Daddy’s Dirty Secret

The iron gates of the Blackwood estate didn't just creak open, they retreated, like a giant beast baring its teeth.

Ivy clutched the strap of her duffel bag, her palms sweating despite the biting chill of the evening.

She was twenty, broke, and desperate enough to ignore the warning bells screaming in her head that a "fixer" for the elite shouldn't be looking for a live-in nanny on a dark-web-adjacent job board.

The mansion was a monolith of glass and cold stone. When the front door opened, there was no warm welcome. There was only .

He was older than his photos—thirty-eight, built like a wall of scarred muscle, and wearing a suit that probably cost more than Ivy's entire college tuition.

His hair was dark, his jawline like a blade, but it was his eyes that stopped her breath.

They weren't looking at her face. They were heavy, hooded, and tracing the way her cheap cotton shirt strained against her breasts.

"You're late," he said. His voice wasn't a greeting, it was a vibration that settled deep in Ivy's lower belly.

"The bus..."

"I don't care about the bus. In this house, my time is the only thing that matters." He stepped back, gesturing for her to enter.

As she brushed past him, the scent of expensive bourbon, cedar, and something metallic—like a gun—hit her.

He didn't take her bag. He let her stumble with it, his eyes glued to the sway of her hips.

Ivy felt her face flush. She was used to men staring—she was too curvy, too "much" for most clothes to handle—but Alexander wasn't just staring. He was cataloging.

"The child, Ryan, is asleep," Alexander said, his tone clipped. "You'll start at six. My brother's death left things... disorganized. You'll keep the boy quiet, you'll stay out of my office, and you will wear the attire I've provided."

He reached for a black box on the marble foyer table and handed it to her. His fingers brushed hers—calloused and hot. Ivy jumped.

"What's this?" she stammered.

"Your uniform. I expect you in it for dinner in an hour. Upstairs, third door on the left. Don't wander."

He turned his back on her before she could say a word, leaving her standing in the cavernous hallway feeling like she'd just been bought at an auction.

The room was beautiful, but it felt like a cell.

Ivy sat on the edge of the plush bed, her heart hammering. She opened the box, expecting a modest scrub set or a polo shirt.

Instead, she pulled out a piece of black fabric that felt like liquid silk.

It was a dress, but barely. It was short—dangerously so—and the neckline was cut into a deep V that would offer zero coverage for her chest.

"Is he serious?" she whispered, holding it up.

She stripped out of her travel-worn jeans and t-shirt. The room was cold, making her nipples peak against the thin lace of her bra.

She felt a strange prickle on the back of her neck—that "watched" feeling that had haunted her for years, even back at her shitty apartment. She shook it off, blaming the shadows of the old house.

She pulled the "uniform" on. It was a struggle. The fabric was designed to cling, and on Ivy's body, it was a riot.

Her heavy breasts spilled over the tops of the cups, the silk barely containing her dark areolas.

The hem rode up so high that every time she moved, her ass cheeks—the "fatty" curves she'd always been shamed for—were nearly exposed.

She looked at herself in the full-length mirror, her breath hitching.

She looked like a fantasy, not a nanny. The dress was so tight she could see the outline of her lace panties, the fabric straining across her stomach.

"I can't wear this," she muttered, her hands shaking.

She felt a surge of heat between her thighs, a traitorous throb.

She reached for a bottle of water she'd brought in her bag, her throat suddenly parched.

She was so focused on the reflection of her own body—the way the black silk made her skin look pale and edible—that she became clumsy.

As she twisted to see the back, her elbow caught the open water bottle on the nightstand.

"Shit!"

The cold water splashed directly down her front. The black silk didn't hide it' it became a second skin.

The fabric turned translucent, sticking to the curves of her breasts, revealing the exact pattern of the lace underneath and the dark circles of her nipples.

Panic flared. She couldn't go down like this. She clawed at the side zipper, her fingers fumbling with the tiny metal teeth.

She needed to get it off, to dry it, to hide. She managed to jerk the zipper down, the dress falling to her waist, leaving her standing in just her bra and panties in the center of the room.

The bra felt too small, her breasts heaving with her panicked breaths, nearly bursting out of the lace. She reached back to unhook it, wanting to just wrap herself in a towel and cry.

Crack.

The sound of static filled the room. Ivy froze, her hands still behind her back, her chest thrust forward.

She looked up. In the corner of the ceiling, hidden behind the molding, a tiny red light was pulsing.

A camera. Not a security camera for the hallway—a lens pointed directly at the bed. Directly at her.

"The zipper is on the left, Ivy," a deep, distorted voice boomed through a hidden speaker.

Ivy's blood turned to ice. She crossed her arms over her chest, but it only squeezed her breasts together, making them look even larger, more inviting.

"Alexander?" she gasped, her eyes darting around the room.

"I told you the uniform was mandatory," the voice came again. It was lower now, raspy, the sound of a man who was watching something he'd waited years to see. "And I don't remember giving you permission to take it off."

"You're... you're watching me?"

"I've been watching you for a long time, Ivy. Long before you walked through my front door. I know the way you like to touch yourself when you think the world isn't looking. I know that you're soaking wet right now, aren't you?"

Ivy's legs felt like jelly. She should have run, should have screamed, but the sheer dominance in his voice anchored her to the floor. Her clit pulsed, a shameful, heavy ache.

"I spilled... I need to change," she whispered to the empty room, her fingers trembling as she gripped the wet fabric at her waist.

"Don't bother putting it back on, Ivy," Alexander's voice dropped to a predatory growl over the intercom. "I've already seen enough. Stay exactly where you are. I'm coming up to show you exactly what happens to girls who don't follow my rules."

The click of the intercom cutting off sounded like a death sentence. Or a promise.

Ivy heard the heavy thud of footsteps in the hallway, deliberate and slow, heading straight for her door.