beauty, love, lust, poetry, sex, strength, women

Strength

My strength is not

Solely in service

To the movement

Of things thought

Immovable

Or to break the

Unbreakable

No, let me show

You how I can be gentle

With it in its depths

To open.

Dive into the ocean of you

Retrieve the treasure I saw

From the first

To engulf you with it

Wrists in my hands

Pinned and to fuck light

Into you

Until you bruise

With ripeness

To hold firm amidst the

Storm of you

And trust your flights away

Conclude in reunion

To teach you how to shudder

And get what you ask for

From me without concern

For the cares of others

To trust I give the good,deep ache

Over melancholic paper cuts

And photocopied mantras

Of arbitrary goodness

I tear, I break, I rip

Only to build something

Stronger

In

It’s

Place

Wear a braid

Imagine my hand on it

 

 

 

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beauty, love, lust, poetry, sex, women

Resumption of Purpose

Awash with

Tender fury

Daring to face impossible

Odds and armed with

Purpose. The world is not a

Prison but a playground

And I take your hands

Guide your steps

Dress you with words

Kiss you like I invented it

Pay attention with the

Force of gravity

I have stared into the world

And saw invitation

Over rejection and how

You call to me

As I build a new world

A warm, loving surrender

Wear something to show me

That you know the way

And walk to me

Slow or fast

But please be fast

I clench with want

At the sight of you

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beauty, love, lust, poetry, sex, women

The Thought, The Shape

Make the choice

Then all the others

Follow like birds flying south

Wearing the clothes I picked

Out and the accessories

Which form their own

Language

One of power

Pleasure

Surrender

A secret worn

Like the kisses

Bruises

I leave

I’m brute benevolence

Gentle directions

And against me

Dash yourself

Or curl around me

My fur is soft

Warm and beneath it

Strong flesh commanded by

The thought

The shape

Of

You

 

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

Drop (Sir 2.0)

It’s when you are away from Daddy which causes doubt and confusion. The tingling certainties are flushed from your system by the routines of waiting.

 

Ingrid puts down the book she’s reading when you’re sat together, you are laid on your bed, palms flat against your stomach and breathing through the restlessness.

 

‘Does he take care of the drop?’  

 

You turn onto your side and bring your knees up to your chest as you peer at her beneath your fringe.

 

‘Yes, he does.’

 

She leans forward, hugging her knees. There is a small red mark on her neck and the faint odour of antiseptic when she moves.

 

‘Do you think it’s real?’

 

The words are spittle on your cheek and you cannot avoid the affront of it. Your upper lip curls back over your teeth, the sting of implication hurts and all the more so when it strikes the soft, open places where Daddy leaves his mark. You turn away.

 

‘It’s his job.’

 

You lower your chin and mumble about being tired. You hear her come over and touch your shoulder.

 

‘I don’t say that to be cruel. When I’m with my master, it’s real but it’s why we come here.’

 

The phone beneath your pillow. The pea beneath the stack of mattresses and you feel it all the time. Not the phone itself but the connection. The subtle prohibition of contact outside the room is the end of the argument but telling Ingrid invites scrutiny you are better off without for now.

 

‘I don’t know. A lot of this is new to me, and I’ve chosen to forego certain things in order to have this.’

 

Your words are careful. You have less here, but also more. What life was before, away from here is something you know all too. The frenzied, packing prickling and the cynical walls between you and your happiness. Queen and subject in the same body, wrestled and opened then in the aftermath he holds you with the same fervour until you tingle for the aftercare as much as the sweeping, expansive symphony of his will and hands working in concert.

 

He hurts.

 

He heals.

 

A small, dark seed passes from Ingrid to you. The soil of disappointment suffocates everything but the toughest, gnarled weeds and there, they sprout with speed, hungry for the air of limited circumstances and disappointment.  You swallow without tasting and Ingrid hears her name called. You close your eyes against the small tight pebble of tension which rolls around the hollows of your eye sockets.

 

Your name calls you from a thin, restless sleep.

 

Your thoughts are chattering, dancing out of time with the normal flow of anticipation, sensation, affection and affirmation. Everything feels packed, jostling as you walk to the changing room.

 

You shower but the water falls like nails and you twist beneath the water, inflamed and irritated by ancient, nameless beasts of insecurity. The predators which you came here to escape from. 

 

A pink t shirt dress which falls to mid-thigh.

 

Black panties with dayglow stars in a constellation pattern across the back and a half cup bra underneath.

