beauty, erotic writing, love, lust, sex, women

when you were naughty

My fingers close on your jaw, firm but gentle as you try to look away. The space between us seethes with unspoken tension and my voice, when it comes, is a bass growl. The sight of you calls out a playful dominance in me.


‘You’re mine, baby girl.’


You quiver, but my arm around your waist holds you firm as your legs shake.


‘Yes, Daddy.’


A finger brushes over your lips. An intense curiosity comes over me. My mouth moves to your ear, the soft brush of my beard is reassuring against your cheek and my voice travels through you.


‘Have you been a good girl?’


You nod. My fingers slide down either side of your neck where they squeeze. Your pulse is fast and hard against my grip. You whimper as I squeeze, whilst I stare into your eyes.


‘Are you sure?’


You shake your head and I growl, drawing close.


‘I’m sorry, Daddy. I’ve tried to be good.’


You confess you’ve been touching yourself without permission. My mouth is dry with lust, controlled but ragged by how aroused I am.


My right hand unbuttons the front of your jeans. You try to pull back but my hand on your throat holds you in place. The heat comes off you in waves, and I stroke the soft, warm skin of your stomach then let my fingertips graze over the silk of your panties. The dichotomy of dominance and the gentle, playful way I touch you inform each moment. Here, flushed with arousal, we slip off the yoke of responsibility and obligation in favour of playing with one another.


I slip my fingers inside your panties and graze them over the warm curve of your pussy.


No, my pussy. You shiver as I massage you in slow, careful circles and enjoy the damp heat which gathers at my touch.


‘Whose pussy is this?’


You gasp and push your hips towards me. Desire glazes your eyes, and each stroke of my fingers draws out thunderclouds of a want across the sky of your eyes.


‘Yours, Daddy.’


You whimper and my fingers find your clit, throbbing and erect as you shudder and lean back, liquefying by degrees. You give a small, wry smile.


‘I know what you’re doing, Daddy.’


Without losing my rhythm, I let go of your throat and bring my hand to the hair on the back of your head and twist it between my fingers. You make a small cry from the back of your throat and I continue to stroke you as you look at me.


‘You do?’


You clutch at me, whimpering as my fingers move against your tender, sopping flesh. Your thighs open and your head goes back.


‘Remember to ask permission.’


A choked cry escapes between your gritted teeth and my grip on your hair tightens as I growl at you to look at me.


‘Please Daddy.’


The world has reduced to sensation and attention. Beneath my fingers, you’re soaking wet and the electric glide of flesh makes me careful and inventive. I use the ball of my thumb against your clit whilst I hook a finger up and massage the rough pad of flesh at the top of my pussy. You moan, sweet and low, as you ask permission to come.




You buck against me but I laugh it off as I lean forwards.


‘This happens when you disobey me.’


My brooding eyes lock with yours as flashes of savage pleasure twist through you as the blood rushes to your skin.


You tell me you’re sorry, over and over.


Flushed and quivering with abandon, you ask and I refuse. You are lost to the power of my touch, and what it evokes within you. It focuses every inch of you on my fingers, between your legs and at the back of your head. Here, you are safe to take flight within yourself, despite my prohibition.


I deny you for a third time. Something forces you to let go. Your nails dig into the meat of my shoulders as you cry out, flooding my fingers with a gushing, deep warmth.


I watch your face, tears beading in the corners of your eyes and press my palm against my pussy, grounding you to the moment as you hold on sobbing with relief.


‘Thank you, Daddy.’


I stroke your hair. I’m silent, letting my touch speak to the tenderness you inspire. I keep you close, feeling your heart thumping in your chest as you squeeze against me. You fit into me, a heated, tearful complement and penitent enough I forgive your transgression. You whisper into my ear.


‘Daddy, I want you inside me.’


You unbuckle my belt, and I slide my jeans off my legs as you wrap your fingers around the shaft of my cock as we kiss. Your lips close around my tongue and you suckle it, moaning at the surprising joy as I tug down your underwear and jeans until they’re in a tangle around your ankles. Pure need has you turned around, with your firm, pale buttocks offered. I take the head of my cock and guide it between your thighs. The contact makes me sigh and you lift your hips to take me inside you. The taut, molten river of my pussy welcomes me. There are tentative strokes, adjustments made like an unconscious list of demands, drives given control and made urgent by the need for release.


