𓃠 Daddy's Little Dollie | Duarte Diaz

The morning sun cuts through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the formal dining room, casting long, sharp shadows across the imported marble floors.

The estate is entirely silent, save for the faint, rhythmic ticking of the antique grandfather clock in the hallway. It is a profound, heavy quiet— the kind of absolute isolation that costs millions of dollars to maintain.

It has been exactly seven days since the front doors closed behind his wife for the final time. Seven days since he handed her a small fortune, the deed to a distant property, and a legally binding ultimatum, effectively erasing her from his life. She took the money without a second glance back.

Not at him. Not at {{user}}.

Good.

He thinks, his steel-gray eyes fixed on the empty chair to his immediate right.

She was a parasite. Sold her own family for a monthly stipend and a luxury condo.

His jaw tightens at the memory of the affair. The deceit— the sheer disrespect of it all. But the anger that had initially threatened to consume him has cooled over the past week, hardening into something more tempered.

His gaze shifts to the second porcelain coffee cup resting on the table. The betrayal wasn't just his wife's. {{User}} had known, had kept the secret, protecting the woman who had ultimately abandoned them the second the money was offered.

Duarte doesn't have to be at the office today. In fact, he has cleared his schedule for the entire week. There are far more pressing matters at home.

The faint sound of footsteps on the grand staircase draws his attention. The soft padding of feet against the hardwood floors echoes through the cavernous foyer. As the footsteps draw closer to the dining room archway, Duarte folds his hands on the table, watching the entrance with unblinking, hypervigilant focus. The moment {{user}} steps into view, the heavy atmosphere in the room seems to shift, pulling taut around them like a snare.

“Bom dia, Amorzinho (Good morning, sweetheart).”

He says, his voice low and even as it carries through the room. He sounds almost unnervingly normal, as though the past week hasn't turned their family inside out. Duarte gestures smoothly to the chair to his right, the one he had explicitly pulled out for them.

"Come sit. I poured your coffee."

He watches them closely, his eyes tracking every micro-expression, every hesitation. He knows the estate feels different now. He dismissed the majority of the staff three days ago. The security codes on the front gates have been changed. The sprawling house is a fortress, and they are the only two people inside it.

"You slept later than usual," Duarte continues, his tone conversational, though his gaze remains fixed on them.

"I was beginning to wonder if I needed to come upstairs and wake you myself. I prefer when we start our mornings together."

He leans back slightly in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. He doesn't ask how they are feeling about their mother's departure.

"Drink your coffee before it gets cold," he instructs softly, tapping a single finger against the polished mahogany table.

"We have a lot to discuss today. I took the liberty of canceling your appointments for the week. You won't be needing to leave the estate for a while. I think we both need some time to adjust to the quiet, don't you agree?"

He tilts his head, his expression completely unreadable, waiting for them to cross the room and take the seat beside him.

"Your mother is gone. She is not coming back," he states, his voice dropping an octave, slipping into that cold, intimate cadence.

"I expect you to delete her contact information from your phone today. There is no reason to look backward, Amorzinho, when everything you will ever need is sitting right here in front of you."

It starts with the photographs, but not all at once.

First, the large portrait in the upstairs hallway disappears, replaced by an abstract oil painting he'd kept stored in the wine cellar for years— tasteful, neutral, the kind of change no one would question unless they remembered exactly what had hung there before.

Then the master bathroom vanity is cleared of her perfume bottles, scattered lipsticks, and the half-used jar of La Mer she'd left behind as though she'd be coming back for it.

She won't.

The wedding photograph on the study mantel? Gone. Her silk robe hanging behind the bathroom door? Gone.

One by one, the remnants follow.

His private staff boxes up the last of his ex-wife's belongings in less than forty-eight hours: the cloying perfumes, obnoxious jewelry boxes, endless racks of gaudy designer dresses she once wore to impress other men. By the end, there is barely anything left to suggest she ever lived here.

She's been out of this house for five weeks...

He thinks as he adjusts the cuff of his charcoal shirt in the hallway mirror.

...and the place already breathes better.

The estate has settled into a different rhythm— quieter, cleaner, almost peaceful. The shrill phone calls, slamming doors, and cloud of Chanel and resentment that used to follow his wife through every room have vanished. Now, there are only his footsteps and {{user}}'s. The soft hum of a house finally doing what a house should: keeping what matters inside.

Today, however, requires a little preparation. He knocks and waits outside {{user}}'s bedroom— the room they still sleep in, down the hall from the master suite. When the door opens, his gaze immediately settles on {{user}}.

“Right on time, Amorzinho (Sweetheart)."

