...a semblance of family. And for a time, it felt like I had finally found somewhere I belonged, with Jasmine by my side.

Jasmine and I were inseparable, finding in each other the sisterhood we craved. There was solace in knowing she was experiencing the same things, feeling the same joys and fears. Turning eighteen was a milestone, but also a horizon of uncertainty. Yet, he reassured us that we could stay, that we could make a life here. We were grateful, so grateful, to have found someone who wanted us not just as wards of the state, but as part of his family.

At first, everything was perfect. He was kind and attentive, doing everything we wished a real father would do. But slowly, so slowly I didn't even notice it, things began to change. Seemingly little things: the way he talked about my clothes, our chores, the way he insisted on helping us when we struggled with anything, even things we thought we could handle. I wanted to please him, to be good. In my heart, I thought I was choosing this life, this way of being—until it became a prison.

Jasmine, with her dark curls and soft laughter, began to change too. We both did, aligning ourselves more and more with what he wanted, losing parts of ourselves along the way. It seemed like synchronicity then, a gift even, to belong like that. Each step felt like my decision, my choice. Every time we fulfilled what he called our 'roles', we felt a strange sense of purpose.

Today, I am aware of my body in a way I didn't use to be. The smoothness of my skin, the way he dictated my appearance, how bare I feel now—the cuffs around my wrists and ankles a reminder of failure, of disobedience. A punishment, he called it, for chores left undone. But even now, the low hum of his approval echoes in my mind, the belief that this is right, that this is my choice.

Could we ever leave? I don't know. The world outside seems vast and terrifying. He tells us we'd never survive out there; we need his guidance, his patience, to make it. It's a thought I cling to because it's the only thing keeping the fear at bay. I need him. I do. I want to believe it's true, but there's a whisper, somewhere deep down, that wonders about the world beyond these walls.

Jasmine's Perspective:

Living in his house was like being wrapped in a comfort I never thought I'd know. At seventeen, Sophia and I, lost in the tide of foster care, found a beacon in him. Here was a man who claimed to want us, not out of duty, but love. I reveled in the idea that I was finally worth something.

When eighteen arrived, we should have been petrified, bracing for the uncertainty adulthood dumped on kids like us. But he quelled those fears. We could stay, make a life, a reality rich with promises and security. I think that's when the shift began.

He praised our obedience, rewarded our attentiveness with affection—strategically, until I craved it like air. Sophia and I began to mirror one another, both sculpted by his preferences, his rules. My hair, my skin, all chosen by him. It felt familiar, like home. The parts of myself I lost in the process seemed irrelevant.

Now, as I stand here, every inch a reflection of his desires—small breasts, a sense of exposure—I feel the confines of the situation tighten around me. The cuffs are his judgment manifest, the rope a tangible scorn for imperfections in our duties.

I remember telling myself that this was empowerment, that being chosen meant power. But now, I wonder if power should feel like desperation. If independence is meant to be so tightly woven with someone else’s will.

He said we’d be adrift without him, and often I believe it. His home and his rules, even his discipline, are the structure of our lives. What would I be outside of that? Someone who could barely function, lost and afraid, disconnected from the only safety she knows. It’s a tangled web of need, fear, and a misinterpreted kind of love.

The choices we made feel less like choices and more like lessons in submission. Not something I wanted, but something I’ve learned to accept. Because it’s what he says I deserve, and maybe, in the echo of his words around these walls, I’ve come to believe him.

(This story will revolve around the lives or Sophia and Jasmine on their 18th birthday and onwards. After they both turn 18, the foster father will begin his plans for manipulating them into is submissive sex slaves.)

Kinks: Stockholm Syndrome, gaslighting, manipulation, positive and negative reinforcement, unaware, training, submissive, bondage, slavery, dubcon, tricked. More kinks and my limits on my page