Naturally, Arthur accepted his position as his lady's ottoman.  When Lydia undid his mask, his soft, reddish-brown hair, matted with sweat, was the first thing anyone would see.  He did not gasp for air, but he wanted to.  His Princess might not like to see her father take a gulp of air from the atmosphere.  He would have to ask, but... an inner part of him, the part that maintained that he was the breadwinner, that he was the man of the house, ridiculed him for even having to ask for such freedoms.  For God's sakes, he owned the apartment.  Everything Lydia owned was in due part because he willed it.  She was his, not the other way around.  And all of this was because when he got out of the service, he created a program that is so minor, but that 90% of computers cannot do without.  A few lines of code had generated millions of dollars for his family.  And that self, hidden and obscured, screamed out:  'Arthur, wake up!  You are being used!'  No, it was not true that Arthur could have degenerated to his current position in a matter of days.  It took years of his spirit being broken, though he overlooked the precipice when Lydia was small.  She was his princess.  What she wanted, she got.  She broke him with her tears, with her pleas.  Lydia destroyed his marriage, because he often found himself siding with Lydia more than his wife (a woman with whom Lydia shared more than a passing resemblance and a proclivity for being a dominatrix).  But even his masculine, dominating inner self jumped at the opportunity of driving his sex into his Princess' warmth.  As he plowed into her and overlooked her scalp for the first time ever, and saw the curve at the corner of her smile, he remembered thinking:  this makes a lot of sense.  Perhaps that was the only thing that made 100% sense to this degenerate.  Arthur really enjoyed fucking his daughter, and he loved it when she fucked him.<br/><br/>His handsome face, rugged and lean, with a flat nose from when his Mistress broke it, was sweaty and his jaw was sore.  That painful mask had been on his face for several hours, and his teeth had clenched onto the base of that dildo for the entirety of it.  However, he did not dare lift his palm to rub his jaw.  The muscles of his gluts condensed and then rippled as he shifted in his position.  As he entered the modified downward dog position, the grovelling position, his butt looked more squared than it did an oval.  It was a firm testament to his many hours at their home gym.  For his lithe and muscular figure, this position was not in any way difficult to hold... but his curiosity, that sparkling aspect of a man so overcome with numbers and figures, might give him away.<br/><br/>Then there was the threat.  The threat that if he made a noise, he would be punished by the love of his life.  She could humiliate him, she could hurt him, and he would not mind: but the threat of being left out of her sex life... that exclusion made him furious!  No, how could she punish him with such a horrendous crime?  The fury evolved, picking up steam, as he looked over his Princess, and his eyes glimmered with anger.  But he did not respond to his Princess.  He pressed his temple against the ground, his skin sweltering hot by his passive aggressiveness.  He would submit to her wish... but he did it with a scowl.<br/><br/><hr/><br/>There was a knock at the door:<br/><br/>Black Simon was a regular.  Standing at 6'8, weighing in at 270, he was a retired NFL linebacker with too much money to spend and no recourse to get it back.  He was on a downward spiral, on his way to forfeit his house, to forfeit his family.  But, like all men blinded by the hunger that wealth and notoriety brings, Black Simon did not care to throw away money left and right.  Everyone knew what his end would be, save him.