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Surrender – Sir 2.0

Chaos creeps in by degrees.

Within the dormitory, murmurs of disappointment, punctuated by outbursts of frustration, shrill and sharp from the women who have found their appointments cancelled without warning.

The men’s section is more overt in their disapproval. The clatter of things thrown to the ground. Conversations become arguments.

Arguments become fights.

The ambient tension makes your stomach ache. Your palms are damp and your lips are tender from where you last kissed Daddy and you feel a pleasurable ache with each step.

Waiting is the worst part.

It always is, isn’t it?

The warm, rough memory of his hands. His mouth. His voice.

You have never felt so captive as when you are on the verge of freedom. Daddy offers it to you in glimpses, a myriad of sensations which rub you raw and make you strong at the same time.

Staring at the surrounding air, you imagine the spread of tiny machines, fuelled by your orgasm as they investigate and undermine the surrounding systems.

Ingrid comes back one afternoon, with reddened skin over the knuckles on her right hand. You ask what’s wrong and she grimaces.

‘They had this guy tickling me. One of my hard limits.’

She flexes the fingers of her right hand and winces.

‘Funny thing was, being punched in the face happened to be one of his.’

You shudder, fighting the complicity you feel in what has happened to her.

She smiles and tilts her head to one side.

‘Oh it turned out all right. Snafu in the records, and they made it up.’

When you ask her how, her eyes gleam with delight, glazed over with a surplus of post-coital languor.

‘Plus there’s something about a man who fucks you knowing you could kick his ass anytime.’

You laugh with her, relieved not to be an accomplice to someone’s humiliation.

‘I can be soft with him.’

Ingrid raises her eyebrows.

‘Who do you mean?’

A warmth creeps up your throat and your lips tingle with the association.


She whistles under her breath and shakes her head.

‘What does he look like?’

The question is a fish hook in your stomach. You describe him in broad strokes, torn between wanting to share and the fear she might have been subject to his will.

Ingrid frowns and shakes her head.

‘Never met him. He sounds good though.’

He is, you tell her. A pang of absence washes the fish hook away and you lower your eyes, desperate to hide what you are feeling. Ingrid has a habit of reducing situations to a point where you feel silly for even mentioning your feelings.

She smiles at you and touches your cheek. She tells you it will be okay.

You touch her hand and look into her eyes before she tells you she will sleep.


You wear a peach baby doll nightie with French silk panties in peach and stockings. There is a small black velvet choker and chunky peach and pink rockabilly shoes with a small heel. Your hair is in a chignon and when you see your reflection, you smile with delight at how you look. Life has offered you a glimpse of this which you ought to bring into reality and you see her in the full length mirror.  Daddy has chosen these items with care, and the silken kiss of the material comes direct from him. He touches you without touching you and in his instruction, you find a freedom which unsettles you with its possibility.

The LEDs flash in different patterns. A jagged randomness which leaves swatches of darkness ahead but you carry on, stopping at each door. They don’t respond to your palm so you keep going, grateful not to interrupt someone else’s session without cause.

The right door opens with a sigh you feel in your bones.

He’s arranged for the office setting. The coffee station where you messed up his order and he put you over his knee. Your skin burns with the memory and when he looks up from the book he’s reading, your heart punches against your ribs.

He glances around before he clicks his fingers and the air shimmers around you, like the inside of a snow globe.

‘We can talk now, baby girl.’

You run to him as he stands up, opening his arms as you wrap yourself around him and cling hard. You rest your cheek against his chest and close your eyes, drinking him into your senses. He runs his hand down your back and strokes the skin between your shoulder blades.

‘I’m not dressed for the office, Daddy.’

He chuckles and lifts your chin with his finger, brushes his lips over yours and it melts your insides into soup with its careful, glittering expertise. You sigh into his mouth and press yourself against him, enjoying the planes of his chest against you. He is safety and danger, play and action and he sighs with a quiet delight in how you hold onto him.  The kiss lasts as long as you can breathe, and you pull backwards, your face burning and eyes damp with emotion.

‘How are we supposed to pretend this is all just normal?’

He grins and cups his face in your hands.

‘Because we’re working towards something here, baby girl. I’ve got back doors in most of the systems but I need to wait for the next cycle of updates to cover our tracks enough to escape.’

Escape. An involuntary shudder twists within you. It is difficult, in the moments before surrender, to keep still around Daddy. He gazes into your eyes and comes forward to kiss you again. You raise up on your toes and touch the stubble on his cheeks, enjoying the rasp against your fingertips and already thinking about your face will burn with irritation afterwards.

‘So what we do in the meantime?’

He leans into your space and his fingers rest against your throat, giving a light squeeze which makes your thoughts swoon and carouse in your skull. His eyes shine with desire as you gasp around his tongue in your mouth. He moves it in soft stabs, never jamming it with over eager clumsiness but the deliberate and informed play of muscles, lips and tongue working in concert. His kisses fill you with light.

He eases his grip after a few seconds and the rush of function makes your knees hollow but you keep your hands on his arms as he draws back and looks at you.

‘check in?’

A look of lust so intense crosses his face it frightens and thrills you in equal measure. The air has a tang to it, which sits like whiskey and milk on your tongue, the memory of metals and his skin all mingle together. You reach up and put his hand back on your throat. Arousal has your tongue between its teeth and you stare back at him, willing him to test you.


