Breathe (Sir 2.0)

You dream of him.

The remnants cling onto you as you wake. His rough, strong hands search out the hot, perpetual ache within you and crack the clay over your soul with their knowing, focused touch.

You see his gentle eyes and full lips, sometimes bruising and urgent with want or considerate and placid in the aftermath.   You awake with the taste of him on your lips and you run your tongue over them, committing the tang of him to memory.

You hear your name whilst you finish the ramshackle sewing project. Your hands shake and you drop the needle onto the table. In the excitement, you stab the tip of your index finger and a small spot of blood wells up. You suckle on it as you dash to follow the blinking path of lights. Your stomach aches with the pleasant pang of anticipation and when the shower room opens, you dash inside, peeling off the sweatshirt and track pants. Your skin feels new and hungry, tingling with a charge the hot water does not touch. You soap yourself up, gasping when you wash between your legs, throbbing with anticipation at the thought of seeing him again.

You find a white shirt on a hanger. The dimensions of it are familiar and when you slip it on, the cuffs lurch over your hands and the collar is ludicrous around the neck. It is cotton and linen fibres, soft and gentle against your skin but it carries the faint musk of wear. You bring it to your nose and inhale, closing your eyes as a slow, deliberate heat rises inside you like a campfire on a summer night at the beach. The appetite for him has grown.

The underwear is black silk, fringed with lace and cut high at the waist. It feels wonderful against your skin, a slick, gentle kiss which rasps with delight where it clings to you. You button up the shirt on and it hangs to your thighs. Heels are next, black Manholos which lengthen your legs. You wonder if he chooses the things he wears.

A full length mirror shows you the answer.

The trail of lights leads you further than before. You don’t know how big this building is and the bonds of power keep you to a few locations even as his touch, his attention sets you free beyond anything you’ve known before. You have power and agency, and surrender reinforces it. The palm reader which tingles against your hand. Your knees are hollow and trembling, a feverish anticipation which tingles across your skin like a spring shower.

A bedroom. The four poster bed dominates the room. It is a charcoal sketch made tangible, distressed, lacquered black hardwood with brass panels inset into the teak base. The walls are purple and to your left, a docking station sits on a small lacquered hardwood table. Wireless round speakers sit either side of it, resembling a series of cubes

Daddy sits cross legged on the bed, wearing just a pair of black trousers. He grins at you with such warmth it makes your head swim.

‘Hey little girl.’

You blush and grin back at him. He gets onto his knees and picks up a small remote, points it at the docking station and the speakers

The music starts, the metallic clink of a synthesizer and the confident low voice, youthful without being sharp.

‘The club isn’t the best place to find a lover..’

He sits on the edge of the bed, places his palms either side and lifts his chin.

‘Traffic light?’

A squall of nerves runs across your skin. The music continues and you glance at him, the question apparent in your eyes as he leans back. The lighting here is soft, indirect and you stare at the sleek, dark hair on his chest and the ridges of muscle in his shoulders and down his arms press against his olive skin. You want to stroke through the hair on his chest, but you want to be a good girl for him. His displeasure excites you, sourced in warmth but still capable of pushing your limits.

‘Amber. What do you want me to do, Daddy?’

He gestures towards the stereo on the wall as his eyes take you in. His full lips curve in a smile and his eyes darken with lust.

‘Dance for me.’

You ask him if he can start the song again. He raises his eyebrows and points the remote at the docking station.  You slip the shoes off and he chuckles.

‘Those are Manolo Blahnik you’re not wearing, little girl.’

You giggle and wriggle your toes against the thick carpet.

‘Oh Daddy, I’d dance like a baby bird in these but they are beautiful shoes.’

You bring your hands above your head, fingers in your hair and pout. You’re working from a body of memories and experiences, rejecting what feels awkward and trusting to the music, as it illuminates and invigorates you. He sits with his thighs open, you turn so you are sideways to him as you sidle forwards, hips moving to the music as you mouth the lyrics whilst you gaze into his eyes. He shifts and you can see the outline of his cock through his trousers as a flush of blood creeps up his throat and his breathing deepens as you step between his open thighs. His hands reach out to brush up the length of your thigh and you pull back, shaking your head.

‘No touching, Daddy, those are the rules.’

He sits back, eyes narrowed as he tilts his head to one side.

‘Not my rules, little girl, but I’ll allow it.’

You keep yourself attuned to the rhythm. You look into his eyes as you slide the meat of your thigh against the soft bulk of his crotch, angling your hips so you brush along the length of his cock through the material. He growls and pushes forward, but you step backwards and turn your back to him, dipping down and pushing your backside where your thigh has been. You make a small circle, massaging him before stepping away. He gets up to follow you but you shake your head and pout at him.


