Sir 2.0 Interlude Part 2.

The skin on your forearms prickles with apprehension, raising knots of gooseflesh which you try to smooth out with your palm. In the twilight, Sir’s eyes gleam with a cold, amused appraisal.

‘You were expecting someone else?’

You shake your head no, cautious and defiant as you stare across the room. He sits alone and the silence he wields stirs your stomach with its focus.

‘You’re not getting the benefit of my discipline today.’

A whispered thank you be the safest recourse for you.

Questions bubble up at the back of your throat, a carbonated silvered rush of withheld desire which has found solace in the rough care of Daddy.

‘There are boundaries here. For your wellbeing. We are explorers on the sea of desire, and it is important to define where safe harbour lies.’

Your heart thumps against your ribs and you wipe your palms against the thighs of your slacks.

‘Do you understand?’

You nod.

‘In laboratory tests, they exposed rodents to doses of cocaine through depressing a small lever. The rodents gave up food, water, even breeding for another hit.’

The implication strikes across your forebrain like indignant lightning. His eyes thirst for a reaction and you keep your face still as he continues.

‘The bonds of pain and pleasure are indistinguishable and addictive without cause. A shitty or clumsy dominant, a confused or uncertain submissive can lead to more harm than good. Do you understand?’

You nod. Caution keeps you present, a perfect bulwark against a vague suspicion.

‘Good. It is why we limit communication and connection, which might seem counter-intuitive but it is for your well being.’

You will yourself not to think of the phone. He leans forward and a smirk makes his upper lip curl in amused curiosity.

The moment hangs suspended. There is no sound beyond the thump of your heart, the rhythm of your breath as you keep the motion even.

He sits back in the chair.

‘If you exceeded those boundaries, you are risking yourself.’

The risk with Daddy is in his absence but you keep it to yourself.  You nod with understanding and he sighs, disappointed by your compliance.

‘You’ve been quiet.’

You run your tongue over your lips and he blinks, raking his fingers through his hair before he smiled and cocked his head to one side.

‘Permission to speak.’

You lower your eyes, shifting from one foot to another.

‘I’ve been good.’

You want to ask where Daddy is, humming with anticipation.

‘You can go.’

You walk out of the chamber. When you are back on your single bed, with the lights out and the blankets turned into sky and shelter and the phone, warm in your hand are you allowed to feel without caveat. Your fingers dance over the screen, shaking with need.


The phone is silent. Your eyelids are heavy and you slip it underneath your pillow. A small hum travels through the material and you slip the phone out, feverish with need and see the envelope icon spinning in three dimensions.


The excitement is palpable and your skin tingles with anticipation as you bring your knees up to your chest and try to follow his command.


The trail of lights snakes down the corridor, blinking in rapid patterns. The coconut and cinnamon wash sits in its dispenser next to bottles of shampoo, conditioner, a glass flute of perfume which smells like bergamot, lavender and irises. A white man’s dress shirt with starched collar and cuffs drapes from a coat hanger along with a pair of black silk panties and a matching bra with lace edging. The black heels slip onto your bare feet like a delicious punch line and you turn in the full length mirror, getting used to the ache and the visual enjoyment in how they lengthen your legs.  You dry and brush your hair, apply the make up and look at yourself with a quiet, thrumming pleasure. The excitement pools in the heated, hollow places of your body, every nerve at attention as you prepare yourself.

It is excitement which illuminates you, more than the clothes or the cosmetics.

Messages of prohibition and expectation are a constant litany but your body makes a compelling argument in opposition.

The path of lights blinks in time with your heartbeat as you walk along the corridor.

The door opens with a pneumatic hiss and you step inside.

A leather and chrome couch with tables set on either side, lit from above by single diffused lamps set into the ceiling, the lights changing colour and texture on a random cycle of filters.

‘Did you have to say you were sick?’

Daddy’s voice is cautious but you smile and shake your head.

‘No, but I don’t know who the girl was, Daddy.’

You hear the pad of his footsteps.

The clean coffee-musk smell of his skin makes your mouth water and you force yourself to remain still. Your excitement is an invitation to misbehave and the memory of how he deals with your infractions makes your head swim with lust. There is concern for who this woman is, what does she mean to Daddy and the burbling, turbulent stream of anxiety charges through your veins like fire. His hand caresses your cheek, the rough-soft brush of his palm against the curve of your cheekbone makes you sigh with comfort. He brings his face close to yours, eyes glittering with desire and a warm, careful regard.

‘It’s better for now you don’t. You can’t betray someone if you don’t know who they are.’

You revolt at the use of the word betrayal.

‘What is going on here?’

He rests his forehead against yours and puts his left hand on the curve of your hip. Your skin is warm through the shirt, craving his firm, gentle touch as you close the space between you. His arms wrap around you and you turn your head to rest your cheek on the soft fur of his chest. His fingers stroke the hair on your head and he kisses the crown of your head.

‘Do you want to get out?’