 

The path leads you but you’re shifting, restless and dark. You are on the verge of tears when you press your palm against the door and it opens onto Daddy stood over a black rectangular table, with holes inset at each corner. He wears a black t shirt which clings to his shoulders and across his chest. A fresh shave makes his cheeks and head glow. The smile on his face falls when he looks at you.

 

He takes you in his arms and the warm, soft rush of contact pinches you hard enough to cut your breath short.  Every cell hungers but your doubts are a thin, dark film over everything and tears won’t wash them away.  He holds you tight and strokes your hair but he stops and steps backwards.

 

‘Baby girl?’

 

You glance up at him, eyes blurred with tears as the anxiety clamps you between its teeth and shakes you like a rag doll.

 

‘Am I real to you?’

 

He furrows his forehead, jaw tight with tension as his arms fall by his side.

 

‘I mean, do you have this with the other ones you see? I wouldn’t be mad if you did Daddy but I need to know because –‘

 

The words lurch out, tender and squalling like sick baby birds fleeing the nest.

 

‘Traffic light?’

 

Saying green would be a lie but you’ve twisted yourself into a knot over this so tight you can’t fucking breathe.

 

‘Amber.’

 

He comes towards you, takes your hands in his and stares into your eyes. His luminous brown eyes, pools of gentle warm humour are harder and glistening like fresh scar tissue.

 

‘I don’t see anyone else.’

 

You look at him. The taut, lean body and his face. Glancing at his hands prompts a tiny apocalypse in your body each time you see him.

 

‘Don’t blow smoke up my ass, Daddy.’

 

He gestures to the door behind him.

 

‘You can log a complaint, see my client roster anytime, baby girl.’

 

His voice is hard, eyes flaring with assertion. The idea stabs at you and you shake your head from side to side.  You start to step away, shivering and upset.

 

Fucking Ingrid.

 

Fucking insecurities.

 

His hands stay down by his sides.

 

‘You can leave at any time, move to a different power exchange and see how you get on there.’

 

The hardness does not leave his voice but his eyes are soft.

 

‘If you feel I’m faking this, baby girl, then you should go and find something more authentic.’

 

Your eyes are itching with unshed tears as you lean forward, babbling against the tumult of fears and insecurities, a swarm of stinging insects vandalising the hive they’ve build in your soul.

 

‘I never said you were faking it, Daddy, but there are other exchanges going on..’

 

You move towards him. His hands come up and cup your face in his warm, rough hands. They smell of fresh coffee and vanilla and he whispers his thumbs over your cheekbones.

 

His eyes darken and he tells you in a low, gentle voice to get on the table. The hard light of surrender chases away the murk of anxiety and uncertainty but it does not defeat it. You flinch and he strokes your face.

 

‘Traffic light?’

 

You shiver and look towards the table. You can go back anytime you want, but you know the place too well to see it anew. He is not pleading or defending himself, splattering you with reason and logical arguments.

 

He is action, and just when you need it.

 

‘Green.’

 

You climb onto the table

 

 

 

 

 

 

M B Blissett
Show quoted text

It’s when you are away from Daddy which causes doubt and confusion.

Ingrid puts down the book she’s reading when you’re sat together, on your bed, palms flat against your stomach and breathing through the restlessness.

‘Does he take care of the drop?’

You turn onto your side and bring your knees up to your chest as you peer at her beneath your fringe.

‘Yes, he does.’

She leans forward, hugging her knees. There is a small red mark on her neck and the faint odour of antiseptic when she moves.

‘Do you think it’s real?’

The words are spittle on your cheek and you cannot avoid the affront of it. Your upper lip curls back over your teeth, the sting of implication hurts and all the more so when it strikes the soft, open places where Daddy leaves his mark. You turn away.

‘It’s his job.’

You lower your chin and mumble about being tired. You hear her come over and touch your shoulder.

‘I don’t say it to be cruel. When I’m with my master, its real, but it’s why we come here.’

The phone beneath your pillow. The pea beneath the stack of mattresses and you feel it all the time. Not the phone itself but the connection. The subtle prohibition of contact outside the room is the end of the argument but telling Ingrid invites scrutiny you are better off without for now.

‘I don’t know. A lot of this is new and I’ve chosen to forego certain things.’

