Worker of Shadow and Light

Editor's note: this story contains scenes of incest or incest content.

NOTE: This is a fantasy work of fiction and involves themes of incest, BDSM, and non-consent/reluctance. All characters are above 18 years old. This is the conclusion to the story that began with Becoming Kitten and continued as Becoming SubStace. To fully understand these characters and relationships, it's best to read those first.

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What the hell are you doing, Stace? This is crazy, isn't it? Why am I not acting like this is goddamned crazy? She thinks, surveying the pile of boxes now occupying most of the bedroom floor. Everything was packed so fast, she barely remembers the process.

It's everything she owns. Here, in boxes, in the house of her new. . . what? What is Nick to her?

She looks across the pile at him while he signs the movers' clipboard and thanks the man. His smile is warm, his shirt a bit tight, his biceps full from lifting and stacking right along with them.

Lover, definitely. She thinks, appreciating his form and letting the delicious memories from the bedroom last night quicken her pulse. Master? she asks herself. Something feels weird about that word--it doesn't quite fit, hangs from her mind like a garment too loose or too tight. A bit too melodramatic, perhaps. But he demanded that she call him Sir and that definitely feels right--every time the word passes her lips, it makes her blood hot and her pulse pound in her ears. It makes her wet. So he's my Sir, I guess? But that doesn't feel right, either. "Sir" is an address, not a title.

Owner. The word shudders through her like wind through prairie grass. That's fucking intense. But in a flash, the contrast between her bleak existence without him and her hot-blooded, wet-pussied, cared-for experience with him stamps the word deep into her consciousness. That would definitely be OK...

He looks up and catches her gazing at him, his sharp green eyes meeting hers. She smiles, a bit embarrassed, and looks away, pretending to inspect a box near her that had been stacked to chest level.

Her skin tingles as he approaches, skirting the pile of boxes and standing before her.

"Nervous?" he asks, his voice deep and powerful, but also soft and soothing. His tone implies he knows her answer already.

She sighs, then looks up at him. She made the impulsive decision to move in here after some mindblowing sex, and has to admit it still seems crazy. But there is also a wisdom in it somehow--some part of her is positive that this is what she needs.

"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't, a little."

He smiles softly, reaching out to hold her hands in his. She looks around and goes on. "I mean, what am I doing? Moving in to my friend's bedroom, moving in with her father--"

Her eyes flick to his, "Who, by the way, was. . . committing incest with her..."

And there it is, spoken flat out, in the light of day. Not in the rush of passion like when he first told her. But just as. . part of a conversation. As something real.

It is the first they'd spoken of Nick and Kitten's incestuous relationship since he'd told her about it. She's afraid it has come out like an accusation and she didn't mean it like that.

But he is unmoved. There is no reaction in his kind eyes. He simply asks, "Bothered?" His tone is warm, strong.

Strong like the hands that are tightly enclosed around hers.

She takes a deep breath, imagining how it must have looked while he fucked his own daughter. His powerful chest and arms, her athletic body, blonde hair. His beautiful cock sliding into the young pussy she had seen so many times in the gym shower. And the amazing joy and peace Kay had radiated when she'd come by the restaurant before leaving for the Academy, after he'd been fucking her long enough to put a collar on her.

She wants to be offended, to be moral, to be normal. But the truth of her own body overwhelms all that flimsy conditioning, and in a whisper, she admits "... Jealous."

He nods, smiling slightly, something in his manner communicating that he knew what her answer was going to be and he was just wondering if she was going to get to it on her own. And was satisfied that she had.

He releases her hands and brings one of his own to the side of her neck, his thumb resting warm on her cheek. A heat blooms between her legs in response to his soft, controlling grip.

"Stacey, you're not Kitten. I'm not your father. We are something else to each other."

The sudden rush inside to know what that something else is overwhelms her. Her heart beats like a drum, her mind lost in his eyes. She feels doors inside herself fly open in readiness to accept his words.

"Here is what I see when I look at you: You're a glorious, strong woman. And in your heart you're a pack animal. You need to have a place, to know your place, and to be led. That's when you thrive. And you know it. Last night, at my feet you made me your alpha, in no uncertain terms."