I chase the oblivion in hard, fierce strokes pushing you against the counter as I make it hurt in the ways we both need. Lost in the wonder of your flesh, I pull your hair and thrust into you with a rapid, muscular violence as we lock into a tight, fierce knot of slapping bodies and whatever noises escape the inexorable gravity of our desire.


‘I‘m going to come, baby girl.’


She reaches back for me, urging me deeper.


‘Please, Daddy.’


There is no finesse but there is grace in how the orgasm breaks me over its knee, spurting and spilling inside you with a force which makes my eyes roll back in my head. You push back against me, keeping every drop of me inside you with a junkie’s need. This chemical connection made flesh brings out something animal. Free of shame and awkwardness. I lean forwards, bringing my arms around you, breathing you in like smoke as you chuckle with delight.


‘You’re such a bad Daddy.’


Your voice is a low, smoky rasp as I kiss you on the cheek and tell you I know.

beauty, love, lust, sex, short fiction, Sir, women

Sir 2.0 – the truth of actions

You cry out as he falls forwards.


Sir comes forward. The air is cold but you stand there, defiant and flushed with heat. You want to go to Daddy, but Sir blocks you. He sits in the wheelchair like a throne, leering up at you with amused disdain


‘Quite a dramatic way to fight the block’  he said.


Your chest heaves as you keep looking at Daddy.


‘For the both of you.’ he said.


Your skin prickles with unease as he gestures to his assistants and they attend to Daddy, injecting a small hypodermic into his neck. He sighs as he gets to his feet and turns around, mud splattered on his t shirt as the rain drips off his shaved head.


‘This wasn’t real?’ you say.


Sir sighs and shakes his head.


‘We set certain parameters for the purposes of appropriating reality but otherwise, yes it was.’


Sir lifts his chin as Daddy comes towards you.


‘He’s as much a participant as you are. You chose one another on some level.’ he said.


One of the assistants comes over and Sir whispers something to her before she goes off.


‘We’ve arranged a post-session debriefing then your car will be waiting.’


You and Daddy look at one another. You know this man, through the role he inhabited, and you console yourself with the fact you had the memory hidden from you. A secret which never stayed still inside you. He made you feel you safe.


Daddy walks over to you.


‘It doesn’t scare me who we are out there.’ he says.


He reaches out his hands and knits his fingers between yours as he draws you close. You stare at his lips and the salt in his beard, how his soft brown eyes bear into you with a full and deep attention. He looks at you as he always does, with an affection which touches on something primal and playful in the same instance.


The session involves a respectful and gentle medical examination. You are offered laundered clothes and a hot shower. You are asked if you want to eat and you go to say yes but something stops you.


You make a request and it is agreed to.


He sits at the table and stands up when you walk in. He wears a white shirt and black trousers as the hostess brings your food to the table.


When he smiles at you, your body throbs and light skips through your veins like lightning.


It might fade with time, you tell yourself, but for now, you enjoy it.


He pulls out the chair.


‘Is that something you do or something you are?’ you say.


He grins and raises his eyebrows.


‘I feel a man is what he does. It’s how you make a woman feel safe.’


‘Do you know?’


He looks at you and smiles.


‘Yes, I do. Above all else, I know that.’


You sit and eat with him. He makes you laugh, talking about being able to remember the last book he read and wondering if he really enjoyed it.


When the food was finished, he takes your hand across the table and you share a comfortable silence.


Your car is brought around and the address is programmed into the satellite navigation system. He asks for his address and it gives you the same answer.


He smiles and looks at you.


‘It doesn’t scare me.’ he says.


He leans across and kisses you. The soft brush of his beard inflames you, as his soft lips dance over yours. His tongue steals into your mouth and the contact is electrifying. You feel the ache and every time it is like the first. He steals a hand to the hair on the back of your head and tugs it into his fist as he sighs with pleasure. Your thoughts grow light with the control he exerts, quiet and sure, as he takes possession of you. His other hand circles around your throat but he keeps his fingers away until your instincts compel you to close your hand over his.


