Instagram Cutie’s Mind Controlled Romp 1: Daughter Becomes a Daddy Slut

Instagram Cutie’s Mind Controlled Romp

Chapter One: Daughter Becomes a Daddy Slut

By mypenname3000

Copyright 2020

Notes: Thanks to WRC264 for beta reading this!

“Here you go,” Dad said, tossing me my phone.

I gasped and scrambled to catch it. My hands grabbed the iPhone rose-hued aluminum case. I fumbled, fear rushing through my body as I fought to keep from dropping it. I pinned it to my breasts beneath the tight, pink tank top I wore. My heart pounding hard.

“Dad!” I shrieked. “Don’t throw it.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” he said, shrugging. “But it should work. The battery was just loose. Must have happened on the flight. See.”

I looked down and touched the button. To my absolute delight, the phone turned on. There was my lock screen with the thumbprint scanner. I pressed it and… All my notifications. My apps were all alive. I let out a shudder of relief.

“Oh, thank you, Daddy!” I squealed, my anger at him for throwing the phone melting away. It worked. My life wasn’t over.

I threw myself at my father, pressing my nineteen-year-old body into his. He grunted in surprise as I hugged him tight and kissed him on the cheek. I squealed again and then broke away from him. I spun around.

“You are a life saver, Daddy!” I said.

“I am?” he said. He looked down at himself. “I didn’t think I was a hard, fruit-flavored candy shaped like a ring.”

I blinked at him then I groaned. “No one likes dad jokes!”

He chuckled. “Glad the phone works. Do you need anything? I’m going out to the grocery store to get some stuff. Want to come?”

I shook my head. “I just want to get settled in.” I looked around at his penthouse. My new home for the summer. “You know, acclimated.”

“Okay,” he said, smiling at me. “I’m glad you’re staying with me, Shanice.”

“Yeah,” I lied.

My parents were divorced. Had been since I was ten. Dad had moved to the west coast for work two years ago, and I’d hardly got to see him. Oh, he called and texted and sent me gifts. He always paid his child support. And then, out of the blue, Mom hit me with remarrying. She packed me off to my dad’s for the summer so she could go on honeymoon with Peter.

He was such a slimy guy. I wouldn’t mind, but all my friends were out in North Carolina. And here I was, stuck in California. I mean, I should be thrilled to be on the West Coast, but I didn’t know anyone out here. I guessed I could meet people hanging out on the beach, but I had left my friends behind. Lily and Veronica and I’d miss the most. We’d talk about boys.

I sighed and looked around the penthouse apartment that he owned. It was spacious and open. There was a large bank of glass windows that looked out at the beach and the Pacific Ocean. The furniture wasn’t bad, though there were no real decorations. It was so austere and sterile. Like no one really lived here. My bedroom was just a disaster. I had Venetian blinds. No real curtains. No posters. No little knickknacks.

All the stuff that decorated my room was back in my real bedroom. I had just my two suitcases of clothes and my carry-on. That was it. I barely could fit five pairs of shoes.

Five!

Well, I had to make the best of it. So I stood before the window, thrust my phone on my selfie stick, and posed. I put on a pouty thrust to my lower lip and snapped the first pic. It flashed on the screen. There was my blonde hair falling around my youthful face. I had on a light amount of makeup, something light and playful. You couldn’t tell I had flown all day. My blue eyes sparkled and my plump lips looked great in my soft-pink lipstick. They had a glossy sheen to them. My tank top molded to my round breasts. I wore a pair of jean shorts that hugged my ass and left my lithe legs bare.

Then I did another shot, holding up my fingers in the peace sign and beamed.

SNAP!

You could see the ocean behind me. I hummed and then I flounced onto Dad’s white couch, my back arced, blonde hair spilling over the back. I held the phone up and gave a sultry look and snapped another pic.

It was always fun taking selfies. I dashed to the kitchen and hopped up on the island, sitting on the granite countertop next to an induction stove. I had my legs kicking out as I snapped this picture, winking at the camera.

I darted through the apartment, snapping a pick leaning against the bathroom room counter, my dresser, and even one where I was laying on my dad’s bed, the camera staring down at me. He had a better comforter. Mine was so ugly. I had to get a new one.

I rolled off and started putting together my Instagram story with the pics. I hummed as I typed, lying on my belly on my bed. Dad came home from getting the groceries. He peeked his head in as I typed.

“You can’t just barge in here,” I said, not even looking at him. “I’m nineteen, Dad, not a little girl. I could have been changing.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” he said. “Just checking in on you.”

I rolled my eyes, still typing away. “I’m good. I was taking selfies.”

“Posting them on your Instagram page?”

