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An Afternoon’s Appointment (NSFW)

You arrive at 1500, on the dot. You let yourself in, wearing the uniform as discussed, woefully impractical for the task but that is part of the appeal. He sits at the table, working on a legal pad, dressed in a crisp white shirt and jeans, faded to white at the knees, snug and broken in as a mother’s nipple. His feet are bare and he writes without looking up.

You do the dishes, picking up the mug he takes his morning coffee in. Your hands are wet and you watch him. His expression of determined focus makes your desire take wing, it’s feathers tickling as it travels up your spine. He does not acknowledge your presence, although he is unfailing in his manners with you. You are watching him when you lose control of the handle and the cup drops from your wet fingers.

His chocolate brown eyes spark with interest and you blush, apologising and shaking your head. He sets his pencil down onto the pad and asks you to come over to him.

Your knees are hollow, and your thoughts lose coherence in a rush of anticipation. It is a game, and also utterly, ridiculously real to you this is. You’re apologising until the words are a babble and he smiles, indulging you. He raises his hand and you stop.

‘Sit down.’

You pull out a chair and he shakes his head. He pats his left thigh and meets your gaze. You frown and he tells you to sit on his knee. You bite your lip to hide your nervous smile and perch down. The denim of his jeans is warm against the backs of your thighs and you perch carefully on his knee.

‘I’m just nervous around you, I will be more careful next time.’

He gazes into your eyes and you feel your heart thump hard as his hand rests on your knee.

‘You’re not telling me everything.’

You swallow and run your tongue over your lips.

‘You. You really distract me, sir.’

He asks you to clarify how. You worry at the collar of the dress, flushed with the heat excited and terrified by the impending confession.

‘I think you…sorry, it’s difficult to say out loud.’

He pats you on the knee and smiles at you. His patience is a strength and he observes you.

‘Try me.’

You suck in a deep breath and tell him. The words are clumsy, but the need behind them lends them a weight and a velocity that forces them up from the bone cage you keep them in.

‘I think about you punishing me.’

He gives a small nod and asks you to lie on your front across his lap. The hem of the uniform rests above your thighs when you’re stood, and now with your buttocks exposed, you feel a tingle of self-consciousness but the mingling of anticipation and release is louder.

He tugs down your underwear to your knees. The humiliation is delicious, a warring whirligig of shame and delight. You used to fear the need, how it dogged your steps, insinuated itself and fed on your shame, a vampiric urge until you opened the windows on your dream house and killed it with the sunlight of acknowledgment.

The rough power of his palm stings hard enough to make you arch your back and you curl your lips. You arch your back to ease the building pressure in your pelvis and thighs, raising your buttocks to the promise of the cleansing, bright sting. You take it like an obedient girl, and it softens you, allows you to feel with a clarity that brings tears to your eyes faster than the pain could. He is firm and thorough, varying the tempo and depth of his blows. The pain takes hold, smoothed into a floating, ethereal state of detachment. When he parts your legs and strokes you with the tip of his index finger, your pussy sucks him in, drenched and oily with arousal.

He withdraws his finger and smacks you there. The tender ripeness of your arousal adds a layer of sensation that makes your eyes water and a sob escapes your lips. You endure his punishment, but it is as much a celebration, a tunnel dug from the prison of repression and shame. When he alternates between precise blows and a delicate, focused circling motion of his fingers, it is an inexorable force that holds you in its jaws; you are so much damp skin and coiling, electric need.

Your orgasms vary in tempo and intensity. At first they are like sneezes, temporary bursts of relief, but as he continues to move between blows and strokes, they become primal, religious in their intensity. You weep with the force of them and it is a struggle to recall your own name.

He strokes your damp hair from your face, kisses you lightly on the cheek. He tells you he loves you, and that the game is over, for now. There is time enough for you to crawl up into his arms and he holds you tight as you finish weeping. You kiss his neck and cheek with gratitude and he chuckles where your wet lips tickle him.

You ask how the writing is going and he tells you he’s not been able to think straight, thinking about you.






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Sir – Black Mirror Meets Fifty Shades of Grey

My series of erotica (NSFW) which I remain proud of, and thought I would bring it to people’s attention, especially with so many new subscribers here.

