beauty, erotica, sex, short fiction, Sir, women

Sir 2.0 Breathe In Comfort

The atmosphere in the communal areas changes as the days go on. There is the change in the scents of the surrounding women, the hormonal responses as each of them undergoes tailored experiences that leave them wide eyed and dazed, a softness to the limbs and a candour that you can see and hear in their voices and body language.

You nurse your feelings in private. You reserve them for him.

Not Sir.

Daddy.

When your name is called, you find that your palms are damp and your legs are hollow, fizzing with an anticipation that you can barely hide. He is an adjunct to the experience, your head tells you, but then the memory of his eyes bearing into yours or his rough, low voice surges to correct you. The thoughts are chased away by the feeling he engenders within you. How he moves from a controlled dominance to an urgency of passion and then, afterwards, a capacity for aftercare that makes your mouth water with anticipation.

You shower and there is a silk nightie that falls to just above the knee. The faintest blushes of pink and peach are caught by the lights, and when you stroke the material between your thumb and forefinger, you sigh at the luxuriousness of the material.

He has chosen this for you; you tell yourself. His intention made manifest. Another choice taken from you but hot orchids of delight flower and exude in your chest. You slip it on and the matching robe, candied with anticipation as you follow the trail of lights set into the floor to another room.

Room 26.

You open the door. A bank of warm, soft light breathes onto you and you step inside, toes sinking into thick, soft carpet as you take in the room.

Daddy has his back to you as he finishes pinning the corners of the blanket. There is no overhead light, only a pair of table lamps draped with muslin cloths, dyed cerulean blue and emerald green. The hem of his black t-shirt rides up his back, revealing a strip of taut, hirsute flesh above his belt. He turns around and smiles at you, his even, white teeth flashing where the light catches them. There are comic and colouring books, an unopened set of felt tip pens, a box of crayons. On a white china plate sit a pile of oatmeal and chocolate chip cookies, still carrying the warm fragrance of being freshly cooked. A pitcher of chilled chocolate milk stands there, beaded and trickling with chill perspiration. You were prepared for the fury, the control but this undoes you more effectively than the most brutal discipline.  There are thick, white pillows on the carpet and a plush, brown bear sits there, arms open to embrace you with shiny brown eyes and a stitched on smile.

Your eyes fill with tears as you bring your hands to your mouth. He turns around and his smile falters as he comes forward.

‘I’ve been a mean daddy the last few times. I have to show that I care that I understand about my little and what she needs. Sometimes that’s discipline, and sometimes its -‘

He gestures towards the pillows.

‘What do you want me to do?’ you say

He smiles and comes forward.

‘I would like to watch you colour.’

You kneel down, then reach for the first colouring book and snap open the case of felt pens. You flip through the pages like it’s a catalogue, find a horse stood at a fence, being fed by a young girl. The stark lines of the drawing, the spaces between all call to you.

He pours you a tall glass of chocolate milk and picks up a cookie. He hands them to you and you set the book down. His smile is gentle, the zen calm of acceptance and authority but the light in his eyes, a mercurial intelligence and strength draws you in as you take the glass and cookie from him.

‘Thank you, Daddy.’

The cookie is warm, a perfect blend of textures, the crumbling goodness of the oatmeal flakes melting on your tongue, the dark bursts of chocolate and the gooey, damp dough that clings to your teeth. You sip the milk, creamy and thick as the richness of the chocolate suffuses your taste buds and you swallow the mixture down and smile.

‘Are you going to have one Daddy?’

He tilts his head to one side and grins as he pours himself a glass and picks up a cookie as he kneels down beside you. You set the glass down and pop the rest of the cookie into your mouth as you look at the pens and decide what colour to go with first.

‘I could do a Bob Ross style commentary.’ he says.

You giggle and decide on the dark green. You uncap the pen and slot the lid onto the back then begin to brush the felt inside the lines. His hand rests on the nape of your neck and you lean your cheek against the back of his hand.

It scares you, the ease of intimacy. How real he feels, not just physically. Emotionally. He has mystery like coming close to a wild animal without knowing its name. His breathing is deep and calm. You lose yourself in the colouring, relaxing into a place within yourself. Simple comforts and joys that you spend your adulthood trying to get back or replicate.

He gives that to you.

A jolt of mischief leaps through you and you smile as you start to draw outside the lines. You hear him murmur something and his hand strokes down the between your shoulder blades. You shudder and give another giggle.

‘You should colour in the lines, little girl.’

You turn your head and poke out your tongue, feeling bright with challenge. He grins but then his face tightens into a playful mask of authority.

‘Are you sassing me, little girl?’

You smile and keep scribbling outside the lines, swift loops and scribbling hard enough to scar the paper.

‘Maybe. What are you going to do about it?’

He raises an eyebrow.

‘Well, a spanking can be a punishment, but you want one, don’t you?’

You shake your head and pout. He sighs and nods, points to his lap and you put the pen down, lay yourself across his lap and giggle. He smooths the hem of your nightie over the curve of your ass, strokes across the flesh and you feel him tense underneath you as his breathing slows down.

His hand comes down firm. He pulls the blow, enough to warm the skin and send the flash of good hurt travelling through you and you push up.

‘Thank you, Daddy.’