You shudder and grip him, your hands slide up the taut planes of his lower back along to where his back flares out, the muscle full and strong beneath the skin. His lips are soft against the line of your neck and the hot intake of breath through his nose as he smells your hair and pushes against you. A thigh slips between yours as his fingers bite into the meat of your buttocks, pressing through the silk of your panties.  His urgency is apparent in his actions.

‘Not if it means leaving you.’

Your hoarse whisper makes him buck against you, his fingers in your hair pulling a handful firm against your scalp as your mouths find one another. The edges of his front teeth brush against your lower lip and you protrude it forwards, scrabbling for the release of pressure, hurt, anything to feel his attention turned into tangible. His hands remain at your head and on your backside as you rub against one another. He trembles with a withheld urgency as you feel the roar of his breath, the fierce engine of his heartbeat thrumming through his broad chest, conducted through contact into yours. He pulls your hair tight and the flash of pain makes your eyes widen with sensation as you dig your fingers into his back. The primal gravity of his desire makes you both careless, but his hold on you is absolute and you twist against one another until your head pounds with want.

He pulls your head back, firm but careful as he kisses down the line of your neck. His mouth is an insistent verse, a symphony of lips and tongue honed into a single act, to show how the absence has left its mark on him. The ache in your scalp, the dull pleasant marks of where his fingers have bit into you are not wounds or scars but badges of honour as you curl yourself around him. His other hand slides from the small of your back under the shirt over the soft swell of your stomach. His fingertips graze over your navel and then slide past the waistband of your panties. You bloom with a tropical heat between your thighs as his fingers follow the ripe curve of your pussy and ease forwards, coaxing the labia apart and stroking you as a ball of pressure builds in the pit of your stomach, charging outwards from the intimate, delicious friction of his touch. He holds you still, and you relax against his fingers, grazing in tender circles around your pulsing clitoris, dipping inside you to paint you with your own arousal. The tender brush of his fingers sweeps away the doubt and anxiety as you shudder beneath his touch.

He draws back and gazes into your eyes.

‘Traffic light?’

You take a breath to collect yourself, but your body is awash with feeling, imagined and actual at war on the battlefield of your desires.


He holds your hair in his hand as he strokes you, delicate touches applied, studied and rejected based on your reactions. You’ve known men with boyish hands, scrubbing away as though you were a stain or a screen on a phone, used to being left sore and awkward. Daddy moves his fingers with a pianist’s deliberation, teasing out a smooth series of peaks and troughs, cosmic flares of sensation which live and die before you are flushed and every nerve is one touch from exploding into oblivion.

‘Daddy, please can I come?’

You strain the words out between gritted teeth. You are on the shifting verge between anticipation and oblivion, and it is his permission which will hasten your journey to the latter.

He shakes his head and you whimper, playful but working within a pocket of genuine need. You push your hips against him, wanting him to feel your need, to force his permission, to test his will as he tests yours.

Instead, he smiles and shakes his head. You cry out and cling to him, breathing out pleas as his fingers slide against your teeming, slick flesh. You close your eyes when he eases his index finger inside you, hooking it at the first joint and massaging the tender, swollen pad of your G spot as his thumb moves around your clit. He is artist and brush, you are paint and canvas, asking for permission to become art.

You breathe out a plea and touch his face to connect him to you. You want his permission and you work hard to get it. His eyes bear the weight of your desire and reflect it back to you.

One last plea before you surrender to the sweet defeat of his touch and he shakes his head.

Your muscles bunch up, throbbing and flickering as you are awash with a lightness of being as unbearable and beautiful as life itself. Tears prickle in your eyes as you cry out, the volume and pitch wrenched from deep within you.

It is an orgasm which you imagine takes years off your life, like the brand of cigarette God would smoke.

You squeeze and swell around his fingers but he holds you firm, pressing his palm against your pussy to ground you into the moment as he brings you close to him.

He strokes your hair, whispers in your ear and although you cannot make out the details, he offers the warm, primal assurance of protection. Sir does not frighten you with his presence, but Daddy does with his absence.

The difference is the latter is not something wielded against you. His actions reach you when his words, his body cannot.

You wish these moments would last forever. It has the hard, bright purity of prayer as you weep and he holds you even tighter, petting you as oxytocin drizzles through your body.

When it is time to leave, he holds you tighter than before and you can feel the wounded sadness in his breath. You ask him what’s wrong and he shakes his head before he holds your face in his hands and kisses you on the lips.

‘Missing you already, little girl.’

Dressed but damp and dishevelled, he walks you to the door. You want to ask him if he’s going away again, but the answers scare you. His fingers slip between yours and he kisses you one last time.

‘What am I going to do, Daddy?’

He kisses you on the forehead.

‘Wait and be good. I’m working on the rest.’

Are you a prisoner here?

Are you a prisoner anywhere where you cannot act on your desires?

Your thoughts take you back to your bed, but they stop you from sleeping until his message comes through.


You message back and slip the phone beneath the mattress.


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