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Sir 2.0 Omnibus Edition (NSFW)

A science fiction/erotica series about the limits of personal freedom, desire and technology.

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Sir v2.0 To Receive

You sleep that night with an ease that normally comes from a prescription. The following morning, in the shower, you catch a glimpse of the bruising on your buttocks and smile to yourself, badges of your courage and surrender that make you tingle with a set of emotions that resist analysis. A few days pass, you are allowed to access the well-stocked library; the meals are served in a communal hall and you notice that Inge and your roommates all bear the mark of instruction.

‘Who did you get?’ Inge asks you.

You describe the guard with the brown eyes, and when you accidentally refer to him as ‘Daddy.’ they all smile at you and shake their heads.

‘I’ve not seen Sir at all.’ Penny says.

You focus on your food, but your thoughts are already wondering when you will be selected again.

By whom, is a hope you already hold of yourself, unwilling to offer it the oxygen of debate.

You are trying to be a good girl after all.

Your name is called over the intercom to report to Room 8 this time. You get out of bed, pad to the shower where you wash with a vigour and care that make you feel especially girlish. There are clothes set on a hanger, a long blue skirt, a camisole top and a blue cardigan that you put on with bemusement and curiosity. The lights flash to mark your path and you enter the room with a press of your palm.

The room is set up like an office. A desk is set against the left-hand wall and a voice comes over the intercom. There is a closed door against the far wall. On the desk sits an LCD flat monitor and a keyboard with a mouse. In the corner across from you is a sink and a black marble worktop with a coffeemaker and a white porcelain jar marked SUGAR and a small dispenser of cinnamon.

‘Please sit down. You will be carrying out some administrative tasks today and expectations are high for their accuracy. There will be consequences for failure to follow instructions.’

Your stomach lurches with disappointment. Your imagination had taunted you with more time with the brown eyed Daddy but you go over to the desk and sit down. The monitor switches on and you see a row of icons across the top. One of them has PLEASE CLICK HERE and you move the arrow over it.

‘Well, this isn’t fun at all.’ you say.

Then you wonder if anyone is listening. You bite your lower lip and play along.

You have letters to type up and send as attachments. Three in total. You see, a timer start in the lower right-hand corner and you frown before looking around.

‘I have a time limit for this?’

You take a deep breath and play along. A small voice in your head whispers that this is part of the game and so you put some effort into the work. You manage the first two letters and half of the third before the timer counts down to zero.

‘Would you please prepare a cup of coffee and walk it to the door?’ the intercom announces.

You get up from the chair and walk over. You make a fresh pot and look at the sugar container and the cinnamon. You decided to risk a spoonful in the black ceramic mug and stir it with a dash of cinnamon. You cup it in your hands and walk then open it.

The room is larger than where you have been. The floor is polished and varnished wood, and the walls are decorated with ivory paint, with a large bay window that looks out onto woodland. At the far end is a large oak desk. The lights overhead are recessed, lending a soft aura to everything and you have to narrow your eyes to see who sits behind it.

His brown eyes gleam with anticipation as you walk towards him.


Your breath catches in your lungs but you hide your excitement as you set the cup on the desk in front of him. His mouth is set in a firm, tight line and he still has the stubble from the last time you encountered him. He wears a white shirt with a black tie as he types something into the computer before him.

‘I took the liberty of reviewing your letters before you sent them.’ he says.

His voice is firm and you tingle at the authority he displays, the hint of displeasure sets sparks in your imagination as you feel your nipples harden through the material of your top.

‘I did as well as I could in the time allowed.’ you say.

He looks up, gazing into your eyes and taking in a deep breath before pushing his chair back and shaking his head.

‘No, this won’t do at all. Come here.’

You walk around the desk and stand at his left. He points at the screen, the red wavy lines stand out like scars and he looks up at you with a hard, knowing stare.

‘Its sloppy work and I demand better of you, little girl.’

Your heart races. His tone is cold and mean, but you press your thighs together as you grow damp with excitement.

He gestures to his lap, his thick thighs and the black tailored trousers that he wears so well.

‘You need to lean across my lap, so we can address this, don’t you?’