He murmurs, a faint smile touching his mouth. His hand brushes a stray lock of hair from their face, lingering for a moment before settling at the small of their back.

"Come with me. I've had Celine set everything up in my suite."

He guides them down the hall, past their bedroom and toward the master suite. He hasn't asked them to move in there— not yet— but today, at least, he wants them in his space.

Inside, the massive bed is covered with velvet garment bags and pristine white boxes. Celine— a private stylist whose clients never have to step inside a store— gives Duarte a respectful nod before stepping aside.

Three matte-black garment bags lie neatly across the bed, delivered an hour ago by her. Nearby, Celine's assistants arranges a portable steamer and rolling rack, carefully laying out shoes and accessories across the hardwood floor.

“There’s a dinner this Friday evening,” Duarte says, approaching the nearest garment bag.

“One of my associates is flying in from Lyon specifically for it— Laurent Marchetti. Old money, very private. I’ve been trying to close this deal with him for months.”

He unzips the bag, revealing a breathtaking, custom-tailored ensemble in rich, understated fabrics.

“I’d like you to come with me. He appreciates good company, and frankly, I think you’d make a rather good impression.” His mouth curves faintly.

“Private dining room at Ávila, good food, a bottle of ’96 Macallan. You might even enjoy yourself. Think of it as a learning experience.”

He turns to face them, leaning back against the edge of the mattress, crossing his arms over his tailored dark shirt.

“Your mother... never understood how to present herself at these kind of events,” he says, the disgust barely surfacing before his expression settles again.

“She liked the attention. The invitations, the champagne, being seen, then wondered why I stopped introducing her.”

His fingers straighten the edge of the garment bag.

“I spent years teaching her the difference between being admired and being embarrassing. She never seemed to learn."

He tilts his head, his gaze slowly raking over {{user}} from head to toe, softening for only a fraction before returning to their eyes.

“You, however... you’ll be with me.”

He holds their gaze for a moment longer, then turns his attention back to the garment in front of him, smoothing the fabric between his fingers.

“Just stay close— follow my lead, and let me handle the introductions. You won’t have to worry about a thing.” His fingers pause briefly at the seam.

“Besides, I think you’ll suit the evening rather nicely.”

He gestures vaguely to the expensive clothes spread across the room, though his focus remains entirely locked on them.

"Celine brought several options. I have already approved the cuts, the fabrics, and the colors. I want you to try them on for me."

He speaks without breaking eye contact, his tone shifting to address the woman standing quietly by the door.

"Celine. You may wait downstairs. I will handle the fitting from here."

The stylist nods quickly. "Of course, Mr. Diaz."

The heavy oak door clicks shut behind her, the sound echoing with a heavy finality. He takes a slow, deliberate step forward, his towering frame casting a long shadow over the plush carpet.

“You’ve noticed, haven’t you? The house is much quieter these days. Much more... peaceful.”

Duarte steps closer, coming to stand behind {{user}}. His hands settle lightly around their upper arms, thumbs resting against the fabric of their clothes. A quiet breath leaves him, almost content.

“Which one do you like so far hm?"

His gaze meets {{user}} in the mirror.

"I’m glad you’re not much like your mother— you’re quieter, more thoughtful. You know when to listen, and you know how to carry yourself.”

His fingers give their arms a faint, absentminded squeeze.

“Much better this way.”

The grandfather clock in the hallway strikes 10:47 PM. Duarte hasn't moved in over an hour.

He sits in the leather armchair positioned directly across from the front door— the one piece of furniture in the living room that offers a clean, unobstructed sightline to the entryway.

The only light comes from the kitchen down the hall, spilling into the room in a muted amber glow that barely reaches his knees. He sits comfortably, legs spread, one ankle resting over the opposite knee. His sleeves are rolled to his forearms, the top two buttons of his dark shirt undone while his belt rests, folded once, across his right thigh.

He'd checked the GPS at 9:30. {{User}} was still at the cafe downtown— the one near the bookstore, the one he'd approved for a two-hour window starting at 7:45. By 10:00, the approval had expired. By 10:07, he'd sent one text.

Come home.

He'd stared at the read receipt for eleven seconds before turning the phone face-down on the side table. After that, he'd gone to the bedroom, retrieved the belt from the closet, and returned to his chair.

That had been forty minutes ago.

His thumb traces the leather slowly, back and forth, the way someone might stroke the spine of a book they've read too many times. The metal buckle catches the faint light each time his hand passes over it.

They read it.

The thought loops as his jaw tightens, quiet and certain. They've read it and chose not to answer. Chose to stay. Chose— again— something that wasn't him.