I froze. Did Dad know about my page? Had he seen my pictures? Oh, god, I talked about things my parents didn’t need to know about there. It wasn’t like I even did it under my real name but as @shanicutie. “How do you know about that?”

“Your mother said you are always taking pictures,” he said, smiling. “Don’t you kids put them on Instagram.” He paused. “Or is it snaptalk.”

“Snapchat,” I muttered. “It’s something like that.” I hit upload. “Did you need something?”

“No, no. Dinner’s going to be in an hour. Going to make some teriyaki chicken.”

“You cook?” I asked, blinking.

“Your ol’ man had to learn to fend for himself,” he said, chuckling. “You want to help.”

“Nope.”

“Okay, okay.” He hesitated. “You, uh, doing okay, Shanice?”

“Yep.”

The first comment appeared. “Cute pics,” said @naughtyblossom. That was my friend Lily. “You look adorable on the bed. It’s pretty big.”

“My dad’s bed,” I typed without thought. “The comforter on the bed I’m lying on is nasty. It’s brown. Who makes brown sheets?”

“Yuck.”

Dad sighed and wandered off as I read the comment underneath. “Daddy’s girl!” @nicanica typed. That was Veronica.

I giggled and replied, “I suppose so.”

Seeing my friends’ comments had me feeling good about living here. This wouldn’t be so bad. I was with my dad for the first time in so many years. A daddy girl should be around her father. Now I would get to see him all the time and not just get those cards and talks on the phone. We could do daddy and daughter things like… like… I don’t know, go shopping. Or maybe go on a hike. We were in California. Maybe we could go to Sea World or something.

No, wait, Sea World was that evil place with the whales or something. I thought I was supposed to hate that.

“I bet you’re such a daddy girl you love cooking for him,” said @devinator. That was Devin, this cute guy at my school that I had wanted to hook up with.

“Of course,” I said and rolled out of bed. “Going to go make teriyaki chicken for him!”

I rolled out of bed, slipping my phone into my pocket, and hummed as I darted out of my room. Why was I in my bedroom? I should be hanging out with my daddy. I flounced down the hallway, humming happily, and burst into the kitchen. Dad was cutting the chicken into strips, humming away. He had soy sauce, brown sugar, and canned pineapples beside him. On the counter was a rice cooker that was on.

“Hey, Daddy, let me help!” I said. “I’m a great cook. Mom taught me all her stuff.”

“Help?” he asked in surprise. “Oh, yeah, sure. I don’t mind.”

I squealed in delight and then flung my arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek. He grunted, his hands thrust out to the side, one holding the knife, the other smeared in chicken juices. He stood stiffly.

“Uh… Shanice?” he asked.

“What?” I asked, beaming at him. “What’s so weird about a daughter helping her daddy cook?”

“Nothing, I guess,” he said. “Go wash your hands, and… Uh… you can start dicing the vegetables. We’re going to steam them.”

“Sure!” I said and broke away from him.

I thrust my hands beneath the faucet and hummed. It was so much fun cooking with him. I paused to snap pictures of us cooking together. Daddy grinned. He was a tall guy with dark hair and wings of gray sweeping down the side. He had that California fitness about him and had a great tan. I hadn’t really noticed that when I had arrived.

“Daddy girl alert,” @devinator commented as I uploaded the first series of pics of us cooking.

“Big time!” I answered as I waited for the vegetables to finish steaming. “I’m so glad to be living with my daddy.”

“Such a handsome daddy,” @naughtyblossom said, throwing a winky emoji.

“Back off, he’s my daddy,” I said, glancing at him. He was a handsome guy. He was watching the chicken cooking on the stove, frying the strips in the teriyaki sauce we made out of soy sauce, brown sugar, and the pineapple juice. Hunks of pineapple were in the sauce, too.

“You don’t get between a daddy’s girl and her father, @naughtyblossom,” @pussycatlover said. That was Lee, this cute guy that I had hooked up with at the spring fling dance during my senior year of high school two days after I turned eighteen. He went down on me. It had been amazing.

“That’s right!” I typed and added a winky emoji.

After we had dinner plated, the teriyaki chicken on brown rice drizzled in more of the sauce with the steam vegetables on it, I snapped a pic of our plates side-by-side and captioned it, “Ta-Da!!!!”

I was showered with compliments. I was so glad I had come out to help Daddy cook. I would help him cook every meal, just the way a daddy’s girl should. We sat down at the counter to eat, side-by-side on stools. You could stare out at the ocean from here.

“Did your daddy love it?” asked @machoc. That was this guy named Curtis. I didn’t know him that well, but he had found my Instagram page somehow. He took photos of himself. He was some sort of bodybuilder.

Real hot.

“How was it, Daddy?” I asked, our plates nearly clear.

“Delicious,” he said.