You bite your bottom lip and shake your head in bratty defiance. He stands up and reaches out, pulling the hair at the back of your head and staring into your eyes. The hot sting of where his fingers pull makes your eyes damp. You go to pull away but he clenches his fist and shakes his head. He sits down and pulls you with him. His other hand goes to the small of your back and starts to tug your skirt upwards. He forces the material up and you feel the warm air against the skin of your thighs. You are laid prostrate across his lap, with his hand on the back of your head.

He leans forward and whispers into your ear. It sends a shudder of ambrosial delight down your spine.
‘Check in?’

‘Green.’ you say. You gasp it.

He sits back.

‘Now, I am going to have to punish you for this, then you will have another opportunity to make amends, won’t you?’

You suck in a deep breath, testing his will with your silence. He chuckles and you feel his fingers in the waistband of your panties, tugging them down to your knees with a slow, deliberate care. He brings the palm of his hand down hard against the curve of your ass and the sting travels through you with the first contact.

‘Now, having to do this, little girl, is for your own good, do you understand?’

You nod, wondering if speaking would invite more punishment and a devious, naughty curiosity whispered the possibility to me. The attention and affirmation held a powerful appeal.

He spanks you again and you feel the warmth of the blow ease through you. The cleansing pain and the warm tide of endorphins, the partial nakedness and the formality of the professional setting align to suffuse you with the fulfilment of your desires.
He tugs your panties up and pushes you to your feet. He smoothes down your skirt and looks at you.

‘Now, I want these letters done again and this time, you’re to do them properly, little girl. Do you understand?’

You nod and struggle against the intoxicating wave of arousal that soaks you beneath it.

You leave him sat behind his desk, fighting against the urge to look back and test him. To crack that control and experience something unhinged and authentic. Your buttocks sting with each step and you sit down at the desk before you collapse.


The chair makes you wince when you sit down. Your fingers are shaking too hard to type, but you open up the folder and start to write the letter again. You manage two sentences before the intercom crackles.

‘Little girl, come in here now.’

You look towards the door as anticipation flares in your chest and you get up, eager for his authority with a compulsion that is liberation itself. Your legs are hollow and barely keep you upright but you make it through the door.

He raises his right hand. You shut the door behind you and look at him across the room.

‘Take off your panties and get on your knees.’

You maintain eye contact as you slide them down your thighs and step out of them. They are warm in your hand and you pull your skirt up as you get onto your knees. The hardwood floor bites into them and you swallow, your mouth flooded with the adrenaline of the moment.

‘Put them in your mouth and crawl to the desk. Do not look away.’

You place them between your teeth and pad over to them. The motion, the action is utter primacy and your breath is hot and slow, thickening with each breath and it feels an eternity before you reach the desk. You crane your head to look up but he does not move.

‘How do I like my coffee?’

You frown and raise up but he tells you to get back on all fours.

‘Because there is sugar in this. I don’t take sugar, little girl, do I?’
You shake your head and he sighs before he tells you to crawl around the desk and onto his lap.

He is specific that you keep the panties in your mouth.

He has the chair pulled back from the desk and you start to move your upper body onto his thighs before he points to the drawer to your right.

‘Open it. This is going to require some additional motivation for you.’

You open the drawer and see two items. A small glass plug, flared at the base and reflecting the velvet that it sits upon and a white jar with the lid screwed on. He tells you to get them out and pass them to him.

You whimper as he takes the plug, opens the jar and scoops up a glistening dollop of oil. The faint, clean sweetness of coconut oil reaches your nostrils. The material of your panties is sodden with your saliva and you squeeze your thighs together.

He tells you to get onto his lap. His voice is thick and dark with power.

You remain still as he uses the fingers of his left hand to pull your buttocks apart. You cry at the first application of the oil, warm and slick against your tender, tingling anus. He massages it in with slow, deliberate motions. You feel his erection against your stomach, implacable and urgent as his breathing deepens. You sigh through the gag he’s made of your panties.

‘Check in?’

You mumble green light, stripped of vowels as you crane your head to look at him.

‘Now, take this like a good little girl. Breathe out hard and push.’