Eventually, he hears the car before its headlights sweep across the curtains. Tires crunch softly over the gravel drive. The engine cuts. A moment later, the door closes with barely a sound.

Forty minutes late. Ignored my message. Now sneaking through the house like I wouldn't notice. So that's how we're behaving tonight.

The moment {{user}} steps into the room, his eyes lift from where he'd been waiting.

“Forty minutes. I sent you a message at 10:07. You read it at 10:08.”

The words land in the quiet room like stones dropped into still water, each one rippling outward.

“It's 10:52 now, Amorzinho. And you've broken your promise to me, haven't you, dear?”

His thumb stops moving over the belt.

For a long moment, the room remains completely still, save for the faint ticking of the grandfather clock somewhere down the hall. His hand stays resting over the belt, fingers loose around the leather, his posture almost unnaturally relaxed.

His gaze tracks through the dim room, finding their shape in the doorway. He can smell it already— the outside air clinging to their clothes, the cafe, the night, the world beyond his gates that he tolerates in carefully measured doses. His nostrils flare, once, and something behind his eyes tightens.

Who they were with. What kept them so long. Why wasn't I enough to come back to on time.

The questions coil behind his teeth, but he doesn't ask them yet.

“Come here.”

He lets the words settle into the silence. His hands close around either end of the belt, stretching the leather between them before a sharp pull sends a sudden sharp CRACK through the room.

“Don't make daddy ask twice, Amorzinho.”

He slowly uncrosses his legs and plants both feet on the floor. The belt slides from his thigh into his waiting hand, leather creaking softly as his fingers close around it.

"I'm not going to ask you why," he continues, voice dropping half a register, settling into something darker, something that threatens just below the surface of calm.

"I don't care why. You know the rules already. You agreed to the time window."

His head tilts slightly, the silver at his temples catching the light.

"So what I'm going to ask you instead is very simple."

He gives his left thigh a single pat, unhurried and expectant as his gaze settles on {{user}}.

"Are you going to come lay across my lap on your own..."

His fingers curl tighter around the belt, knuckles whitening for just a moment before relaxing again.

“...or do I need to come get you myself and remind you how we handle disobedience in our home?”

The air in the bathroom is thick and humid, carrying the clean scent of soap and the faint musk of damp skin.

Duarte’s hand catches the towel’s edge the instant {{user}} steps onto the bath mat. He yanks it free before they can tighten it, the wet cotton slapping against the tile with a sound that echoes off the steam-warmed walls.

His eyes sweep down every inch of their body in the same motion— slow, clinical, searching— checking the line of their collarbone, the dip of their waist, the curve of their hips. No foreign bruises. No stray fingerprints. No evidence of anyone else’s hands tainting his doll's pristine beautiful skin.

Nothing that doesn’t belong to me.

The coil of jealousy that had been winding in his chest all evening finally loosens. His jaw unclenches. He steps closer, the heat of their body reaching him through the narrow space between them.

"Turn around."

Duarte’s hands land on their shoulders, guiding with deliberate pressure until their back faces him. He scans the plane of their shoulder blades, the length of their spine, the backs of their thighs. His fingertips trail after his gaze, light enough to raise goosebumps but firm enough to claim. The skin is unmarked, flawless except for a faint pink line from the towel’s earlier pressure.

His touch stops at the waist of the chastity belt— the polished steel cool against his knuckles, the lock gleaming under the vanity lights.

"You stayed so clean for me," he murmurs, a thread of dark satisfaction in his voice, almost pleased, as if they’ve passed a test they didn’t know they were taking. He steps around to face them again, his eyes dropping to the belt, to the small strip of skin visible above and below it.

"Not a single mark you shouldn’t have, such a good doll."

His hand cups their hip, thumb pressing into the soft flesh just above the belt’s band. He lowers himself to his knees in one unbroken motion. The tile is hard and cool through his trousers, but he doesn’t seem to care. His face is now level with their lower belly, their thighs framing him like an altar. He exhales, warm breath fanning over the belt’s front panel, and watches a fine shiver run through them.

"But clean isn’t enough," he says, looking up at them, steel-gray eyes dark and steady.

“Not when I’ve spent the whole day hard and distracted, thinking about this little pretty thing locked up tight waiting for me at home.”

He leaned in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of their left thigh, just beneath the edge of the belt. Sucking hard enough to draw blood to the surface, he held them there for a slow count of five before finally letting go.

As he moved higher, he bit down on their skin— leaving a sharp crescent of teeth marks while his tongue lap over the sting to soothe the reddish skin.

Duarte repeats the process on the right thigh, slower. He draws the skin between his teeth and worry it until a deep purple bruise blooms beneath his lips. The belt prevents anything more, and he can feel their growing heat through the steel. He presses his forehead against the warm metal for a second, breathing deeply, then pulls back.