Your words are careful. You have less here, but also more. What life was before, away from here is something you know all too. The frenzied, packing prickling and the cynical walls between you and your happiness. Queen and subject in the same body, wrestled and opened in the aftermath he holds you with the same fervour until you tingle for the aftercare as much as the sweeping, expansive symphony of his will and hands working in concert.

He hurts.

He heals.

A small, dark seed passes from Ingrid to you. The soil of disappointment suffocates everything but the toughest, gnarled weeds and there, they sprout with speed, hungry for the air of limited circumstances and disappointment.  You swallow without tasting and Ingrid hears her name called. You close your eyes against the small tight pebble of tension which rolls around the hollows of your eye sockets.

Your name calls you from a thin, restless sleep.

Your thoughts are chattering, dancing out of time with the normal flow of anticipation, sensation, affection and affirmation. Everything feels packed, jostling as you walk to the changing room.

You shower but the water falls like nails and you twist beneath the water, inflamed and irritated by ancient, nameless beasts of insecurity. The predators which you came here to escape from.

A pink t-shirt dress which falls to mid-thigh.

Black panties with dayglow stars in a constellation pattern across the back and a half cup bra underneath.

The path leads you but you’re shifting, restless and dark. You are on the verge of tears when you press your palm against the door and it opens onto Daddy stood over a black rectangular table, with holes inset at each corner. He wears a black t-shirt which clings to his shoulders and across his chest. A fresh shave makes his cheeks and head glow. The smile on his face falls when he looks at you. A cabinet stands to the right, made from black hardwood, closed to you.

As you feel to him.

He takes you in his arms and the warm, soft rush of contact pinches you hard enough to cut your breath short.  Every cell hungers but your doubts are a thin, dark film over everything and tears won’t wash them away.  He holds you tight and strokes your hair but he stops and steps backwards.

‘Baby girl?’

You glance up at him, eyes blurred with tears as the anxiety clamps you between its teeth and shakes you like a rag doll.

‘Am I real to you?’

He furrows his forehead, jaw tight with tension as his arms fall by his side.

‘I mean, do you have this with the other ones you see? I wouldn’t be mad if you did Daddy but I need to know because–‘

The words lurch out, tender and squalling like sick baby birds fleeing the nest.

‘Traffic light?’

Saying green would be a lie but you’ve twisted yourself into a knot over this so tight you can’t breathe.

‘Amber.’

He comes towards you, takes your hands in his and stares into your eyes. His luminous brown eyes, pools of gentle warm humour are harder and glistening like fresh scar tissue.

‘I see no one else.’

You look at him. The taut, lean body and his face. Glancing at his hands prompts a tiny apocalypse in your body each time you see him.

‘Don’t blow smoke up my ass, Daddy.’

He gestures to the door behind him.

‘You can log a complaint, see my client roster anytime, baby girl.’

His voice is hard, eyes flaring with assertion. The idea stabs at you and you shake your head from side to side.  You step away, shivering and upset.

Fucking Ingrid.

Fucking insecurities.

His hands stay down by his sides.

‘You can leave, move to a different power exchange and see how you get on there.’

The hardness does not leave his voice but his eyes are soft.

‘If you feel I’m faking this, baby girl, then you should find something more authentic.’

Your eyes are itching with unshed tears as you lean forward, babbling against the tumult of fears and insecurities, a swarm of stinging insects vandalising the hive they’ve built in your soul.

‘I never said you were faking it, Daddy, but there are other exchanges going on..’

You move towards him. His hands come up and cup your face in his warm, rough hands. They smell of fresh coffee and vanilla and he whispers his thumbs over your cheekbones.

His eyes darken and he tells you in a low, gentle voice to get on the table. The hard light of surrender chases away the murk of anxiety and uncertainty but it does not defeat it. You flinch and he strokes your face.

‘Traffic light?’

You shiver and look towards the table. You can go back anytime you want, but you know the place too well to see it anew. He is not pleading or defending himself, splattering you with reason and logical arguments.

He is action, and just when you need it.

‘Green.’

You climb onto the table. The hem of your t-shirt dress rides up your backside and you go to tug it down but Daddy takes a slow appreciative intake of breath. The response is visceral, and a thin, hot wire of desire cauterizes the doubt for a second. You turn and lay on your back, resting on your elbows as he walks over to you.

‘Lay down with your arms above your head.’

His voice is firm but playful as you tingle with surrender.

You stretch out and he walks around you. The lights dim around you as he goes to the cabinet and opens the doors. He comes back with three pairs of restraints, Velcro cuffs with lengths of black elastic trailing off them and a blindfold.