The insertion is a careful gesture, deliberate and practiced as the rush of tingling, excited fullness insinuates itself up your spine. It lasts an eternity and when he removes his hand, you clench against the plug and sag forward.

He spanks you hard on each buttock. The plug adds a new layer of sensation, amplifying the pain with the delicious shock of taboo, the exposure and the understanding that he demonstrates in action rather than word. You lose count of the blows, each one overwhelms you and you cry out hard through the gag.

He pushes your thighs apart and you feel the flat sting of his fingers against your pussy. A cracking, sudden blow that makes your eyes roll back in your head and buckle against the punishment. He strokes your hair and tells you what a good girl you are. You whimper through the gag and he spanks you between your legs again.
He hooks the material from your mouth and tosses the sodden wad to the floor.

‘Now, after each of these, you’re to say thank you Daddy. Do you understand, little girl?’

You nod, eager to participate, eager to surrender and prove that you can take what he has to give. You are empowered, free to give up your self to his authority and the stinging, shining attention of his will.

His hand comes down hard.

Thank you, daddy.

The pain makes you melt, embedded in the riot of conflicting sensations that takes away your thoughts, your doubts.

Thank you daddy

His fingers come away soaking wet and he parts the swollen lips of your pussy, finds your swollen clit and squeezes it between his fingers, massaging it in a slow pulling motion that makes you cry out, losing the small portion of will and personality that is left. You clench hard, against the first tendril of the orgasm that is pooled within every vein and nerve ending.

He smacks you hard again and you raise your hips upwards. He pulls your hair and whispers for you to check in. You whisper green and he does something unexpected.

He kisses the top of your forehead and tells you what a good girl you are.

Then, he lifts you up and moves you so that your upper body is flat against the desk. He kicks the chair away and grabs your wrists in each hand, brings them to the small of your back and tells you to hold still.

‘This is my pussy, isn’t it, little girl?’

You place your cheek flat against the desk. You give a strangled cry, knowing that you cannot see him, but he is everywhere within you. Pinned down and with his thighs pressed against you, you hear the soft whip of his tie being removed and he slides them around your wrists. He ties your hands together in a firm loop.

You hear the rasp his fly being unzipped.

‘Please, Daddy, let me see your cock.’

Your voice sounds strangled, raw with need and he pulls you up by your hair with a firm tug. He forces you to your knees and you are level with his groin. He has a neat scrub of dark pubic hair and his cock is erect, uncut and jutting out at an upward angle. Guided by instinct, you rub it against your cheek, gasping with the resolution of your desire. He guides the head of it between your lips and you wrap your tongue around it, pushing the foreskin back until you feel the velvet pulse of the head against your lips. He pulls it out and lifts you back onto the desk. You are immobile, hearing the rustle of the condom packet being opened and then rolled on.

You arch your hips upwards to meet the head of his cock as he guides it between the swollen, palpating lips of your sodden cunt. Between the plug and the slow, inexorable thrust, you spasm and twist with the fullness of penetration.

He moves inside you with slow, hard thrusts. He reaches forward, resting his palm on the nape of your neck. He gives an uncontrolled grunt that makes you push back against him.

‘Do you want to come, little girl?’

You scream yes. The friction cuts through everything, ungluing you from everything but physical sensation and raw, ultimate fulfilment.

‘Whose pussy is this?’

‘Yours, daddy, its yours. Please can I come?’

He thrusts into you, teasing with the denial of his permission and the insistent force of his fuck. You raise your hips and urge him deeper inside you. He knows how to make it hurt good.

‘You want to come, huh, little girl?’

You scream your affirmation into the air, shuddering and gasping as he continues to deny you permission.

He is going to make you fail again, and that sets off a series of chain reactions, explosions of neural fireworks, nerve endings singing psalms to the primitive god of his dominance. You ask him again and he ignores you, laughing as you sob with the need for his permission.

He does not miss a stroke as he leans forward, pumping and punishing your cunt with the power of his sweet fury.

Yes, he whispers, you can come.