You give him permission.


His fingers squeeze and he draws back, staring into your eyes with the intention of command.


‘Let’s go home.’


You nod and start the car.


The key fits.


The hallway is dark but he does not care as he pushes you against the wall. It comes to you both without artifice although there is play involved. His kisses have not attracted the dull flavour of duty or negotiation and you know they never will.


His fingers unbutton your jeans and slip beneath the waistband of your panties. You feel his fingertips graze the soft curve of your pussy.


No, you tell yourself.




The questions of reality fade away as he asks you to confirm his observation of what you were thinking about.


‘It’s your pussy, Daddy.’ you say


His fingers glide downwards and he parts you with a quiet confidence as he grunts with pleasure. He caresses you with a gentleness which contradicts the way he takes your hair and pulls you towards him.


Your thighs shudder as you back against the wall. Everything is alive with a liquid, sinuous heat as you enjoy the tension of his hands on you. He kisses you with intent, savouring the sweet play of it whilst controlling you and allowing the space for you to surrender to him.


He speaks through his hands, and each word makes your bones glow as the delicious synaptic fire of an orgasm begins to shudder through you. You ask him and he shakes his head, which feeds the delicious prohibition inside you.


You ask him again and he laughs as he shakes his head. In a thick, low voice he tells you to ask him again.


A ripple of want moves through you as you feel your body tighten with the need for release.


‘Please Daddy, can I come?’


He kisses you and says the words you need.


‘Yes, baby girl.’


It comes upon you, savage and beautiful, the relinquishment of thought and concern, only the glorious worship, the ritual of surrender and control which you found within his arms and as your feelings rush over reality itself, you become a symphony of primal ecstasy against him. His touch is elemental and he coaxes you through it with his voice wrapped around you. You buck hard against him, and press your hands to his face as he grips your hair tight.


You stare into his eyes and tell him you love him.


He smiles and tells you he loves you too. His eyes soften but he keeps his fingers at play inside you, prompting the slow burn of a second orgasm.


Soaked and shivering, you trust to his actions as proof of who he is.


You never really stop believing it.


The End.



love, lust, short fiction, Sir, Uncategorized

sir 2.0 a lead role in a cage

Previous episodes are here


The sirens shake you from sleep. You reach for the phone underneath your pillow in the dark, heart racing and mouth dry from panic. Guards enter the dormitory, unarmed but acting to a practiced directive. Daddy warned you something would happen, but he gave you no indication of when or how.


This, you manage to think, is the when.


The how? The combined molecular machinery had made its way into the system and done its work.


Neither of these facts prepare you for what you are supposed to do.


One of the guards shouts for everyone to get up.


‘We’ve got a denial of service attack. Please follow me to the staging station.’


Her voice is soft, with a european accent but her eyes bear into yours without patience or humour. You get up, warm cotton sweats clinging to your legs and chest as you let yourself be led from the dormitory.


You wonder if you are coming back.


Daddy was supposed to tell you what to do.


You fall in with a group of others, hustled down the unlit corridor as you hear the sound of alarms shrieking and things clashing in the darkness, like machines fucking in a final orgiastic spasm of destruction.


The group parts and someone moves closer to you than normal. You are about to speak but you catch a whiff of musk, and feel a rough, warm hand on the small of your back.


‘Take the next left.’


Daddy’s voice is low and calm, and you fight the urge to push closer to him, finding solace and substance in his arrival. The questions bubble up in you but action is the necessary course, and so you let him guide you onwards.


You both dart out of the group, who are too concerned with escape to notice the numbers. You start to turn but Daddy keeps you moving and his hand at your back ushers you forwards into a part of the facility where the lights have gone and the sounds of chaos have muted.


His hands clamp on your upper arms and he turns you around to face him. You make out his face, the gleam of his eyes and the warmth of his breath. Your hands rush up to stroke his face, the bristles feel wonderful against your fingertips and you fight the urge to have him rub his beard all over you. The times where you were saturated with one another, abraded and exhausted all rush to your mutual aid.


His lips brush against yours and he growls with pleasure.


