I stood in the kitchen doorway, watching Jenni on her knees in front of the stove, pancake batter smeared across the floor and her thighs.

“Daddy,” she said, turning to me with a grin, “I tried to make breakfast.”

She didn’t cover herself. She never did. The black leather collar around her neck caught the light as she moved, the silver tag reading Jenni clear against her pale skin.

I stepped forward. “You made a mess.”

“I’ll clean it,” she said, hands pressing into the sticky batter.

“No.”

I grabbed her arm and pulled her up. She stumbled slightly, then pressed against me, looking up with those green eyes—wide, eager.

“You know the rules,” I said.

She nodded. “No cooking without you.”

“Exactly.”

I walked her to the living room. She followed on her knees, head down, fingers curled at her sides. I sat on the couch and pointed to my lap.

She lay across me without speaking.

I spanked her hard. Once. Twice. Five times. Her skin turned red fast. She didn’t cry. She never did. She wiggled once, let out a soft noise, then went still.

“Good girl,” I said.

She looked back at me. “Thank you, Daddy.”

I flipped her over. She opened for me instantly, legs spreading, hands above her head.

I unzipped. Pushed inside.

She moaned low, biting her lip. “Yours. Always yours.”

I fucked her slow at first, then harder. She gripped the cushion under her, breathing fast, whispering my name.

When I came, I pulled out and spanked her again—three sharp hits.

She panted, flushed, smiling.

“Clean the kitchen now,” I said.

She kissed my knee, then crawled away, leaving wet streaks on the carpet.

The collar stayed on. It always would.