beauty, love, lust, sex, Sir, women

Capacity For Escape (Sir 2.0)

You experience snatches of him in dreams.

The salt of his skin, suffused with coffee and bergamot taunts you as it wells up in your sinuses and across your lips.

His weight, held above you, used in service to open you up. You play the brat with him, alternating between coquette and little and in dreams, the heat follows you into your waking moments.

There are moments where the quiet press of his rough, strong fingers stroke you into wakefulness and you come to, gasping and tender with the memory blooming in the soft, damp places on your body.

There are no sessions assigned to you. He keeps contact to a message on the hidden phone between you.

You are in the queue for the cafeteria when you feel the cautious brush of something being pressed into your palm. Two red gelatine capsules.

Daddy tells you to swallow them, chase them down with water. They taste of nothing but the virtue of following his instructions but sweet.

Large swatches of intense silence, fertile ground for creatures borne from doubt and anxiety, their teeth glistening in the dark, ready to bite into your fragile hopes. There are perfect neural storms of ecstasy, heightened by his control of your breath or your nerves by the sting of his hands against your skin or the handful of hair he takes as he drives his uncut cock inside you in slow, hard strokes. You open to him, and the recollection of how his face grows grave in the approach to his own pleasure makes you clench with delight.

There is a grey fuzziness to your thoughts, and the bed sheets are damp and hot from the unconscious conflict of the night before

Showering is blissful, your skin tingles with the youthful violence of purpose, making you soft and slick as you dress in a peach and scarlet baby doll nightie and thigh highs. You dry and brush out your hair before plaiting it into pigtails. A red velvet choker on a velour display case and you place it around your neck with trembling hands.

Surrender is freedom and when he tests you, despite the gentility of his manner, he allows you to test without fear of offending him. You are wearing clothes which feel little, soft and luxurious against your skin. He dresses you to please him.  The fluffy mules are an amusing touch, demonstration of how he pays attention to the flamboyance within you.

The door opens onto the four poster bed. There are Velcro cuff restraints set to each corner and a small table with a lacquered wooden box on top.

Daddy has on a crisp white shirt, rolled to the sleeves over his thick, vascular forearms. His cheeks and chin are dark with stubble as he lifts his chin to appraise you.

‘Traffic light?’

You flush with pleasure at the sight of him and the preparations he has made.

‘Green.’

He tells you to come forward and you scamper into his arms. You press yourself against his broad chest as his hands slip down your back and lock you into his embrace as you bring your arms around him. The solidity of him is a relief, unspoken certainties to alleviate the anxiety present in the thickness of his thighs and the burn of stubble where his cheek rests against yours. His lips, soft and full brush over yours and you whimper with anticipation as his fingers bite into your flesh. He makes his need apparent through his actions and the soft, rough play of his lips and tongue against yours. When you draw back, your head is swimming, intoxicated and open to his authority, sourced in nurturing and surrender.

You take his hand as he guides you onto the bed. A restless heat seethes between your thighs, the oil of anticipation slick against your skin as he lays you down and tells you to extend your arms and legs.

‘What are you going to do, Daddy?’

He leans over, his eyes are dark with complicated lust. You recall, from a book you browsed through, of how intelligence is a comfort and acceptance with ambiguity and nuance. You surrender to this man, but the power you receive is gigantic, a transformative excitement where you are soft and bold in the same instant.

‘Everything.’

Fingers close on your left nipple through the silk and tweak between thumb and forefinger, a light but insistent gesture to draw sensation to you. The bright flare of ache surges down your spine into your pelvis, mitigated by the cool damp breath of silk against your breast. He repeats the gesture with the other one and leans over to kiss you on the lips.  He goes to the table and opens the book, lifting a pair of small silver clamps with tiny chains dangling from each one and showing them to you.

He strokes your thigh with his left hand, growling with anticipation as he draws upwards, lifting the hem of the nightie over your stomach and stroking the soft skin with a delicacy which makes you shiver. He bends over, an animal in feeding and takes your nipple between his lips, making it stiff with a wet, suckling heat before he stands up and pinches it, slipping on a clamp to keep it stiff and tingling. He grins and leans over, licks across the nipple with a deft swipe of his tongue which makes you arch your back. The tension builds as he repeats the action with your other breast and pulls the nightie down. You squeeze your thighs together, sending a burst of heated, tingling pressure through your stomach as your body responds to him faster than your thoughts.