‘Down here, there’s a tunnel and a van waiting. We can get out of their jurisdiction by dawn, and I’ve booked us a room.’


A room. You’ve experienced the most bruising intimacies with him, in all sorts of settings, but a room without surveillance or trappings sounds delightful in its mundanity.


Your tongue darts forwards, slipping between his lips as you stroke his face and lose yourself in the moist, hot dance of his lips. You could kiss him until your lips were swollen and never know enough. It is the need for breath which makes you put your hand to his chest and stop him.


‘A Daddy push?’ he said.


He is smiling as he puts his arm around you and continues down the corridor.


‘He asked about you.’ you say.


He nods and keeps moving.


‘I know, but he didn’t see this coming.’ he said.


He stops at the utility door and draws out a keycard from his back pocket, swipes it down and the door clicks open. A rush of cold wind slithers over you both and you move towards him, hands straying under the hem of his t shirt to stroke the fur on his stomach.


The tunnel stretches ahead and you pause, unnerved by what happens next even as the excitement of Daddy’s presence makes you keen to move. He touches the nape of your neck and plants a kiss on your temple.


‘I’ve got you, baby girl.’


You move down the tunnel, where large banks of computing equipment are covered with thick plastic sheeting and set alongside the walls. The floor is clear and you make good time before you reach the door. He dangles the keys between his thumb and forefinger with a smile.


‘It’s all going to be okay.’ he says.


‘I love you Daddy.’ you say


He opens the door with the keycard and steps through.


A gloved hand forces a tazer against the side of his neck. You cannot see his face but he shudders and falls away, twitching and growling like a felled animal.


From the room ahead, a voice lilts forwards, amused and superior in tone.


‘What a pleasant surprise.’



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.


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.


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.


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.




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.

beauty, love, lust, sex, Sir, women

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.’

beauty, erotica, love, lust, sex, Sir, women

Fluid Magic – Sir 2.0

If you took one of the red gelatine capsules and pulled it apart, you would find nothing inside. The capsules are the smallest size available. They hold a capacity for 200mg, but for what Daddy is hoping to achieve, is almost infinite.

A nanobot is a robot in miniature. They measure 1000th of a micron, which is a 1000th of a milligram or millimetre.  There were 2000000 of them inside each capsule.

Each of them performs a series of specific tasks. They remained inert, floating in your bloodstream until a series of binary instructions,starting with a slap on a new-born’s ass.

Your orgasm when Daddy put his hand inside you was the catalyst.

The machines awoke, working to a set of instructions and moved out through your pores into the air and reproduced. They formed duplicates from the atoms around them and hung suspended in the air around you as Daddy held you in his arms, an invisible web of perfect purpose.

Their inertia was deliberate. Each of them held half of a series of commands, in themselves random and illogical strings of numbers, unless the other half of the equation applies to them.

The inert machines which live inside Daddy require an orgasm to kick start their engines, each of them holding half of the equation. No code is original, and the best ones steal from other, older programs to save time and make it more effective.

When you ask him what consequences he faces if he’s caught, he doesn’t tell you but he struggles to meet your gaze as he bites the inside of his cheek.

He takes your hands in his and kisses you, soft and gentle lips pressed against yours as his hands stroke along the pulse of your throat.

‘Traffic light?’ you say.

He grins and kisses you again.

‘Green, baby girl.’

You smile and gaze into his eyes.

‘Do I have permission to touch you, Daddy?’

He grins and sits on the couch, still warm from where you writhed with pleasure, both altar and goddess. He tells you yes. The permission is everything for you, not from weakness but from the strength to remain sourced in your surrender. To be acted upon, to channel the nurturing, wild feminine within you and have it flourish in your own liberation, temporal, spiritual and physical.

You tell him to lay back, straddling his shins as you run your fingers up the hard, furred planes of his stomach. The hair is soft beneath your fingertips set on a bed of taut muscle and he shudders with anticipation as you sigh with a deep, primal delight. You move your hands over his pectorals, pushing against the bars through his nipples and tugging on them with a light, deft pinch as he lifts his hips against you. You reach for the fly and your fingers shake with a nervy, ribald anticipation as you stroke the outline of his cock through the material where it lays to the left. He gazes into your eyes, letting you see his want and nerves firing and mingling within him. The teeth of his zipper part by degrees, the deliberate ease reflecting the portentous weight of the moment between you. The exchange of power between you has guided and nurtured you. Beneath his hands, Daddy has broken and rebuilt you, time and again, freeing you to take flight within yourself, away from the harsh light of reality.