She blushes, looking away. She had literally thrown herself naked at his feet. It was an unbelievable disclosure of her need . . at risk of tremendous rejection.

"Hey," he says, calling her gaze back to his own. "It was beautiful. You have an appetite. An appetite for submission. You need to belong--it's a pure, animal thing. And you offered that submission to me. You offered me a gift and I accepted. You belong. You belong to me now. That's why obeying me gives you pleasure."

He pauses, locking her eyes for a heartbeat. Her own heart continues to pound, but also swells in an expansive feeling of being . . . accepted.

Fully, completely, embracingly accepted. Her breath catches in her throat but her heart soars, a standing-at-the-edge-of-a-cliff feeling, and she feels perhaps the fullest smile of her life spread across her face like a desert sunrise.

He moves his hand to the top of her head and pushes down gently. "Now, my beautiful submissive, get on your knees and suck your owner's cock."

The warmth in her pussy roars into a hot need, her heart pounding as her knees bend of their own will, mouth filling hungrily with saliva.

She unzips his jeans and frees his hardening cock, gripping it with one hand and opening her mouth. But his hand in her hair pulls her head back. She looks up at him, confused.

"I gave you a command, Stacey. What do you say?"

She grins, letting her spirit flow freely into the words, into her submission to him. When speaks, her eyes shine and the words come out like a prayer. "Yes, Sir."

"That's a good girl." He moves her head down onto his cock and she gratefully takes him deep in her throat. At the weight of his flesh on her tongue she feels her pussy flood. His aroma fills her nostrils, like heaven. Like home.

Holding her head in his hands, he becomes fully hard and slowly starts fucking her face. She relaxes her throat and lets him slide deeper and deeper, his grip on her head commanding, and. . . calming.

A promiscuous athlete in high school, she has sucked many cocks, but there is something more to this experience. Those were boys, and this is a man. Not only a man, but a man who somehow knows what she needs at levels she herself is not aware. When he tells her to suck his cock, she realizes what a perfect next step that would be in their dance. This perfectly perverted dance, she thinks, smiling against his thrusting shaft and writhing her thighs together as her wet heat builds.

For a moment she is struck by their sounds in the quiet room, the slurping and deep heavy breathing. In that moment, his words find their way deeper into her mind and something in her comes to life at levels it never had before. Something that had only ever gotten a gentle stroke when her father called her his "good girl," but that Nick's words have now directly acknowledged, welcomed, honored, and embraced. Her need to submit. Her need to reinvent everything, to stop trying to be a certain kind of person and just be. Her need to let go and just be for someone else. Belong to someone else, body and soul. To serve joyfully, without hesitation or restraint.

She realizes that in this moment, for her, something has changed. Until now, things with Nick had felt like a headlong fling, an unexpectedly kinky sort of game. But she realizes everything he has just told her about herself is true. Truer than she ever considered. She thrived leading the volleyball team when she had Coach barking orders and Daddy at home giving her rules. Without them, she feels weightless, directionless. Nothingness consumes her. Her need to submit just bleeds her dry with no one there to be nourished by it, and nourish her with commands in return.

But now, here is a man. A man who knows this about her--knew it about her better than she did after just a day of contact. He can feed on her submission, and feed her the commands she needs to be herself. Deep in her soul she trusts him to take care of her, to be what she has needed for a long time, and that means that she can just let go.

She realizes she can be for him. She can be what he needs, too. Her mouth waters around the delicious texture of her submission, which is for her the key to being everything she can.

Her spirit soars with joy in the moment of this discovery. It's a need she'd been somewhat aware of but had always felt she had to fight down, but now she feels like a timid creature coming out of hiding to be greeted by a warm and glorious sunrise.

Her happiness rises in her, expanding like a bubble. She reaches out to grab his ass and pull him deeper into her mouth. Moving faster, sucking harder, her eyes flutter shut. She feels simultaneously out of body, and more physically alive than ever.

"Whoa. . ." She hears Nick exclaim at her suddenly increased pace, the spiking energy of need in her movements. Her tongue goes wild on the underside of his cock and she hears him gasp.

