction.

After she's done that she comes back. Mybell and I are waiting, talking quietly. Aly stands in front of us in her sundress, blouse and ribbons—all slightly disheveled—and faces us. Her hands twist together in front, as if protecting her, and her right foot swivels towards the left and twists slowly back and forth. Her head is bowed and she's avoiding eye contact.

She's not sure what has been happening today, only that it has been exciting, fun and exhausting. She loves this new life—it's almost like she's play acting a new Aly—except it is very very real, and her still raw pussy and aching jaw remind her it's not playacting.

I know what she's thinking. It's "that old Aly must have been a fake, I'm glad she's gone, and I'm glad I'm a new me."

And at that thought her eye's snap up, and she sees me watching. Our eyes connect, her body straightens, her feet turn parallel and straight, and stop twisting. Her hands fall to her side, palm out.

"Aly, I see you're paying attention now. I have some important things to tell you. Your life is going to be different from now on. And better. But you must always do what I say, or what your Mymy says, even if you don't want to. Do you understand?"

"Yes." Simply stated.

"This next part may be a bit hard to understand, but do you know how when you're jilling, it never feels as good as when I'm fingering you? Or when you're fucking yourself with a dildo, it never feels as good as my cock? Well the same sort of thing applies to your whole life, only you don't know it yet. Your education began today. In future you are going to learn that almost everything you enjoy—or hate—is going to go better when I tell you what to do, when I instruct and command and even force you. You'll learn it's like sex—always better when someone else is in control.

"Partly you're learning this so you'll know what it really means to be a family female. Your mother shielded you from this knowledge, and I blame myself for not doing better. But that changes today. You're going to learn to be a female in this family, the full role and expectations. It will make it better for you, for the family, for me, for your Mymy, and for any future man I may give you to. It's called 'regression training'.

"Finally, starting tomorrow at 6am sharp you are going to learn the business, The Family Practice. You've enjoyed the profits your entire young life, and now it's time to get involved and help make the profits. You have a good business head on your shoulders and your college courses will be an asset. Next year when you're a sophomore you will change to a double major in Business and Communications.

"One day you'll run the operation under me."

Aly is standing up straight and looking directly at me. A posture of pride and confidence. She speaks clearly, with her new high pitched—and strong—voice. "I'm ready. Just tell me."

At that I know I'm over the hump, so to speak.

***

For the rest of the afternoon I organize my gameplay to introduce Aly to the entire TFP business—the value proposition, business model, inventory of raw and packaged content, technology, and—most importantly—the talent base, the hundreds of family members mastered, recorded and monetized over the years.

She must become familiar with all my family member's videos, pictures and merchandise. She must understand who appeals best to which clients and why, and how we manage them. Each needs her own particular blend of incentives and discipline to keep performing at peak earning potential. Talent management is core to the business, and Aly's understanding of the family female role will be core to our talent management. The better she understands how to be a family female, the better she can manage our stable of family females. She has to learn the product from the ground up, and she can't do it without regression training. We've started just in time.

While I'm doing that, Aly is in her room organizing her new clothes, and then helps Mybell get dinner ready. I sometimes hear the low murmur of their voices as they work, sometimes quiet, sometimes giggling, sometimes laughing. I picture them standing close. At one point when I take a break to get a cup of coffee, they're laughing uproariously as I enter—Mybell's voice low, Aly's high—but stop immediately and look at me, their eyes shining. When I leave they start up again.

At dinner, we sit down as a family. Aly has changed into a lovely pastel blue pinafore and light pink blouse and is on best behavior. She helps serve the meal. She's beaming and delightful, a lovely hostess. She keeps her towel straight. As we eat we chatter about the future. Aly wants to know about regression training—and I know Mybell secretly wants to know about my other promise—but I talk about other plans and dreams. The biggest things in life must keep their mystery.

***

That night Mybell and I retire early—we're both exhausted—but I still attend to business before sliding into bed with her.

"I'll be right back," I say, "just going to settle Aly."

Aly is in bed waiting expectantly, but tonight is not about her and I bypass the niceties. It's not all about her and she needs to be ready whenever I am. I pull the sheet back, flip her onto her back, pull up her new nightie—a regression special—and settle between her legs. She grunts as I enter and shortly leave my calling card. Her cunt clamps then quivers, milking me as she cums. I stay inside until I soften then pull out slowly with a plop. My tongue is the last to leave. Maybe I'll get her braces. She's already asleep.

I tell her slowly breathing form, "All settled. You know Mymy and I love you. See you at six. Sleep tight."

***

Mybell cleans me up when I slip back into bed still sloppy from Aly,. As she does I watch her breasts jiggle. But how can barely B cups jiggle? They're barely there. I reach out and cup one where they dangle before my eyes. It's a nice handful, but slightly larger than usual. I squeeze to check and Mybell winces. She frees her mouth from my cock long enough to say, "Ouch, they're a bit swollen and painful tonight. I don't know why." and returns to her task.

Her scent is filing the room and I'm feeling particularly particularly protective tonight, so I cup her dangling tits gently when I mount and cover her from behind ten minutes later.

"Thank you, Father," she says when she slides forward onto her belly, satisfied.

She's quickly dozing. Half asleep, she murmurs, "Aly is a lucky girl to have you."