He smacks you again, a little harder this time and you gasp with delight, letting the feeling wash over you, easing you into a warm bath of sensation, melting by degrees as heat pools and seethes within you. You feel your pussy relaxing and opening, growing damp with each blow. Your teeth find your bottom lip and you hold them there, sighing with delight.

You thank him after each time. He parts your thighs with his fingers and strokes your pussy, petting it and easing his fingers forward, parting the lips and grazing his finger against the tender, pulsating flesh of your labia. You tremble and he draws his finger back. He spanks you there, and you cry out.

You remember to thank him. Daddy appreciates good manners in you.

He moves you around to sit on his lap. Your buttocks sting where you sit, but it’s a pleasant sensation that heightens what you are already experiencing. A tenderness and a release that you have taken to, with an ease that surprises you.

It is him.

Daddy.

He draws your mouth to his with his fingers stroking along the line of your jaw. He holds himself, and you dart forward, grazing your lips over his. He tastes of chocolate and you close your eyes, slipping into the realm of pure sensation. You breathe into one another, his hands start to move all over you. The damage they can do to you is present in your thoughts, and it adds a nuance of anticipation that has the sensuality of a thunderstorm. His fingers curve around the slope of your breast through the night gown and his thumb circles around your nipple through the silk. You reach and start to undo his belt as you kiss. You want to feel him, all the tastes and textures intrigue you into boldness.

He pulls off his t-shirt and the sight of his thick, hairy chest makes you uncurl with want. You run your fingers through the hair and trace along the hard lines of his thick pectoral muscles and then up to the ridges of his shoulders. His thick neck and along the line of his jaw, petting his beard as you unbuckle his belt and undo the buttons on the fly of his jeans. You reach inside and stroke along the shaft of his uncut cock. He growls and you slide off his lap, get on your knees and pull it free of his underwear.

‘Can I kiss it, Daddy?’

He nods and you brush your hair away from your face as you slide your lips over the head of his cock. The velvety skin holds the musk of him, clean sweat and you press your tongue against it. You murmur with delight as you take him into your mouth, looking up at him with wide eyes.

‘I taste good, don’t I, little girl?’

You pull your mouth away, lips glistening with the oil of his arousal.

‘Yes, Daddy.’

His face darkens, and he touches your cheek.

‘Show me how you want it, baby.’

You lower your head and take him into your mouth, breathing through your nose, enjoying the tension that you play with like an instrument. His thighs are taut and you tug his jeans down, wanting more of his skin against you.

His heat.

His fury.

You play with him slowly until his fingers wrap around your hair and he lifts you away. His eyes are dark with lust and he tells you to lay down. He stands up, steps out of his jeans and underwear then picks up a condom packet and opens it, rolling it onto his cock before kneeling between your open thighs. He kisses you slowly as his hand strokes the hollow of your throat. You reach your hand up, close it over his thick wrist and push his hand against you.

‘Check in?’ he says.

‘Green light.’

His fingers close in on the carotid arteries on either side of your neck. He gives a gentle squeeze and your head goes light with the momentary loss of blood before he draws back. You are giddy with it and you nod before his fingers close again as with his other hand, he guides his cock inside you.

‘Thank you Daddy.’

You lift your hips and he slides inside you, filling you with slow, deep strokes as he alternates between controlled squeezes of his fingers and deep, intent thrusts.

Fuck and breathe.

Fuck and breathe.

He pulls out his cock and keeps his fingers on your throat.

He reaches down and spanks your pussy. The sting makes your eyes water with its cleansing force. You writhe and his fingers sink into the sides of your neck. Your head fills up with purple and red lights before he eases his grip. You gaze into his caramel eyes as he smiles at you. He moves back inside you and starts to thrust hard as you bring your quivering thighs up to take him further and deeper inside you.

 

‘Please, Daddy, can I come?’

 

You wonder if you slur it. You do not care.

 

He nods, face tight with his own pleasure and the need to harness it in service of yours.

 

Your first orgasm rushes through you, made fierce by the control he has over your breath. The giddiness and disorientation strips you of inhibition and you buck against him, shaking with release. You lose control of your body, lost in a storm of neural, blissful riot as he continues to work inside you.

 

He slows down and pushes against your chest as you writhe and reach for him.

 

He scoops you up into his arms, lifting you as you wrap your weakened legs around him and cling to him, impaled on the skillful heft of his cock as he kisses you. Your heart pounds like a thoroughbred running across a field, and you look into his eyes.

 

‘Are you going to come, Daddy?’

 

He kisses you and begins to pump harder. You wrap yourself around him, focusing on how hard he is inside you, like a rod of iron clothed in velvet and when finally, he draws his head back, you marvel at his face, soft and open with pleasure as he groans.

 

You collapse onto the pillows and stroke one another, speaking in kisses of different lengths and pressures, as he strokes your hair.

 

‘Thank you Daddy.’

 

He kisses your forehead. The tenderness of this does not cause you to drop as hard or as far because he keeps hold of you, looking into your eyes until your eyelids grow heavy and you drift away, awash with a soft, warm tingling of comfort and safety.

 

He pulls you close, stroking your hair and sighing.

 

The last thing that you remember is that he says your name to you. It sounds wonderful to hear him speak it.

 

What hurts is that you awaken in the dorm.

 

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One thought on “Sir 2.0 Breathe In Comfort

  1. Pingback: Weekend Omnibus | MB Blissett

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