Aly Starts Regression Training

***

I 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.