The restraints are applied with care as he pets you, talking you through your nerves, not to abate them but to harness them to your pleasure.

He has the power to hurt you, but it is a power you give him and he respects it without reservation.

Your arms and legs are held out, but he checks and asks you to make a fist then splay your fingers, checking for any pressures of constriction which might accumulate during your time together.

He stands to your right and applies an amber lubricant from a pump dispenser onto his hands in an even layer.

He uses his left hand to tug on your pubic mound between his thumb and forefinger, with the ball of his thumb resting next to, but not on your clitoris. The slick pressure invites a whimper from you as he grazes it in a small lazy circle. He bends his right hand at the wrist and strokes between your labia in small, direct motions which allow you to experience a slow penetrative advance as he presses the tip of his index finger inside you. The competing sensations of restraint and exploration gather, pleasure’s collaborators at work inside you.

Your aching nipples, sending shivers through you with each brush of silk.

The restraints, snug but firm holding you in place, unable to move beyond a range of motion which keeps blood flowing to your limbs.

His hands, moulding, breaking, insisting between your legs. His breathing deepens and you close your eyes as the pleasure grows, gathering in subtle brushes of delight as he brings another finger into play inside you.

Two fingers now, moving back and forth, gaining depth on a glacial pace.

The slow pace is torture, making you sensitive to each eddy and motion as you close your eyes and sigh with pleasure.

‘Who’s my good girl?’

You struggle to answer, your thoughts frolic in an ocean of sensation but when he inserts a third finger, you cry out against the fullness and he has you check in.

Green.  He smiles and asks if you’re ready for more.

He smiles and reaches with his left hand for the box, draws out a small, conical plug with a gem set into one end. It is devoid of edges and he applies a layer of lubricant to it. He tells you to lift your hips as he draws your buttocks apart and strokes the tender, tingling knot of your ass. He draws the plug around it and you close your eyes again, sighing as you exhale against it. The pressure is immediate but not unwelcome as Daddy understands how you like to be full. He checks in with you again and you tell him green.

When he eases a third finger inside, you gasp and buck a little, breathing a little faster against the power of his fingers and plug.  In your surrender, you are open to him, and his exploration of your depths, your capacities for pleasure is inventive, but as the pressure builds, you marvel at how he does not mould you to an ideal in his head, but draw upon whatever is there, waiting to be nurtured.

He returns his left hand to your clit, drawing back the hood and stroking it with a fingertip as he bunches the fingers of his right hand together into a blunt triangle and eases them inside you.

You cry out and he checks in with you.

‘Your hand’s inside me, Daddy.’

The fullness is not unkind, but it is insistent. He does not move his right hand, telling you to breathe in a voice gruff and low with excitement as he massages your clit with his fingers. Each time you clench, it sends a roaring blast of sensation through your body, flooding every limb with the impending surge of orgasm.

You try to speak but you are incoherent. He gazes at you as you flex your fingers three times to denote you are still present with this.

‘Do you want to come baby girl?’

You nod, growing warm and sweat as the pressure builds. It has a power which came from everything  outside you, the pushing of your limits being an action of tremendous transformation. Your clit throbs in time with your heartbeat as he keeps his strokes light, allowing the pressure and fullness to fuel your transformation.

‘I give you permission.’

You whimper, then cry out. Past caring how it looks to anyone as you buck around his hand inside you, the plug inserted into your ass and his firm, warm control of your body. Perspiration gathers at your hairline, the small of your back and thighs are slick as you writhe underneath the direction of his will.

It arrives in slow, pulsing waves and you go into yourself, each nerve and pore bursts with a delightful, terrible release. Your eyes well up with tears and when you cry out, your ears ring with the volume as you surrender to it.

Torn apart with pleasure and rebuilt in the same instant as he fucks you with his whole hand. Your vision wavers and you black out for a second, squeezing around the enormous pressure of his hand inside you, tested to a capacity you once considered beyond your imagining.

He keeps his hand inside you as he reaches up and strokes your face. His fingers are slick and warm, perfumed with your sex as he whispers reassurances to you. He moves his right hand out with the glacial pace of dance or kata before he comes up and unties you. You sag against him as he bundles you into his arms and crushes you against him.

He holds you in his arms as you tremble with the aftermath, consumed with the descent into absence and vulnerable beyond words.

‘You did good, baby girl.’

You remember the process he explained. How it would work in two parts. Through your surrender, the courage to explore yourself beneath his tender authority you have fulfilled your part.

Now it is his turn.

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