"Stacey, I'm going to--"

Pressure on her scalp tells her he is trying to pull her off of him, but she just grunts "Unh-uh! Unh-uh! Unh-uh!" and bobs her head faster, sucking harder.

At this moment of self-discovery, she needs to drink the water of life directly from this man. He is her fountain of self-knowledge. She needs it more than she's ever needed anything.

She can't let him withdraw from her now, in this moment of sacrament. She needs to seal the compact she has made with herself about the depth of her submission to him, and the beautiful unburdening and blossoming it will bring her.

In an instant his hands squeeze her head like a vice and he roars, stabbing his cock hard against the back of her throat, hot jets of cum shooting down into her hungry belly. She cries out against his cock, singing wordlessly in triumph, in joy, in surrender.

The clockwork of the universe stutters to a halt.

After what seems like an age, she hears him gasp in a huge deep breath, the spasms in his cock begin to subside, the grip on her scalp loosening.

Finally his beautiful shaft slides from her mouth with a pop, and with it goes her ability to hold herself upright. In one fluid movement, she bends forward, hands straight out, forehead to the carpet.

Worshipping.

Worshipping the ceremony that she just experienced inside herself. Worshipping the moment of embracing such a deep and natural need inside herself.

Worshipping this man that will accept her need. . . to worship.

She listens as he puts his cock away, zipping up, and she doesn't know what to do next. She has submitted to him. She needs to be told what he wants.

Finally, he speaks. "Sit up, Stacey."

The command is glorious in its simplicity, and she delights in the internal alignment she feels as she obeys. She has been commanded. She obeys. It is perfect.

"Look at me."

She looks up at him through watery eyes, his own gaze kind and commanding as he smiles down at her. He is searching for something in her eyes, and after a few breaths he nods.

"Tell me what you want, Stacey."

Confusion dawns across her face. Why should that matter? It's what he wants that matters. That's the beauty of everything that just happened. He used her for his pleasure, fucking her face until he came down her throat. She has everything she wants.

And in that experience she finds the next version of herself.

Still tasting his glorious cum in her mouth, she whispers, "Use me, Sir. I want you--I need you to use me."

He nods, as if the answer is exactly what he expected.

"I'm going to train you, Stacey. Push you. Expand you. We will dance with some demons. There will be growing pains."

"Yes, Sir. Please, Sir.". . . then, mischievously, ". . .I like a bit of pain."

He smiles an easy smile and a girlish, giddy joy blooms in her heart.

She is home.

----

"Kay is doing extremely well, Nick. You should be a proud Daddy."

Elizabeth's eyes glitter, the light from the high bistro windows shining on her wet lipstick and illuminating the blood red nails beneath her martini glass. "She's finishing this semester's coursework on social psychology, international relations, applied chemistry and double penetration."

He arches an eyebrow, smirking, "Coursework in DP?"

"Yes--she's quite talented, as you can imagine. In fact," she laughs, "a real teacher's pet, always looking for extra credit work."

He chuckles.

Her tone softening, she tells him "I'm sorry you can't communicate with her. I know that's hard. But she's becoming part of something bigger than herself now. Something important. And it's important that she make the right....evolutions, without distraction. But fear not--she's excelling. In fact, about to go out on her first assignment."

He nods, appreciating her words but not surprised. He'd known that he'd lose touch with his daughter when she went away to the Academy. He isn't entirely sure what Elizabeth's organization does on the whole besides providing the highest-end pleasure givers, but everyone he's met from it are absolutely stunning, brilliant, graceful creatures. The "Melissas," they call themselves.

His own company makes use of the Melissas' services in its most important negotiations--the kinds of negotiations that reshuffle whole industries and sometimes entire economies. This work has exposed him to some broader forms of realism than most people ever confront--like the fact that sex is inescapably part of doing business. It's one among many bargaining chips at the highest levels, and those who can provide it to this clientele must be highly-educated, highly-trained--and extremely well-compensated.

The Melissas are high-performing, highly-professional individuals who are--because of their connections--quite powerful of their own accord. And now his daughter is becoming one, a fact which makes him very proud. And also turns him on. He misses her laugh and her smile, but also misses having his hand around her throat while he fucks her.