He wraps one pair of cuffs around each wrist and loops the elastic down through the holes in the  upper corners of the table.  Your heart thumps in your chest, tasting adrenaline and nerves on your tongue but already feeling a slow, rolling build up of moist arousal deep in the heart of your pelvis.

‘Traffic light?’

You gaze at him but he does not smile.

‘Green.’

He nods and walks down to the other end of the table, affixes a cuff to each of your ankles and repeats the process. He adjusts the tension, using your expression as a barometer of intent before he stands back and admires his work. He pushes your thighs apart and looks at you, the material over your crotch is damp, making your thighs oiled with arousal. The t-shirt has ridden up your hips and he steps forwards, smooths it down your stomach and gives you a smile of quiet reassurance as he strokes your stomach and gazes into your eyes. He strokes your hair and breathes with you before he glances down the length of you, restrained and displayed, a banquet for his attention with no awareness of his appetite or capacity beyond experience.

He holds the blindfold over you, allowing you to see it and reading your face for any expression of discomfort.

‘Traffic light?’

‘Green.’

He drapes it over your eyes and the warm, complete black drops you into another dimension of sensation.  You hear the clip of his feet and you yelp when his hands rest on the waistband of your panties. His fingers trace along a seam and you lift your hips to accommodate him but he presses his palm against your stomach and pushes you down. Both hands gather at the seam like conspirators, bunching the material between his fists as he tears them off your ass. You writhe with surprise.

‘Hold still.’

You obey him and he pushes your thighs apart.

‘Ready for more, baby girl?’

You nod with a clumsy enthusiasm, salivating with excitement as he grazes his fingertips down the ripe curve of your pussy.

‘I know I make you a little crazy but it’s natural.’

His hand cracks against your pussy, a slap which makes you yelp and buck against your restraints. His breathing deepens and grows thick as the intimate, tender pain sets you reeling with its argument.

‘Can you handle more?’

You nod but he remains silent and still.

‘Yes Daddy, I can. I’m being a good girl.’

He smacks you again, the sting is sublime, and the rough strength of his hand against you makes you tender to everything. You arch your back, thirsting for the uncomplicated bliss of his hurt. It is not pain without context, when he removes his hand, the throbbing rush makes you wet and tender as you rub your thighs together, using the friction to heighten the sensation. You take to his hand like its purpose. It is less complicated than obligation and propriety. You are surfing a wave of intimate pain, every pore a choirboy singing to the surrounding universe. He comes up and strokes your face.

‘Traffic light?’

You whisper, blessed out and exhausted.

‘Green.’

He unwraps your wrists, massaging the flesh between his thumb and forefinger before he leans over and kisses you on the forehead.

‘You took it like a good girl.’

Your head is full and empty, cleansed of doubt and alive to everything. You reach up and touch him. Your hand trembles where you touch him, and he smiles at you. His soft, full lips are curved in a smile and you reach up, pulling him down to you. His lips graze over yours and you kiss, propelled by sheer hunger for the fragile treasure of his mouth against yours. When you draw back, you feel electrified, soft and free again.

‘I did Daddy.’

He reaches over and unwraps the cuffs on your ankles and slips his hands under the backs of your knees, lifting them as he gazes into your eyes and draws you forward.

‘Traffic light?’

You shudder, breathless with anticipation as he turns his mouth against the inside of your thigh. His mouth is soft and languid as he kisses downwards, breathing in through his nose as he tastes your skin with an intense, bold concentration. When you look down, his eyes are on you and the tickle of his breath against your pussy, tender from his discipline makes your spine uncoil with sublime sensation. He turns his face towards you, and licks upwards in a hungry, slow sweeping motion. You cry out as the tip of his rough, warm tongue circles around your tender, pulsing clit and when his fingers dabble around the first inch of your vagina, the heightened sensations are unequivocal and undeniable. It is not instant, but his control and your surrender are conspirators in your pleasure. You ask him for permission to come and he shakes his head no, lips and cheeks shining with your arousal.

‘Please Daddy.’

He lowers his mouth back to you and you reach for him, clutching with need as he teases delicate patterns of wonder with his lips and tongue. You catch the mingled scent of your musk and his, the pheromone symphony of fuck as you press against his face, free to be greedy with pleasure as you move against his face, asking him for permission to come. He denies you a second time and you turn your face, shutting your eyes as a brutal wave of pleasure washes you away.