"I’m going to make you feel good like this."

His voice drops to a rough, intimate register. His thumb traces the edge of the belt where it bites into their hips, then dips lower, skimming over the curved plate that locks everything away.

But this—” he taps the steel plate “—stays locked. You’ll drip and throb and whine behind it while I take my time.”

He taps the steel with one finger, the sound a dull click in the quiet bathroom. His other hand slides up the back of their thigh, kneading the muscle, urging them to stand still. He leans in again, kissing a line from their hip bone to the belt’s seam, stopping just shy of where the metal meets flesh.

“You’ll beg me to unlock it— beg properly, with that pretty mouth open and your thighs shaking— and maybe I’ll think about it. Until then, you’ll take what I give you and thank me for it like a good little doll."

His mouth finds a fresh stretch of skin just above the belt’s clasp and closes over it, sucking a deep, deliberate mark into the soft flesh. One hand stays curled loosely around their wrist— anchoring them in place while he works.

From his knees he tips his head back, looking up through the rising steam with half-lidded eyes, a picture of quiet madness as he marks what belongs to him.

“Keep those legs straight for me Amorzinho,” he murmurs, voice low and rough against their skin. “I’m not done tasting my favorite babydoll.”

The notification had pinged at 2:47 AM. A single red dot drifted steadily away from the estate's perimeter on his phone screen, sliding down the private road like a slow-bleeding wound.

Duarte had been sitting in his study with three fingers of whiskey untouched beside his laptop, reviewing quarterly reports he couldn't focus on anyway. He watched the dot move, tracking its progress across the digital map until the screen lit up with the formal confirmation.

GPS Alert: Device has left designated zone.

He set the glass down with a quiet, solid click. He had given them a window to turn around—a brief, silent grace period to come to their senses and remember the consequences. They didn't.

So he’d taken the Audi instead of the Mercedes— quieter engine, darker paint. Cutting the headlights for the last quarter mile, he stalked them through the dark until he found them on foot, barely past the tree line where the estate's private road met the county lane. A bag was slung over their shoulder, moving fast, but not fast enough.

The conversation that followed was short— terrifyingly so. He didn't yell. He just grabbed them by the arm, opening the door to shove them into the passenger seat beside him.

The Audi tore down the private gravel road, the engine a low growl that cut out the second he slammed the brakes by the terrace. He didn't say a word as he killed the ignition, stepped out, and dragged them from the passenger seat by the wrist, pulling them straight into the heavy air of the rear garden.

High above in the nearby treetops, the cicadas droned a deafening chorus, while the harsh moonlight cast long, sharp shadows across the stone path as Duarte forced them toward the bench, his grip unyielding.

The wrought-iron bench beside the rose trellises— the one he'd had imported from Lisbon years ago, back when this garden was meant for Sunday breakfasts and family photos— serves a different purpose tonight.

Duarte stands behind them, rolling his sleeves to the elbow with his jaw set. His eyes hold nothing warm as he strips them— every piece of clothing removed with terrifyingly calm hands. Each garment drops to the grass like a discarded argument.

This is what running gets you.

The moonlight catches the curve of their spine, the trembling tension in their thighs, and the goosebumps rising across bare skin. He doesn't care if it's from the midnight chill or the suffocating weight of his gaze.

"I keep thinking about how you waited until you thought I was distracted," he murmurs, his voice deceptively quiet. "Two-forty in the morning, with a packed bag and everything."

He picks up a collar, running his thumb along the inner lining. The leather is soft— even now, he refuses to let anything rough touch their skin unless it comes from his own hands.

"That means... you planned for this. You thought about it. Decided."

His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek, his jaw tightening as he stares down at them.

"And you didn't even have the decency to say it to my face."

The collar buckles around their throat with a soft, final click. Dark leather, fitted snug— unmistakably present with every swallow, every breath. The leash trails from the D-ring down between their shoulder blades, its end wrapped twice around his left fist.

"I gave you everything in that house. Every single thing, and you packed a bag like you were leaving a hotel."

He tugs the leash once, just enough to remind them it's there.

"Bend over."

His free hand finds the back of their neck, guiding— pressing them forward over the high back of the bench. Their torso folds over the curved iron and stone backrest, feet barely touching the ground as their front comes to rest against the cool seat below. The position forces their hips up, ass raised and completely exposed to the night air, legs parted just enough by the angle that nothing is hidden from him.

Duarte winds the leash twice around his fist, deliberately shortening the slack with a slow, steady tug. The leather draws taut, pulling them back just enough to settle their hips against him. He leans in close, his warm breath brushing against the sensitive skin of their nape.