You buck hard enough that he holds you down against the desk. You cry out how good your pussy hurts, your hair plastered to your head with sweat as you scream your abandon with every fibre of your being. You feel him tense up inside you, and although the latex barrier denies you the liquid splash of his come inside you, you feel your insides suck up the pleasure of him into you with a greed that outstrips your will.

He unties you with shaking hands and pulls off the condom. He places a palm against the small of your back and tells you to breathe out as he removes the plug. He is efficient and gentle, handling you with an expert care like the animal he’s made of you. He turns you around and pulls you into his arms.

‘It’s okay, you’re safe, just breathe.’

You can feel his heartbeat through his chest and he strokes your hair as you clutch at him, weeping with the shocking force of the drop. His embrace does not alter in pressure and you let go, testing his desire and expertise with the raw, ugly force of your emotions. What comes to you as he holds you, stroking your face and reassuring you in breathy, careful commands is that there is no ugliness to your expression.

He wipes your eyes, smooths out your hair and perches you on the edge of the desk as he dresses and composes you. His smile is wide and gentle, asking you if you are okay and paying a tender attention that feels more intimate and personal than the hard, constricted fucking that he has just gifted you with.

‘The coffee was fine, by the way.’ he says.

You laugh, bringing your hand to your face to hide your expression but he takes it away.

‘Can I ask you something?’ you say.

He frowns and looks around before giving you a quick nod.

‘What’s your name?’

He smiles and shakes his head.

‘I’m Daddy, for now. You’ll have to earn that privilege, little girl.’

He kisses your forehead and strokes your hair.

‘You’re a good girl, and you’re going to earn that if you keep this up.’

He walks you back out of his office and there are two guards who escort you back to your dorm.

You look over your shoulder and he smiles at you with a nuance of emotion that stabs into you with the same force as his hands or his cock.

That night, you sleep like you’ve been drugged.

Which, as the final observation comes before you dive deep into exhausted silence, makes you wonder if you have been.

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Sir v2.0 – I Got You, Little Girl

You are collected from the sleeping quarters, still damp and sore from the ropes and led to the shower area. The nozzles emit a fine warm mist, and you apply a coconut and cinnamon scented wash as the guards effect a discreet exit and allow you the pleasure of preparing yourself. Your skin tingles where you wash, and by the time you step out and towel yourself, you are almost convinced that last night might have been a feverish, anxious pleasure dream. With your hair brushed through, and in clean clothes – this time cotton slacks and a t shirt, you are instructed to report to Room 6.

There are lights inset into the floor that pulse in rhythm and you follow those to a single metal door. A handprint reader is set where the handle should be, and a sequence of LED lights flash on and off when you place your palm against it. The door opens with a pneumatic hiss and you walk inside.


The floor has thick carpet, the colour of oatmeal sprinkled with brown sugar and you scrunch your toes into fists. The comfort is beguiling, but what draws your attention is the square metal frame set into the centre of the room. There are pulleys set at right angles, with Velcro cuffs attached by hooks. You hear a familiar voice behind you.

The guard who shaved you. He wears a black t shirt and trousers with polished black leather shoes. He checks a PDA in his hand.

‘It says here your safe word is curmudgeon. Is that right?’

He smiles as he says it. You see the corrugated muscles in his forearms, beneath the fine, dark hairs. He has a couple of day’s beard grown in and he rolls his shoulders as he appraises you.

You nod, your heart starting to speed up as he puts the PDA down on the table in the corner of the room.

‘We also use a traffic light system here. So, it’s green for keep going, amber for check in and red is slow down or stop.’

His voice is low, pleasant and professional. It’s the kind of voice that would make you sigh to hear on the phone, and a fluttering, gentle warmth stirs in your belly to hear it. He walks towards you and gazes into your eyes.

He smiles and brings his hand up to the hair on the back of your head and runs his fingers through it.

‘ I have you, and I can do any fucking thing I want to you. Do you understand?’


He shakes his head and pulls lightly on the hair at the back of your head. His grip is firm without being aggressive. Your eyes start to water, but your heart races with the speed and intensity of his grip.

‘I didn’t tell you to speak, did I, little girl?’

Those two words are a lit match tossed into petrol. You nod as much as his grip allows and he smiles with pleasure. You can smell his clean skin, the mint on his breath mingled with the coffee he drank.