Third time is the charm. He whispers his assent, an amused consideration which sends you reeling as you relinquish the last notions of your anxieties and doubts. You dive into the ocean of you, and he is the undercurrent, the bedrock and all things between. You grind yourself against his mouth and the first signs of the impending orgasm arrive in hard, expanding bursts of joy. You cling to him and force everything within you, salt and sweet, hard and soft into him.

Daddy can take it. So can you.

Your vision blurs and your temples throb. The absence is as overwhelming as the totality of your orgasm and he is there, wrapping you up in his arms and pressing you against his chest. Tears fall but he kisses them away without seeking to resolve them past falling. You whisper in his ear.

‘I’m sorry Daddy.’

He keeps hold of you, stroking your hair as you plant clumsy, joyous kisses all over his face. The perfume of your orgasm is sticky like wild honey on his face, and you lose yourself in the comfort he offers you.

‘There’s nothing to forgive. I can tell you all day about how I am, who I am baby girl.’

You take his face in your hands and the love crushes and rebuilds you in the same perfect moment.

‘I love you Daddy. I’m sorry‘

He puts his finger to your lips and shakes his head.

‘But I’d rather show you. Which is what I need to tell you.’

He starts to whisper and you squeeze him close, and what he tells you is terrifying and thrilling.

A way out. Together.

M B Blissett
Show quoted text

Standard
beauty, love, lust, poetry, sex, women

Wrestling

Underneath me

Legs and arms locked
The slapping hum of bodies
In motion
Opening you with my strength
Deep as breath
Taste you on my lips
The bright wonder shining
And how I wrestle
Doubt into
Not submission
But surrender
Say my name
For the sheer volume
Throb of it
Fuck the doubt from you
With just a look
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beauty, love, lust, poetry, sex, women

Elements of Light

I carry love

In my pockets

A sense of self

Opposite side

To my wallet

Travel and live light

But I am planted

Long thick branches

To shelter under

Rough, warm bark

Sap as sweet as

Candy

Of earth and sky

Lit from within

And flowing through

The toughest parts

I

Make

You

Swim, dig, burn, gush with feeling

Nothing you can find the

Receipt for

But I never take the gift of me back

It only becomes unwelcome

By virtue of

A horrible victory

Rather than the bliss of

Surrender

 

 

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beauty, love, lust, sex, Sir, women

Breathe (Sir 2.0)

You dream of him.

The remnants cling onto you as you wake. His rough, strong hands search out the hot, perpetual ache within you and crack the clay over your soul with their knowing, focused touch.

You see his gentle eyes and full lips, sometimes bruising and urgent with want or considerate and placid in the aftermath.   You awake with the taste of him on your lips and you run your tongue over them, committing the tang of him to memory.

You hear your name whilst you finish the ramshackle sewing project. Your hands shake and you drop the needle onto the table. In the excitement, you stab the tip of your index finger and a small spot of blood wells up. You suckle on it as you dash to follow the blinking path of lights. Your stomach aches with the pleasant pang of anticipation and when the shower room opens, you dash inside, peeling off the sweatshirt and track pants. Your skin feels new and hungry, tingling with a charge the hot water does not touch. You soap yourself up, gasping when you wash between your legs, throbbing with anticipation at the thought of seeing him again.

You find a white shirt on a hanger. The dimensions of it are familiar and when you slip it on, the cuffs lurch over your hands and the collar is ludicrous around the neck. It is cotton and linen fibres, soft and gentle against your skin but it carries the faint musk of wear. You bring it to your nose and inhale, closing your eyes as a slow, deliberate heat rises inside you like a campfire on a summer night at the beach. The appetite for him has grown.

The underwear is black silk, fringed with lace and cut high at the waist. It feels wonderful against your skin, a slick, gentle kiss which rasps with delight where it clings to you. You button up the shirt on and it hangs to your thighs. Heels are next, black Manholos which lengthen your legs. You wonder if he chooses the things he wears.

A full length mirror shows you the answer.

The trail of lights leads you further than before. You don’t know how big this building is and the bonds of power keep you to a few locations even as his touch, his attention sets you free beyond anything you’ve known before. You have power and agency, and surrender reinforces it. The palm reader which tingles against your hand. Your knees are hollow and trembling, a feverish anticipation which tingles across your skin like a spring shower.