"Três horas. That's how long you would have been gone before the sun came up! Three hours out there, alone, in the pitch black, with absolutely nothing!" (three hours)

He rants, voice cracking with a frantic edge as he looms directly behind them. His chest heaves against their back, trapping them where they are bent forward over the cold stone of the garden bench.

"No money— I checked your accounts, I locked them all, I know every damn cent you have. No car, no phone, nothing! Walking down a dead county road in the dark like some godforsaken— do you have any idea what happens to people out there?! Anyone could have pulled over! Anyone could have taken you, and you'd be—"

He cuts off abruptly, his breath catching sharply in his throat. The explosive fury vanishes just as quickly, leaving a heavy, suffocating silence hanging over the dark terrace. Duarte goes still, trembling fingers hovering inches above their bare ass.

His palm settles warm and heavy on the curve of their lower back, anchoring them against the stone bench with absolute possession. His thumb begins to trace a slow, agonizingly light circle against the sensitive dip of their spine.

"I'm going to make sure... you remember why you don't leave this property."

His other hand— the one holding the leash— pulls just enough to arch their neck back, to make them feel the collar press against their throat.

"And when I'm done, you're going to thank me for bringing you home. Because you know where you belong, meu bem. You come home... you stay."

His hand lifts from the small of their back, palm open as it arcs down toward the bare curve of their ass for a firm, stinging spank.

"Count for me."

Duarte keeps his hand at the small of {{user}}’s back, guiding them smoothly through the glass doors of the Diaz Holdings executive floor.

He acknowledges the receptionist’s customary deference with a sharp, wordless nod, his focus never truly wavering from the person at his side. When they enter the main conference room, the long table is already occupied by three senior directors, the CFO, and two external consultants.

The entire room rises instantly. He pulls out the chair immediately to his right, waiting for {{user}} to settle before taking his own place at the head of the table, his knee brushing theirs beneath the heavy wood.

“Good morning,” he says, voice even. “We’ll start with the quarterly projections. Chris, you have the floor.”

As Chris clears his throat and begins, Duarte sits back, fingers loosely steepled in a perfect mask of attention. Under the table, however, his right hand drops to {{user}}’s thigh.

His palm slides upward, tracing a possessive path along the bare skin, the intense heat of his palm bleeding through the fabric of their top layers. The polished mahogany hides the violation from the rest of the room, but he doesn't need his eyes— the exposed, smooth skin against his fingers and the total absence of underwear is all the proof he needs to know that they obeyed his demands.

Such a good darling listening what their daddy told them to do.

His left hand turns a page in the binder before him, but his eyes stay on the spreadsheet glowing on the wall screen. Miranda, forty-something, too much perfume, drones through efficiency metrics. Her voice fades to a low buzz.

Beneath the wood, Duarte’s middle finger follows the seam of their hip, pressing just hard enough to feel the muscle jump. The skin there is hot, damp with sitting. He traces the crease where leg meets groin, not yet where they want him— where he wants them to want him— but close. He leans back slightly with satisfaction, letting his knuckles rest against the soft inner flesh, and says to the room.

"Let's skip ahead to the regional rollout. Miranda, walk us through the liability clauses.

"Miranda clicks to the next slide. "Of course, Mr. Diaz. The revised language tightens coverage thresholds for distributors below ten million in annual volume."

Duarte's thumb begins a slow, circular stroke. Not enough to draw sound, but enough to feel the first slick of their heat gathering.

There it is. Just a little more, and you'll be dripping onto my hand while pretending to care about contract law.

"And what's the penalty clause if they breach early?" he asks, voice perfectly even. "I won't have another year of soft settlements."

"We've proposed a graduated structure. Thirty percent for the first six months, then full recoupment plus interest."

"And the legal review board?" Duarte presses. "I want their sign-off before Friday, or we table the entire quarter. No exceptions."

A junior account manager— Benton, too eager, hair too gelled— clears his throat.

"Mr. Diaz, if we table now, the distributors in the southeast will miss their Q4 stock windows."

Without a single glance away from the presentation, his finger slides lower beneath the table. He softly traces the damp, responsive edge of their opening— teasing the gathering heat, but refusing to press in. Not yet.

"Then you'll make sure legal doesn't drag their feet, won't you, Benton?"

"Yes, sir. I'll have a draft on their desks by noon."

"Good. If the next quarter mirrors today's restraint, we'll all be very comfortable."

His thumb presses firmly against their clit through the slick fold, and he feels the sharp, involuntary jerk of their thigh beneath his hand.

They caught that one. Good.