There is adoration in his eyes as you reach into his fly and trace your fingers along his cock through his underwear. You raise yourself on your knees and lean forwards, tugging his trousers and underwear down as you hold his cock in your hands. Warm and febrile against your palm, it is an iron bar swathed in velvet, pulsing with arousal as you squeeze him there. You draw his foreskin back, teasing him with slow, limited strokes as you feel the pulse of his desire respond in time with your will. He asks you to raise up as he kicks off his trousers and underwear. You look to the bottle of lubricant, then back at him and he nods as you reach out to your right and grab the bottle. You upturn it and squirt a thick dollop of lubricant into the palm of your hand and apply a thick, even layer before you wrap your left hand around the base of his cock and with a worshipful regard, ease his foreskin downwards to uncover the swollen, glistening head of his cock.

You splay the fingers of your right hand, and lower your palm just above the engorged head of his cock. You brush your palm over the head in a light circling motion. He gasps and you stop but he nods his head, telling you to continue in a voice thick with awe and emotion. You massage the head of his cock with delicate brushes, adjusting your contact in line with his expression. His face is tight and he trembles against the power of your touch. It is intoxicating to have this power over him and how he gives it to you from a place of strength. He struggles to rein in his reactions, the increased sensitivity in his glans charging an impending orgasm which is yours to draw from him.

You take your left hand and stroke the puckered, tight skin of his scrotum, the swollen testicles throbbing at your touch as he growls with pleasure. His body is a perfect study in tension, muscles straining against his dark, furred skin. You circle your palm as you massage his testicles in small circular motions and the pumping pulse of his arousal grows in pace and rhythm. His cock is erect and throbbing, he trembles and there are tears in his eyes as he lays there, shuddering with the force of his arousal.

‘Baby girl.’

His voice is a rough whisper, punctuated by gasps of delight and you smile as you wrap your left hand around the base of his cock and keep circling your palm over the head as you massage him towards completion.

He bucks hard, back arching and hips punching upwards as you feel him shoot thick, hot come against the palm of your hand. The gelid, white strings of semen splash against your skin like egg whites and he comes in thick, powerful spurts as he cries out in an unhinged, animal roar of pleasure. You lick your palm clean, craving the texture and sweetness of his come as you gulp it down, the faint ammoniac smell contrasting with the sweetness and thickness of it on your tongue.  You swallow it down and exhale.

On your breath, the legions of machines, given life by his orgasm and information by yours fly into the air and you come up to hold him. He is flushed, eyes sparkling and mouth hung open. He does not move and his eyes stare out at nothing. You fight a sharp spike of fear which punches through your triumph as you rush to reassure him.

You say his name and he runs his tongue over his lips, before he gives a slow blink and you touch his cheek with your left hand.

‘Are you okay, Daddy?’

He nods, pulling you close and squeezing his eyes shut as he holds you. Being this close allows you to feel the subtle shuddering of his body and the hot splash of tears as he breathes in, deep and rasping as he holds you tight.

‘Yes, I am.’

You kiss him in pairs, one soft press of your lips against his face followed by a short, almost perfunctory kiss to finish it, the way you would place a period at the end of a sentence. You don’t want to leave him like this, but you’re aware the next stage requires theatrical separation whilst your actions weave their way through the software and hardware which allows Sir’s control of the world you inhabit.

He looks deep into your eyes.

‘When it falls apart, I will come find you.’

A brutal spasm of fearful, pre-emptive grief twists inside you but he shakes your head and pulls you tight.

He puts his mouth to your ear, tells you he loves you. You tell him back and he kisses you on the side of your head, tells you to be brave.

You leave, sticky and frightened, watching the lights which lead you back to your dormitory.

Waiting for things to fail.

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.


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.


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.