‘Good. You want to be a good girl for me, don’t you?’

His other hand circles your wrist. The implied strength of him brings out the brat in you, and you pull away slightly but he tightens his grip and pulls you close to him. Your chest crushes against his as he looks down on you.

‘Oh, do you think you can get away?’

You bite your bottom lip and squeeze your thighs together. The rough authority of his voice excites you and there’s a curious, playful light in his eyes that endears him to you. He tugs on your hair to control you again, a little harder this time.

‘Check in?’ he says.

‘Green light.’

You whisper it to him, playing the coquette for your mutual pleasure.

He keeps a grip on your hair and lets go of your wrist, slipping his hand inside the waistband of your cotton slacks and over the curve of your pussy. He shaved it yesterday, and he runs his fingers over there in small circles before he uses his ring and index fingers to part you with care then slides the tip of his index finger inside you. You are wet to the touch but he frowns, acting the part to the hilt.

‘I expect you to be wet for me.’

You nod hurriedly. He slides the finger into you a little further and exhales with displeasure.

‘Now, I am going to have to be a mean Daddy, aren’t I?’

You shake your head, breathing hard as he drags his finger in a small, deliberate circle. You raise up on your tiptoe.

‘You can feel I’m wet, Daddy. You don’t have to be mean to me.’

He pulls on your hair again, your eyes water and he slowly withdraws his finger from you. He tells you to turn around and walks you over to the frame. He presses himself against your backside, and you can feel the outline of his erection against your right buttock. His mouth is against your ear and he tells you exactly what you are to do.

‘What happens if I don’t?’

He tugs your hair again.

‘Did I tell you to speak?’

You shake your head as much as his control allows. Your breath is molten in your lungs, your heart is thumping, almost angry in the pace of its rhythms. You shut your eyes and tears trickle down your cheeks. Your thoughts are foxes chased by the hounds of his will. He swats your backside with the palm of his hand, and it stings through the material.

‘Spread your arms above your head.’

You do as you are told and he lets go of your hair to carefully affix each cuff to your wrists then your ankles. He says check in and you say green light without thinking. He presses a small button on the side of the frame and the wires retract. Your limbs are forced up, firm enough to hold you in place but not so much that it tests your tendons or shoulder joints.


He walks around you, eyes dark with power and excitement. You are unable to move and he retrieves a small razor from his pocket and cuts the clothing from your body in strips. He tosses each strip aside and stands back to view his work.

‘You know, I can do anything I want to you, don’t you, little girl?’

You nod and gasp.

He paces around you. Losing sight of him sends a jolt of mingled dread, anticipation and delight at the dread. His hand strokes down the length of your back, raising gooseflesh and making you shiver.

‘It’s such a shame that I have to discipline you, little girl.’

He stands in front of you and gazes into your eyes.

‘Daddy hates to be mean.’

You smile, giving in to the contradictory impulse to test him.


He scowls and strides behind you. You brace yourself and he cracks his hand against your left buttock. The air whistles and you cry out at the impact. The hurt forces your thoughts away, carried on a red tide of feeling that is clean and pure. The resulting endorphins surge in and your vision swims with blissful delight.

‘Do I have to do that again?’ he says.

He remains stood behind you, but his voice carries.

‘No Daddy.’

He smacks your other buttock and you cry out, your breathing fast.

‘I didn’t say speak, did I?’

You shake your head. He puts his hand between your thighs and pets you there. You shut your eyes and push against it.

‘That’s better.’ he says.

His voice is low and thick. He strokes between your lips, investigating and prodding with a confident, playful circling motion.

‘This is mine, little girl, you know that, right?’

Your eyelids are heavy as you take slow, deep breaths.

He smacks you with his palm there and you shudder in your restraints.

‘You answer Daddy, little girl.’

You nod, gasping and grinning as the hurt and pleasure travel through you, a perfect conjuring trick as your nerve endings riot in an orgy of blended synaesthetic sensations.

He starts to stroke you again, circling around your throbbing clitoris with his fingers without directly touching it. It is divine and maddening, how he controls your release, keeping it just out of reach.

‘Now, as this is mine, I get to decide something. Something that you need to ask for, little girl.’