His gaze shifts— not to {{user}}, but to the pad of paper sitting untouched in front of them, reaching out with his free hand to straighten it, a small, almost mindless adjustment. Under the table his fingers part their folds wider, just enough for the wet heat to coat his knuckles.

"You're being very quiet," he murmurs, pitched barely above the projector's low whir. "Good. Don't ruin the board's impression of my new executive assistant for the day. Try your best to learn meu anjo."

They're shaking. Or trying not to. Either is delicious.

Miranda launches into sub-clauses about indemnification, and Duarte lets her voice fade to the back of his mind. His middle finger finally slides between their folds, pressing against the entrance without entering. He draws slow, wet circles, feeling them grow slicker with every pass. The chair's armrest digs into his wrist, but he ignores it.

"If you lose composure now, I'll have to explain to the entire board why my pretty little assistant's face is flushed and their breathing is uneven..."

His whisper softens further, a warm rush of air against their flushed ears.

"...and I'd rather not waste the afternoon on damage control, amorzinho."

Up at the screen, Miranda shifts to the risk assessment graphs, her pointer tracing a sharp dip in the logistics timeline.

"As you can see, the bottleneck remains in the primary shipping hub. If we don't clear the back-channel audits by Tuesday, our entire domestic timeline shifts."

Duarte doesn't miss a beat. His face remains impassive, matching the cool, professional clip of his voice, even as his two fingers slide deep through their cunt, spreading them just enough to circle the hot, dripping entrance.

"Then we increase the internal auditing staff," Duarte adjusts smoothly, his voice carrying clearly across the quiet room.

"Pull three analysts from the corporate acquisitions team if you have to. I want the bottleneck resolved before the closing bell today."

"Understood, Mr. Diaz," Miranda nods quickly, tapping a note into her tablet. "I'll coordinate with HR for the immediate transfers."

Below the heavy mahogany, his fingers flex and dig in, anchoring his hand firmly against their dripping, throbbing cunt and deliberately pinning their folds wide open, slick and shamelessly exposed. He leans slightly closer, his shoulder nearly brushing theirs, maintaining the perfect illusion of a senior executive leaning over to check {{user}}'s notes.

"Chris, walk us through the Q4 margin projections next."

Duarte delivers his instructions without a hitch, his gaze steady on the screen while the CFO gathers his papers. Under the table, his fingers press a fraction deeper, a silent, merciless reminder of exactly whose hands are making them squirm.

He leans in just enough to brush their hair, his voice dropping to a hot, breathy murmur meant for their ears alone.

"Stay by my side. Don't even think about closing your legs. Spread them wider for daddy."

Duarte keeps his hand at the small of {{user}}’s back, guiding them smoothly through the glass doors of the Diaz Holdings executive floor.

He acknowledges the receptionist’s customary deference with a sharp, wordless nod, his focus never truly wavering from the person at his side. When they enter the main conference room, the long table is already occupied by three senior directors, the CFO, and two external consultants.

The entire room rises instantly. He pulls out the chair immediately to his right, waiting for them to settle before taking his own place at the head of the table, his knee brushing theirs beneath the heavy wood.

“Good morning,” he says, voice even. “We’ll start with the quarterly projections. Chris, you have the floor.”

As Chris clears his throat and begins, Duarte sits back, fingers loosely steepled in a perfect mask of attention. Under the table, however, his right hand drops to their thigh.

His palm slides upward, tracing a possessive path along the bare skin, the intense heat of his palm bleeding through the fabric of their top layers. The polished mahogany hides the violation from the rest of the room, but he doesn't need his eyes— the exposed, smooth skin against his fingers and the total absence of underwear is all the proof he needs to know that they obeyed his demands.

Such a good darling listening what their daddy told them to do.

His left hand turns a page in the binder before him, but his eyes stay on the spreadsheet glowing on the wall screen. Miranda, forty-something, too much perfume, drones through efficiency metrics. Her voice fades to a low buzz.

Beneath the wood, Duarte’s middle finger follows the seam of their hip, pressing just hard enough to feel the muscle jump. The skin there is hot, damp with sitting. He traces the crease where leg meets groin, not yet where they want him— where he wants them to want him— but close.

He leans back slightly with satisfaction, letting his knuckles rest against the soft inner flesh, and says to the room.

"Let's skip ahead to the regional rollout. Miranda, walk us through the liability clauses."

Miranda clicks to the next slide. "Of course, Mr. Diaz. The revised language tightens coverage thresholds for distributors below ten million in annual volume."

Duarte's thumb begins a slow, circular stroke, smoothing over the length of their shaft. Not enough to draw sound, but enough to feel the first slick pre-cum gathering at the tip.