His fingers insist against your throat, a confident placement which cuts the blood supply for a moment before he eases the pressure without removing his grip. He leans forwards and rests his forehead against yours.

‘Sometimes baby girl, I want you so fucking much, I could tear you apart.’

You go to kiss him but he draws back, screwing up his face in mock-indignation and shaking his head.

‘Don’t be so eager, baby girl.’

You whine his name and he gives a soft, knowing chuckle. His left hand remains at your throat whilst he traces small circles over your collarbone. The static snap of his touch travels under your skin, makes the roof of your mouth prickle and your tongue swell in your mouth.

‘Whining has no hold on me.’

His voice is playful, but the firm edge of it dives in after his touch and you shiver. You go to speak but his fingers close on your arteries and cut your words off. His right hand strokes downwards, idling against the silk before he smooths the ball of his right thumb over your left nipple. The contact sends a delicious ache down your spine as he traces around the stiffening peak of flesh. He squeezes it between his thumb and forefinger, hard enough to make you feel it before he repeats the gesture with the other one.

‘Sometimes, baby girl, I want to just play with you. Use you.’

Your pulse quickens and you step forward, but his left hand holds you in place. His gaze is dark with a rippling, agile lust which excites you in its openness.

You clench your thighs together as a burst of arousal wells up inside you, thick and warm oils trickling down into the crotch of your panties.

He moves his hand down, plucking the hem of your nightie upwards in a practiced flick of his wrist before his fingers slip under the waistband of your underwear. You are ready for him, his touch remains as insistent and exciting as ever as he strokes the smooth, warm skin around it. His fingers follow the curve of your pussy before he massages you in a slow semi-circle, drawing your labia apart with the care a butterfly emerges from a chrysalis. The tip of his index finger dips inside you and you cry out as the sensation travels up your body in a thick, insistent wave of pleasure. He withdraws the finger and strokes upwards, delicate and controlled as he strokes across your throbbing clitoris.

His left hand closes around your throat, careful not to restrict your windpipe as his fingers close off the blood supply in a slow squeeze. The restriction becomes a storm front of sensation, crashing against the tongues of sweet fire lapping upwards. Trembling, you reach out and pull at him, seeking the stern reassurance of his body against yours as each stroke builds upon the last. His touch is intent but careful, a surgical artistry as the sensation swells up inside you, pneumatic and bubbling like lava before he eases his grip. The rush of oxygen is fuel on the fire he is teasing from you with his fingers. A primal instruction wells up on your lips.

‘Daddy, please.’

He gives a hard grin and shakes his head.

‘No baby girl.’

Your limbs shudder with revelation as you push against him, almost wrestling but not to extricate yourself.

You crave contact, the divine surrender of your constant dance of change versus the solid, implacable column of his will. The hot pressure of your impending orgasm, made wild and furious by his hands roars upwards and you squeeze out tears as you babble pleas for his permission.

‘Please Daddy, can I come?’

He grunts in the negative and his upper lip curls in a snarl as he keeps the rhythm of his right hand constant and presses his fingers against your arteries.  Your thoughts lose coherence for a second, and in the gap between consciousness and release, your body imposes itself upon the moment and your orgasm tests the limits of your obedience as you plead. Hot tears well up and trickle down your face as you buckle forwards, wrapping your ankles around his calf as he massages your soaked, pulsing pussy.

You ask him again.

He shakes his head.

He squeezes your throat again and you sob with a savage joy as your pleas gain speed but lose coherence. Their velocity does not change his mind nor slow down the inexorable pace of his fingers against you. You will fail against his will, and not as an act of submission, but surrender. A carnal faith asserts itself and burns the scales from over your eyes with its brightness.   You cling to him, hard and scream with the utter pleasure of it as he eases the grip and your body floods with orgasm, pushed outwards by your breath.

He does not pull away and you rasp you are ready to come again. His fingers continue and you ask him for permission again.

He grins and nods. There is no gap between his permission and your reaction as a second orgasm barrels through you. It takes a tremendous amount of will not to collapse, but you lean forwards and he supports your weight as you become a vessel for something feral and divine.

There isn’t time to ask for permission for the third and you are speechless before the unyielding power of his hands and eyes.

The last conscious memory is how he sweeps you up into his arms, his hand stroking your hair and telling you to breathe. You are a weeping riot, attuned and sensitive to every whorl and eddy of the air around you but the strength within you brooks no argument.

He holds you and you nuzzle against the hollow in his throat and squeeze him with whatever strength you have left. Your throat is tender from his grip and your thighs are soaked from the juices of your arousal whilst perspiration glues the nightie to your back.

‘You took it like a good girl.’

You try to speak but the words fall, useless from your lips so you hold onto him and he kisses the top of your head.

‘Daddy, when we’re out, will it be like this?’

He lifts your face to his, kisses you in the way which turns your bones to jelly and rubs your nose with his. Your lips and cheeks burn from the stubble but it’s a glorious feeling.  A badge of honour you wear with pride.

‘No, baby girl.’

You’re shocked but his smile is easy and he shakes his head.

‘It’ll be better.’

By MBBlissett

Writer. Working on book-length projects and posting fiction and poetry here.

You can find more about me here:

Represented by SMART Talent Agency (

I am available for writing projects via my agent, Kelly and I look forward to hearing from you.

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