Elizabeth changes the subject. "So, as I understand it, you've got a proper submissive who's not your daughter. That's a beautiful thing, Nick--you're among the few men I know who can handle it right."

He smiles, glad once again for her friendship, the hum and clatter of the other diners in the cafe lost in the intensity of their conversation.

He raises his own glass in a playful toast. "Well, that's high praise indeed, considering how many men you. . . know."

Her laugh is musical, like the tinkling of crystal, and his blood surges in response. He recognizes his familiar lust for her, but it doesn't overtake him like it used to. She's just an amazing, gorgeous, unbelievably desirable woman--and in some ways, he's used to that now.

Smirking at his joke, she raises her own glass to his toast and takes a sip. Then she asks directly, "Is it love?"

He sighs, putting down his drink. "It wasn't, at first, and we both acknowledged that. But it's been several months now, and. . ."

"You're still figuring it out," she says flatly.

"We're still figuring it out," he agrees, equally flat. There it is.

She looks into her drink for a moment, as if searching for some hidden truth there. Finally, she raises her eyes slowly to his, and speaks in a low and serious voice.

"Nick, one of the many reasons I love what I do is how many different forms of language I am always learning. Spoken languages, of course. But also patterns of breathing, of pausing, of laughing. . . of agreeing. Of submitting."

She takes a breath, then continues. "When two people fuck, they are both submitting to the animals within them. They are letting go of propriety and etiquette and politeness and they are embracing their animal selves. The physicality is so beautiful, so spiritual, regardless of whether there are any actual emotions involved. I have had cocks and tongues in me that changed my experience of life in profound ways, and I can't even tell you whose they were. In those moments of ecstasy, it was all about my body reconnecting with itself as part of the universe."

He is tempted to make a joke about how many cocks and tongues that might have been, but she has dropped any semblance of flirtation and is more serious than he's ever seen her. He just nods, waiting for her to go on.

"What does she call you?" she asks.

"Sir," he replies, ". . . or Owner."

She raises an eyebrow, "Owner?"

"Yeah."

"Hmmm. . . ." She nods thoughtfully, then smiles. "That's nice. She's made it her own. She's made you her own, and her Owner." Her eyes sparkle. "How are you doing with it all?"

He smiles, appreciating her concern for him, and wondering how much he should tell her. He decides to ease her into it, "Good so far. Though I have some crazy dreams."

"Mmm-hmmm?" she asks, sipping her martini.

"Yeah. . . " He takes a deep breath, "Demons. Well, a demon. Talking to me. About her."

To his surprise, she nods, unmoved. As if she has heard it before. She casually asks, "So what does he tell you?"

"Mostly we talk about her needs, and my needs." He is surprised to actually feel a little nervous, talking about this. Considering that he has fucked this woman with his own daughter, there's pretty much nothing he should be afraid of. And yet, in this moment he feels more naked with her than he ever has before.

As if sensing his tumult, she reaches across the table and clasps his hand. Her touch is warm, soft, strong, calming. When she speaks, it is barely above a husky whisper.

"Oh, my love," she says ". . . That is among the most beautiful things I've ever heard."

What.

What?

He clears his throat, struggling, then coughs out, "What?"

"Nick," she breathes, "the demon dreams mean that this woman--this young girl!--has taken you to the edge of yourself. To your growth frontier where the path is barely clear to you and the only tools you have to make meaning of the beauty and danger are the archetypes of good and bad from our culture. Angels and demons."

Her hand clenches his hard.

"This girl is pushing you harder than you're pushing her."

He snorts, thinking about how increasingly rough their sex play is getting. Spanking, hair pulling, choking, even her manic grin and delighted yes please! nodding after the first time he slapped her face while they were fucking. "Oh, I'm pushing her," he assures her.

She just smiles, "I'm sure. But is she ever angry? Is she ever resentful? Like seriously, emotionally hurt?"

"No." He says immediately. "No, of course not." No matter how rough or even cruel their play has gotten, she always cuddles up to him after, purring. Sometimes even weeping in gratitude. He actually blushes, thinking of the tenderness of those moments, when they are both high on trust.