peeping tom
âThe outside world is sick, killing itself like a snake swallowing its tail. Let Daddy be your medicine. Let me take care of you the way no one else can.â
OR:
Dr. Easterman catches a private moment on the cameras.
tags: THIS IS SMUT. Daddy kink, pseudo-incest (kinda??? he does his father/daddy shtick lol), NON-CON voyeurism (but reader would be into it if they knew), AFAB reader-insert, no pronouns, just a vagina mention lolol
wc: 1.3k ⌠short :(
A face among the crowd: that's all you were at the start. Dr. Easterman recalls reading the report of your first trial: a massive failure, it was evident why society discarded you. You weren't entirely a lost cause, though. You had passion, albeit misplaced, which you used to protest the therapy, the facility, the personnel. He could redirect this quality of yours. All you needed was a father's love.
Not that you harnessed your potential. Rather, you pouted in your cell day in and out, much like a petulant child, refusing to participate anymore. Couldn't you see the good he wanted to do? Couldn't you see that volunteering to be part of this facility was for your benefit? Have it your way then, for ungrateful children deserve no privileges.
The scientists recommended re-purposing you as they do with the failures, the discards, to be nothing more than a body in a trial. The idea did nothing but irritate himâfor them to act like they know better than him, to doubt him. He waved them away and ordered the personnel to strip you of what little your cell owned, to reduce your food portions to the bare minimum, so you could learn to be thankful.
Your behavior fixed itself shortly thereafter.
In the months since your arrival, your seed has sprouted. Only a little longer nourished in the fertilizer will your petals come into full bloom, pristine against this sadistic grime. Youâre not perfect, not yet. Your recordâs tarnished by the occasional stumble into a trap, or a stab in the backâexcept for todayâs exemplary performance. He's become familiar with your nameâpurposefully scanning through the endless list of namesâwhenever a day's progress report graces his desk. He made sure to leave a message of personal praise on your cell's radio.
It's later when heâs perusing through various files, progress reports, financial expenses, that he decides can wait when he tosses them aside, rather choosing to idle through the camera feed. A large station sits against an empty wall in his office that he situates himself at. There's only a few cameras across the facility; the surveillance system was costly, but the sacrifice is worth it when he grows increasingly paranoid by the day. He can't afford for anything to be amiss.
There's hardly anything interesting. A few lingering faces in the dining hall that he recognizes, ones who don't serve much of a purpose. He'll rectify that. The other few cameras produce similar, or no, results.
He switches the camera a final time and it reveals you, your personal cell. You've shut the curtains in an attempt to block out the hall lightâyou'll lay down to rest soon, he knows your routineâonly the combined visibility of the desk lamp and a few ambient candles illuminate you.
Even with the diminished quality of the cameras, he can see the items in your cell. It's certainly upgraded from what you started with; there's a bookshelf, filled end-to-end with books he himself picked out for you. Media on topics such as modern art and familial dynamics⌠he's sure you've read them all by now. Many of the items and trinkets that decorate your room are unique to only you.
You're a parallel to him; sitting at your personal station. Your profile shines bright from where you rest your cheek in your hand, sitting idly at your desk. You fiddle with the radio, visibly bored with what little there is to do. After a moment, he sees interest seeping into your spine, posture straightening. You must be listening to the message he recorded for you today. It's longer than his usual recordingsâyou adjust the machine and he figures you must be replaying the audio, attentive as you first were.
For a moment heâs unsure of your intentions when your eyes check the door and your hand drifts into your lap. Quickly, he realizes that your handâs slipped beneath your underwear, moving in quick circles beneath the rigid barrier. The blood rushes to his cock so quick that heâs almost nauseatingly lightheaded.
He takes a heavy drag from his now limply held cigarette to stabilize himself, letting the nicotine wash over him and coat his lungs as he recalls the recording youâre reverently masturbating to:
âThe outside world is sick, killing itself like a snake swallowing its tail. Let Daddy be your medicine. Let me take care of you the way no one else can.â
Your hand circles your clit even quicker. The camera angleâs poor but he can see the tight pinch of your brow, are you pushing yourself? Are you basking in the masochism, reveling in the sharp edge of too soon, too fast?
Hands shaking, he knows the only course of action is to relieve himself. He pushes his pants aside only enough to free his aching cock, grip weak with exhilaration that he manages to wrap around himself. Thereâs enough pre cum that itâs nearly too slickâintoxicating.
In the haze of lust, he sees your mouth slacken and face twist in pleasure. He so desperately wishes for the cameras to have audio, to hear your whimpering and submission to the onslaught of overstimulation you force upon yourself.
"I'll make you perfect. You are a canvas, waiting for your final masterpiece of masochism and perversion to mark your skin."
Youâve already become so obedient and pliant; yet he aches to break and build you back up, to mold you on his cock.
His mind reels with images of you, how he want to take you. You'd be gorgeous beneath his desk, on your knees like some common whore, waiting to suck his cock like it's the only thing that matters in the world. The painting in his head shifts: you're on your knees, pussy presented like an animal in heat, sultry eye behind your shoulder pulling him in. Only he can satisfy you. You need his cock; you need Daddy.
Cock throbbing, he chokes himself on nicotine as to not lose himself so soon. You writhe on the footage, bordering on humping your hand as your thighs clamp around your wrist, desperate to cum. Bite marks litter across your finger from where you bite down, like you're strung so tight from your arousal that you can hardly control your noises without it. His eyes laser focus on your covered hand, rapidly pumping his cock in time with you.
His heartbeat's in his throat. He's unsure if he's even breathing anymore, floating on the high.
"Can you feel it? Can you feel my gentle caress on you, painting our crimson future? The world will be perfectly colorful and obedient with you in it."
Your finger drops from your once-again slack mouth and your eyes screw shut. He's so close, he can feel the waves of pleasure licking his spine, water against the rocks. Sudden as it started your back bows, quivering chest pointed towards the camera as your head falls back. He can practically hear it now, your unashamed moans as you fall over the edge. He falls with you, coating his hand with his cum as he tries his hardest to not whimper.
You've yet to stop. You continue fucking yourself well past your crest, body twitching in jolts of pain because you can't, won't stop, not yet. His cock twitches in sadistic glee.
"My muse. I have great things planned for you."
As he watches you come down, exhausted and fingers slick, he thinks he'll have to gift you something grand.
hope u enjoyed. i tried to keep his mannerisms and behavior accurate but iâm only human đđđ
fic also posted on my AO3, fishysticks !!
requests r open :)