You are drugged with the building, impending rush of orgasm. It pools in your stomach and thighs, a conspiracy of different physical sensations and pressures, made bold by their imminent arrival. You listen to him, intently but you cannot fight what is coming, no matter what he tells you. His fingers glide against your sodden, tender flesh and you can feel where your arousal has oiled the inside of your thighs.

‘You need my permission to come.’

The prohibition almost sends you over the edge. The relinquishment of responsibility, a simultaneous reduction and expansion of your primal, infinite self and all of it handed over to the man with the brown eyes and the knowing touch, who keeps you perpetually perched on the line between agony and ecstasy.

‘Please. Daddy.’

Speaking is like dragging someone from quicksand.

‘Please Daddy, what?’

‘Please Daddy, can I come?’

He starts to stroke closer to your clitoris, which pulses in time with your heartbeat, the blood hurtling through your veins as your nerve endings riot in an orgy of utter abandon. He does not rush, which is common in the heat of rut, where one has the responsibility of dominance and the other has the power of submission.


You cry out but he does not miss a stroke.

‘Please, oh please, let me come.’

You will yourself against it. Not because you fear the punishment, but because you want to cross that threshold. Nothing is your fault in that place, there are no nervous thieves looking to steal your fragile hopes from your day, only a complete set of feelings and emotions. There are no lists, no expectations only the force of will and your ability to ride it to the ending of a world and in the same instant, the birth of another.

You try.

Oh fuck you try.





You hear someone saying no and please over and over, their voice breathless and rapid.

You realise it is you.

It is the last rational thought you know before you explode with a shuddering, sharp burst of delight pitched at a note that makes every cell in your body vibrate, spasming and twisting against the stroking motions of his fingers. Time dilates and everything goes away for a second. You don’t black out or anything so histrionic, but there is a perfect pause of self and when you return, tears stream down your cheeks.

‘I’m sorry.’ you say.

He presses his palm against you, tells you to take deep breaths. His other arm comes around your waist and he pulls you hard against his chest. His mouth is against your ear and there is none of the playful control in his voice. Only a warm, calming concern for you.

‘You’re here and I’ve got you.’

You’re here and I’ve got you.’

He removes his palm from between your thighs and wraps his other arm around you. You sag forward against your restraints and they relinquish their grip on you. He makes reassuring cooing sounds and you hear the rip of the Velcro as he takes each cuff off. You let yourself be turned around and he puts his hand at the nape of your neck.

You rest your cheek against his chest. The tidal, slow rhythm of his breath and the steady pump of his heart work together to lull you from the depths of the crash that such a climb can prompt. Your arms come around him as you sob and he remains a solid reassuring column.

You shut your eyes and drift off with his fingers stroking your hair.

He tells you what a good girl you are.

That he’s got you.

If this is a game, then it is one that you have decided to believe is real. Like a pawn feeling existential dread when a castle crosses diagonally towards it on fields of pitch black and pure white.

You have been taken and you want to keep on being taken.





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To Take It From You

What days


With the weight of 


Responsible but

Still knowing 

That the path

Through your

Soul woods

Hides faeries

In its branches

And I know

Your soul

And the nights

Under my command

Asking permission

For your pleasure

Giving up control

As a traveller


A burden

Let me take it

From you

From desire

And a tough kindness

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Come At Me

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Sir 2.0 Episode 3: Spoken Word/Audiobook

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Sir 2.0 Episode 3

You inhale the oils in the water, carried across from the steam. You can no longer hear the ambient murmurs of the audience. A quiet relief blunts your discomfort to a degree where it becomes part of the burgeoning arousal within you. Your acceptance has unlocked the first stirrings of a wild, terrible power within you. Your need for ritual, seen perhaps as discipline to the unknowledgeable gives you permission to participate and now that you are aware of the memory block, you no longer feel powerless in the face of Sir and the guards. You take a breath in deep, to alleviate the trembling in your fingers.

One of the guards takes your arm and leads you to the table. He drops into a squat and starts to lift the hem of your hospital gown, you squirm away and there is a sharp, displeased intake of breath. Your skin tingles with disquiet and anticipation, making your nipples harden, visible through the cotton of the gown. The guard steps backwards, and Sir’s voice booms out from the darkness.

