beauty, love, lust, sex, Sir, women

Rough Magic (Sir 2.0)


Things fall apart by degrees. System errors and missed appointments.



Despite the surveillance, the neurological conceits which form the Sir experience, it goes unnoticed by everyone.



Except you.



Daddy.



Ingrid leaves. She gives you the remaining craft projects in a cloth bag, blunted needles and strands of wool scrambled together in a riot of colours and kisses you goodbye on the cheek. She tells you it’s stopped being fun for her and a pang of guilt rises in your gullet, hot and acid.



‘Why are you staying?’



You cannot meet her gaze, desperate not to lie to her and you decide not to.



‘Daddy.’



Her mouth twists into a cynical grin and she shakes her head.



‘Master got reassigned, and some of the other people, well Christ there was this one guy…’



She grimaces and shakes her head. Your mouth tastes of copper, adrenaline and guilt alongside the bubbling excitement which runs through your veins.



‘Ah yes, Daddy.’



She gives you a dry, chaste kiss on the cheek and inhales your hair before her mouth moves to your ear.



‘Be careful.’



She leaves, wiping the tears from her eyes as she strides out of the dorm with her small bag of belongings tucked under her arm.



The phone vibrates and you search around before retrieving it and reading the screen.



WANT TO PLAY WITH DADDY?



Your heart races with excitement and you reply as fast as your fingers allow.



Your name comes over the tannoy.



A long-sleeved white blouse with mother-of-pearl buttons and a high collar.  A charcoal pencil skirt which falls just above the knee. He has laid a set of hair clips out for you and a pair of diamond chip earrings on a velvet pillow. The look is crisp secretarial, and everything fits you like a glove. The shoes have a good heel and gleam like oil. You clip the stockings to the suspender belt although the panties don’t match. You clip your hair up, apply the dark lipstick and the red velvet choker with the small charm dangling in the hollow of your throat.



You follow the lights. Your legs are hollow and weak with your nerves, excitement and apprehension flooding your perceptions in languid, repeated waves of ebb and flow.



The door opens and you look at the four poster bed, fresh cotton sheets and pillows arranged in a horse shoe at the head of the bed. There are matching bedside tables and overhead, a ceiling fan whirrs in lazy repetition.



There is no sign of Daddy.



‘Don’t turn around, baby girl.’



His voice is thick, rough at the edges like he’s spent a long time silent or in heated conversation.



Warm, rough fingers close around the nape of your neck. You shudder at the contact, caught between apprehension and excitement. His fingers bite into your skin and you move your head but he keeps his grip. He pulls you backwards and presses his crotch against your backside.



‘What are you going to do Daddy?’



His fingers slip upwards, curling as he pulls your hair. A flare of warm, bright pain floods through you and you gasp at the contact as he pulls you around, rough and urgent with need.



He presses his mouth against yours, the rasp of his unshaven scruff prickles and scratches against your face. His left hand makes a fistful of hair at the back of your head whilst his right hand closes around your throat. The fingers press into either side and your head goes light from the constriction.



‘Daddy wants you to fight back, baby girl.’



You bring your hands up, pushing against his broad chest. He wears a black shirt and you grab the front, pulling the cloth away as he kisses and constricts you with an animal urgency. His hand squeezes your throat but you ball your hands into fists as his fingers bite into your arteries before he releases his grip.



‘Check in?’



The adrenaline is cleansing and electrifying, your breathing is rapid and shallow, heart fluttering like a bird’s wing in the cage of your ribs.



‘Green, Daddy.’



He pulls your hair and kisses you, muscling into your space as he holds you close against him. You wriggle and struggle but his grip is immovable. You shove, using your hips to generate momentum but he is too strong. When you look up, his face is a mask of stern determination which ripples through your body.

 

His warm fingers are firm either side of your throat. You feel small beneath his grip but undiminished by it. The small notes of fear add a piquancy to his actions which make you throb with a feral desire, sudden and  powerful.

 

You struggle again but his right hand is tugging the hem of your skirt upwards and you push your knees together, enjoying the challenged grunt he gives as he pushes his left knee forward. He moves with intention but not violence as he pushes your legs apart and shoves his hand between your thighs. The crotch of your panties is damp beneath his fingertips and he massages you in crude circles as you push against his hand at your throat. You are whole and tender, showing your resistance to see how he breaks you of it. You dance to the tune of your thoughts until he compels you to find the rhythm and silence of your feelings.

The rhythm of his fingers joins with each small squeeze of your throat. A deep, sonorous pulse begins in your stomach which reached further outwards with each controlled and deliberate motion. A rough, primal magic plays within you and when he slips his fingers inside your underwear, you bite back a tight whimper.

 

‘Who does this pussy belong to, baby girl?’

 

You try to tell him but he finds your clit with his index finger and strokes it like a feather against you and the words fall over.

 

You gaze at him, enraptured and letting the rapture take you to meet everything without leaving the brute safety of his embrace.

 

‘Yours, Daddy.’

 

He gives a small smile, a break in character to remind you he’s there before his face grows stern. You ripple and open to him as he keeps stroking your clit. Each contact builds upon the last and it sends waves of deep, dark pleasure through you.

 

His touch strings your soul with Christmas lights and you ask him for permission to come.

 

He pulls his hand out and with a hooking motion of his fingers, tears the crotch of your panties apart and then pulls them off your hips and ass.

 

He eases two fingers inside you and you cry out, blooming and ready to be full of his will.

 

‘I can do anything I want to it, can’t I?’

 

You nod and he squeezes your throat, making you light with the restriction. He has you check in and you whisper green before his fingers move with urgency inside you.

 

‘Yes, Daddy.’

 

The pressure grows inside you. He rests his index finger on your clit as he angles his fingers upwards. The slick play of it makes you reel with ecstasy and you ask him for permission to come. He shakes his head and you push forward, eyes gleaming and wet with need.

 

He smiles and comes forwards.

 

‘There’s nothing you can do, baby girl. You’re mine and you have to ask permission to come.’

 

You ask him and when he shakes his head, your stomach aches with the furious, slick need for release and your lips curl back over your teeth as you dart forward and bite into his hand.

 

He laughs and you pull back your mouth. His skin was tangy against your lips and you want more of him. He takes his hand from your throat and grabs the hair at the back of your head and wraps his fingers in it. The hot sting of it seethes down your spine as he growls at you to look at him.

 

You ask him again. He leans forward and touches his forehead to yours as he plants a soft kiss on your lips.

 

Yes.

 

You push against him, putting your whole body into the dance of it. Somewhere between a prayer and a seizure as you buck against his fingers and spasm with joy in his firm embrace.

He holds you without flinching and watches you gaze into the infinite, lost to everything but feeling.

 

When your eyes well up with tears, he removes his hand from between your thighs and holds you, moving over to the couch and sitting you on his lap as he strokes your hair and watches you with a tenderness which makes you ache to stay underneath it.

 

You close your eyes and turn against his chest, he flexes his hand and you ask to see it. There is a livid purple crescent on the webbing of his hand. You’ve marked him and he catches the thought as he smiles at you.

 

‘It’s okay, baby girl. I didn’t feel it.’

 

You take his hand and kiss the mark you make, looking up at him as he grins with amused warmth.

 

‘Thank you.’

 

His other hand cups your cheek, strokes your eyebrow and he leans in to kiss you before he tells you you’re days away from being free.
























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