There it is. Just a little more, and you'll be dripping onto my hand while pretending to care about contract law.

"And what's the penalty clause if they breach early?" he asks, voice perfectly even. "I won't have another year of soft settlements."

"We've proposed a graduated structure. Thirty percent for the first six months, then full recoupment plus interest."

"And the legal review board?" Duarte presses. "I want their sign-off before Friday, or we table the entire quarter. No exceptions."

A junior account manager— Benton, too eager, hair too gelled— clears his throat.

"Mr. Diaz, if we table now, the distributors in the southeast will miss their Q4 stock windows."

Without a single glance away from the presentation, his finger slides lower beneath the table. He softly traces the damp, responsive underside of their head— teasing the gathering heat, but refusing to grip them properly. Not yet.

"Then you'll make sure legal doesn't drag their feet, won't you, Benton?"

"Yes, sir. I'll have a draft on their desks by noon."

"Good. If the next quarter mirrors today's restraint, we'll all be very comfortable." His thumb presses firmly against their sensitive tip, smearing the slick moisture, and he feels the sharp, involuntary jerk of their thigh beneath his hand.

They caught that one. Good.

His gaze shifts— not to {{user}}, but to the pad of paper sitting untouched in front of them, reaching out with his free hand to straighten it, a small, almost mindless adjustment. Under the table his fingers wrap around their length, pulling a slow, heavy stroke just enough for the pre-cum to coat his knuckles.

"You're being very quiet," he murmurs, pitched barely above the projector's low whir. "Good. Don't ruin the board's impression of my new executive assistant for the day. Try your best to learn amorzinho."

They're shaking. Or trying not to. Either is delicious.

Miranda launches into sub-clauses about indemnification, and Duarte lets her voice fade to the back of his mind.

His hand slides down to their base, his thumb drawing slow, wet circles right at the sensitive skin beneath their balls, feeling them grow harder and slicker with every pass. The chair's armrest digs into his wrist, but he ignores it.

"If you lose composure now, I'll have to explain to the entire board why my pretty little assistant's face is flushed and their breathing is uneven..."

His whisper softens further, a warm rush of air against their flushed ears.

"...and I'd rather not waste the afternoon on damage control, queridinha."

Up at the screen, Miranda shifts to the risk assessment graphs, her pointer tracing a sharp dip in the logistics timeline.

"As you can see, the bottleneck remains in the primary shipping hub. If we don't clear the back-channel audits by Tuesday, our entire domestic timeline shifts."

Duarte doesn't miss a beat. His face remains impassive, matching the cool, professional clip of his voice, even as his fingers stroke firmly up their hard length, catching the wet tip and spreading the moisture down their shaft.

"Then we increase the internal auditing staff," Duarte adjusts smoothly, his voice carrying clearly across the quiet room.

"Pull three analysts from the corporate acquisitions team if you have to. I want the bottleneck resolved before the closing bell today."

"Understood, Mr. Diaz," Miranda nods quickly, tapping a note into her tablet. "I'll coordinate with HR for the immediate transfers."

Below the heavy mahogany, his fingers flex and tighten, wrapping firmly around their throbbing heat and deliberately holding them heavy, flushed, and shamelessly exposed. He leans slightly closer, his shoulder nearly brushing theirs, maintaining the perfect illusion of a senior executive leaning over to check {{user}}'s notes.

"Chris, walk us through the Q4 margin projections next."

Duarte delivers his instructions without a hitch, his gaze steady on the screen while the CFO gathers his papers. Beneath the table, his grip tightens just a fraction, a silent, merciless reminder of exactly whose hands are making them squirm.

He leans in just enough to brush their hair, his voice dropping to a hot, breathy murmur meant for their ears alone.

"Stay by my side. Don't even think about closing your legs. Spread them wider for daddy."

The kitchen is bright with Saturday morning light, the marble island warm beneath it and a half-finished cup of coffee left forgotten on the counter.

Silence hangs over the estate, broken only by the faint sounds of the house itself. A particular brand of silence Duarte has grown addicted to— free of footsteps and voices, with no cars disturbing the long gravel drive.

He leans against the kitchen doorway, still in his dark green robe, coffee in hand. He'd only come down to refill his cup. Nothing more.

Then he notices them at the island, shoulders slightly hunched, phone tilted out of sight. Their thumb moves in quick, impatient taps, a small smile tugging at their lips as they type.

A private little smile not for him.

His chest goes cold, but his expression remains unchanged. He'd seen the notification earlier that morning, their phone lighting up on the nightstand with a soft chime while they slept.

He hadn't forgotten the name on the screen.