‘They act on my authority. Please do not incur my anger.’

You lower your chin to your chest, fighting the creep of blood to your face. The resistance is part of this for you, a show of defiance before the surrender in the same way that a bird flaps its wings as it takes flight. Your need for this resists the rational, and your body speaks to its power with an eloquence that your words never will. You go to remove the gown yourself and Sir speaks up to interrupt you.

‘I want him to do it. Autonomy must be earned here, little girl.’

His vocal relish in speaking aloud the title he’s assigned you sets sparks in your stomach, a slow, inexorable warmth that has waited for affirmation. You put your arms up, give the guard a stare of mock-defiance that you can comprehend but not quite feel and he comes forward. He has brown eyes, warm with interest, flecked with motes of a lighter brown within the iris. You notice a small shaving nick on his cleft chin and smile to yourself, relieved that there are small signs of humanity within the scenario. He hides his smile with a small degree of practiced care, but interest animates him, and in turn, you but you are both subject to a higher authority at this point in time.

‘Undress her.’

His expression becomes neutral, hiding behind the shield of authority as he comes towards you. You do not resist, and as he lifts the cotton gown over your head, your pulse sounds in your ears and the rush of chill air to your bare skin raises goose pimples all over. Your vulnerability, your self awareness are as much instruments in your submission as any number of toys or implements. You go to cover your breasts and pudenda with your hands but the guard tosses the gown to one side and grabs your wrists to draw your hands away. He looks at you with a second of open, primal appreciation and you enjoy how he loses himself within that for a brief amount of time before he leads you to the station. You are arranged on the board, the leather underneath is warm and your buttocks sit ably in the cut out section, leaving you exposed there.

The guard adjusts the cuffs and slips them onto your wrists and then moves the stands into play. His rough fingers dance against the soles of your feet, but you are too suffused with feeling to laugh. You test the restraints and find they resist your struggles with ease. The guard looks out into the darkness, then walks around to the bowl and picks up the natural sponge, placing it into the bowl and you turn your head to watch him.

Unable to move anything more than your midsection, the spotlight’s glare forces you to close your eyes. You hear the sponge being squeezed out into the bowl and then the rough-wet drag of it against your skin. The water is hot and you give a small cry of surprise as the guard washes you in small, deliberate circling motions of the sponge. Where he has washed you, the air caresses your damp skin. Each breath carries the scent of lime and coconut, diffused by the steam. Without the means to resist him, he draws the sponge over your breasts, and the slow drag of the sponge’s fibres makes your nipples harden, tender and electric with sensation. He runs the sponge down your stomach and you twist, involuntarily against it.

‘Does my little like being washed like this? I like how you wriggle.’

His voice bypasses your resistance, and although the guard is carrying out the task, in your head, his touch and Sir’s words combine into a thrilling whole. Supine in your constriction, you arch your back when the sponge returns, swollen with fresh water and starts to wash you over your hips. You push your knees together but the guard shoves them apart and sweeps the sponge against the tender skin of your inner thighs.

‘If she does that again, pinch her.’ Sir’s voice has a playful harshness.

You do it again, and good to his word, the guard takes a section of skin on the inside of your right thigh and pinches it with a clinical expertise. The pain travels upwards and you fight tears and hiss at how sharp and clean it is. Without ambiguity, the control asserted is a route to the most divine liberation.

You do not recall choosing this, but your decision reflects your wants like a mirror.

He carries on washing you, and you feel the blunt tips of his fingers parting your labia and the sponge applied there, pressed with an enthusiasm against the tender, pulsing flesh.

‘I see there’s hair there. I think we need to get rid of that, don’t you little girl?’

The pain has started it’s work, aided by the knowing yet uncaring touch against your throbbing clitoris. His fingers are either side of it, tweaking and pulling at the hood to ensure that you are both entirely on display to him and clean.

You must be clean for Sir.

You gasp out an affirmative and hear the click of fingers.

‘Now, let’s see what we can do about that, shall we?’








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Sir 2.0 Episode 2: Processing (spoken word)