You say it in a sing-song voice and he sits back down, inhaling through his nose as you come back to him.

His reaction inflames you and you come back to him, unbuttoning the shirt to the collarbone and showing the outline of the bra as you dip at the waist and flip your hair. A squall of self-consciousness fires up but you dance past it.

Through it.

You lean into his space. The heat comes off him in febrile waves and you dance closer. Your nails rake down the planes of his chest, the dark curls of fur are soft against your nails and you enjoy the sigh of contentment he gives. His hands come over yours as the song finishes and he pulls you onto his lap. You sit on his lap and stroke his face, running a fingertip down the cleft in his chin as his hand slips up under the back of your shirt.

‘Did you like that, Daddy?’

He smiles and unbuttons the rest of your shirt, stroking your stomach then upwards as his fingers dabble in the hollow of your throat.

‘Yes I did.’

Your heart races as you feel his fingers dance across the line of your throat. The pads of his fingers rest against your pulse. You close your fingers over his and, driven by the simple urge to feel his power and to give him your own, you press down. On his lap, you straddle him and his other hand slips under the waistband of your panties and strokes the base of your spine before he smoothes his palm until it rests on your navel. You push against his hands, and his right hand slips inside your underwear, petting the ripe curve of your pussy as he rests the tips of his fingers against your arteries.

‘Traffic light?’

He puts no pressure on your windpipe as he watches you. His attention is powerful, intoxicating, the absorption and intensity of an animal without a loss of control. You wonder if his stoicism would prove maddening but he shows himself in slices, and you have taken him out of his armour more than once.


The fingers of his right hand close on your arteries whilst his other hand cups your pussy, the tip of his index finger draws back the hood of your clit with the lightest brush. A pounding begins in your temples as he brushes around your clit. The muscles in your thighs tighten as you bear his gaze whilst you reach out and hold his face in your hands as you lift yourself up on your toes and press against him. Your vision wavers at the edges, like changing the reels of celluloid in a picture and the shudder shoots down your spine, riding the electric wave of sensation and deprivation into the pooling, seething bolus of ecstasy building in your pelvis.

‘Traffic light?’

You whimper, finding it difficult to think past the perfect storm of deprivation and sensation he wields within you. His hand inside your panties grows bold, lubricated by the thick mineral oil of your arousal as his touch strengthens and a finger slides inside you. The delicious pressure continues into every sinew and fibre of you as you feel the sentiment floating before you, almost out of reach.


His fingers close on your throat as he pulls on your throbbing clit between his thumb and forefinger whilst his other finger is hooked upwards, undulating against the rough swollen patch of tissue. Layers of sensation build within you. You go limp in the face of such a powerful confluence of feeling and he lightens his grip on your throat as you suck in a deep, greedy breath. You prickle with guilt and unease away from him, but in his hands, you are broken and remade anew. Malleable flesh which reflects the internal conflict, and all your power to wield or gift as you need to.  You shake your head, compelled towards a fullness as you push down, shaking with the need for fullness as his other hand denies you breath.

You take flight without lifting from the ground. You try to ask for permission but your words slip from your grasp as you hump his fingers, urgent and ungainly but propelled into a hot, wet oblivion. His fingers let go of your throat but you carry on driving yourself onto his fingers.

‘Please Daddy please Daddy.’

Your body rages with a need which wrenches you from the fear, the uncertainty and into a state of sublime release. He breaks you with pleasure and you ride him to the world’s ending as you spit out a plea for absolution.

‘Yes, baby girl.’

Your eyes roll back in your head, all the pressure of release shoots out through every pore, nerves singing in perfect harmony as the crude pressure explodes inside you and you slip away, chased into euphoric oblivion.

You are not there long, but part of you remains there. At a remove, you feel his hands come away, replaced by his arms as he pulls you into his arms. The robust insistent strength becomes a firm, tender embrace as he strokes your hair and tells you everything is okay.

You don’t realise you are crying until you feel the hot splash of tears rolling down your cheeks. Every muscle in your body aches and you’re sensitive to everything. You imagine a dandelion, afloat on the breeze, fragile in its grace and propelled to destiny. You wrap yourself around him, dishevelled, damp and  triumphant.

He pulls you onto the bed as you continue to cling onto him and he lays down with you on top of him. He strokes your hair, unfazed by the sudden outpouring of emotion and the harder you squeeze him, test him, the more he remains present with you. You try to make conversation, to offer him something beyond the act, but he reassures you can just be. You drift off into a sleep as deep as anything you’ve known.

The last thing you hear is him speaking.

‘I want to take you out of here.’

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