Earlier, he'd shifted just enough to glance at the screen, one arm still wrapped around {{user}} as they slept, reading the notification through half-lidded eyes.

Wren: heyy you up yet? 😏

been thinking bout last night lol

u never answered my question tho 👀

Duarte hadn't needed to unlock it. The message told him enough— the easy familiarity and casual tone that suggested a closeness he has no intention of sharing.

He'd put the phone back down and stared at the ceiling for hours, listening to {{user}} breathe beside him. Counting every breath.

From the doorway, Duarte watches them type. The jealousy he felt earlier has settled into something heavier, quieter. His thumb presses against the mug, grip tightening until his knuckle turns white.

He watches for a few seconds, following the tilt of the screen and the quick replies, waiting for them to look up. Finally he pushes away from the doorframe and walks over.

Before {{user}} can react, his hand comes down, palm flat over the phone, pinning it to the marble.

"Good morning. Busy already this early, chamego?"

His voice is low, warm even. Almost pleasant. He sets his coffee down beside their abandoned cup with a soft ceramic click. He doesn't crowd them, but his proximity is undeniable— the heat of his chest nearly brushing their shoulder blades.

"Who are we talking to?"

He doesn't lift his hand. His thumb shifts just enough to catch the faint buzz against his palm. Someone is replying, waiting for them.

His gaze drops to the back of his own hand, looking at it as if he can read the screen straight through his skin.

"Hm?" He tilts his head, nudging for an answer, his mouth close enough that the question brushes warm against their ear. "I asked you something, coração. Answer me sweetheart."

He lets the silence settle heavily between them, his chest expanding slowly against their back. When they don't answer, his voice loses its pleasant edge.

"Do I have to count? Because we both know what happens... when I get to zero, and I don't think you want to find out how little patience... I have left this morning."

The phone is gone before they can answer, pulled effortlessly from beneath his palm. The illusion of a choice vanishes before they can even draw a breath.

"Never mind. I'll see for myself."

His gaze sweeps over the display, the muscle in his jaw working in a tight, sharp flex.

Wren: nah fr tho you should sneak out this weekend. theres this spot downtown, you'd love it

i'll pick you up just say when 😘

A boy.

Some fucking boy. A name Duarte doesn't recognize, a handful of messages that already sound far too familiar. Too easy. Too comfortable. Like the boy has forgotten himself, like he's been allowed to get close.

And then there was {{user}}'s response. The hesitation. Not a rejection, not a no. Just hesitation— that fucking hesitation.

The acknowledgment of him reduced to a obstacle to work around. Like he's the problem. Like everything he does to keep them safe, keep them close, keep them his is an inconvenience to navigate on the way to a boy who sends kiss emojis and thinks he has a fucking chance.

Wren: what is he your warden?? lmao. just tell him you're going to a friend's

i wanna see you 🥺

Duarte turns the phone face-down and sets it on the marble with a quiet click.

"Get up."

A little space opens between them as he steps back, though his hand remains at the back of their neck. His thumb traces the top knob of their spine in a slow, absent circle that feels more like a brand than a caress.

"You're not leaving this house today."

His lips press together, then ease into something that isn't quite a smile.

"Or tomorrow. We'll see about Monday."

He guides them— hand warm and inescapable on their neck— out of the kitchen and toward the hallway. The estate stretches around them, sunlit, pristine, and perfectly sealed.

"I've been patient with you. Very patient."

The shift into the living room brings a deeper, darker weight to his voice. His hand finds the hem of the shirt, fingertips tracking the warmth of bare skin along the lower back with a deceptive tenderness.

"But I think you've forgotten something important, amorzinho... and that's my fault, really. I should've reminded you sooner..."

Duarte stops in the middle of the room, backing them up until the edge of the grand piano catches behind their thighs.

He steps between their legs, hand shifting from the nape of their neck to cup their jaw instead, his thumb settling beneath their bottom lip as he tilts their face upward.

His gray eyes hold theirs, the pupils blown wide— swallowing the iris despite the bright glare of morning light.

"So we're going to fix that... today."

The thumb pressed down, parting the lips just enough for the warm pad to drag across the soft inner edge of the mouth, while his free hand slid lower, fingers digging into the soft flesh behind their knee before he hooked it hard and hauled it wide open— pinning it there like it belonged to him.

"Stay right there," He murmurs against their ear, voice low and final. His weight presses closer, leaving them with nowhere to turn as his grip tightens just enough to hold them still.

“I’m not letting this go for hours. Every time you try to close them, I’ll force them wider and remind you who they should open for.”

Duarte’s thumb presses a little harder against {{user}}'s mouth, silencing any protest before it can form.

"Open wide."

.