A bedroom. The four poster bed dominates the room. It is a charcoal sketch made tangible, distressed, lacquered black hardwood with brass panels inset into the teak base. The walls are purple and to your left, a docking station sits on a small lacquered hardwood table. Wireless round speakers sit either side of it, resembling a series of cubes

Daddy sits cross legged on the bed, wearing just a pair of black trousers. He grins at you with such warmth it makes your head swim.

‘Hey little girl.’

You blush and grin back at him. He gets onto his knees and picks up a small remote, points it at the docking station and the speakers

The music starts, the metallic clink of a synthesizer and the confident low voice, youthful without being sharp.

‘The club isn’t the best place to find a lover..’

He sits on the edge of the bed, places his palms either side and lifts his chin.

‘Traffic light?’

A squall of nerves runs across your skin. The music continues and you glance at him, the question apparent in your eyes as he leans back. The lighting here is soft, indirect and you stare at the sleek, dark hair on his chest and the ridges of muscle in his shoulders and down his arms press against his olive skin. You want to stroke through the hair on his chest, but you want to be a good girl for him. His displeasure excites you, sourced in warmth but still capable of pushing your limits.

‘Amber. What do you want me to do, Daddy?’

He gestures towards the stereo on the wall as his eyes take you in. His full lips curve in a smile and his eyes darken with lust.

‘Dance for me.’

You ask him if he can start the song again. He raises his eyebrows and points the remote at the docking station.  You slip the shoes off and he chuckles.

‘Those are Manolo Blahnik you’re not wearing, little girl.’

You giggle and wriggle your toes against the thick carpet.

‘Oh Daddy, I’d dance like a baby bird in these but they are beautiful shoes.’

You bring your hands above your head, fingers in your hair and pout. You’re working from a body of memories and experiences, rejecting what feels awkward and trusting to the music, as it illuminates and invigorates you. He sits with his thighs open, you turn so you are sideways to him as you sidle forwards, hips moving to the music as you mouth the lyrics whilst you gaze into his eyes. He shifts and you can see the outline of his cock through his trousers as a flush of blood creeps up his throat and his breathing deepens as you step between his open thighs. His hands reach out to brush up the length of your thigh and you pull back, shaking your head.

‘No touching, Daddy, those are the rules.’

He sits back, eyes narrowed as he tilts his head to one side.

‘Not my rules, little girl, but I’ll allow it.’

You keep yourself attuned to the rhythm. You look into his eyes as you slide the meat of your thigh against the soft bulk of his crotch, angling your hips so you brush along the length of his cock through the material. He growls and pushes forward, but you step backwards and turn your back to him, dipping down and pushing your backside where your thigh has been. You make a small circle, massaging him before stepping away. He gets up to follow you but you shake your head and pout at him.

‘Daddy.’

You say it in a sing-song voice and he sits back down, inhaling through his nose as you come back to him.

His reaction inflames you and you come back to him, unbuttoning the shirt to the collarbone and showing the outline of the bra as you dip at the waist and flip your hair. A squall of self-consciousness fires up but you dance past it.

Through it.

You lean into his space. The heat comes off him in febrile waves and you dance closer. Your nails rake down the planes of his chest, the dark curls of fur are soft against your nails and you enjoy the sigh of contentment he gives. His hands come over yours as the song finishes and he pulls you onto his lap. You sit on his lap and stroke his face, running a fingertip down the cleft in his chin as his hand slips up under the back of your shirt.

‘Did you like that, Daddy?’

He smiles and unbuttons the rest of your shirt, stroking your stomach then upwards as his fingers dabble in the hollow of your throat.

‘Yes I did.’

Your heart races as you feel his fingers dance across the line of your throat. The pads of his fingers rest against your pulse. You close your fingers over his and, driven by the simple urge to feel his power and to give him your own, you press down. On his lap, you straddle him and his other hand slips under the waistband of your panties and strokes the base of your spine before he smoothes his palm until it rests on your navel. You push against his hands, and his right hand slips inside your underwear, petting the ripe curve of your pussy as he rests the tips of his fingers against your arteries.

‘Traffic light?’

He puts no pressure on your windpipe as he watches you. His attention is powerful, intoxicating, the absorption and intensity of an animal without a loss of control. You wonder if his stoicism would prove maddening but he shows himself in slices, and you have taken him out of his armour more than once.

‘Green.’

The fingers of his right hand close on your arteries whilst his other hand cups your pussy, the tip of his index finger draws back the hood of your clit with the lightest brush. A pounding begins in your temples as he brushes around your clit. The muscles in your thighs tighten as you bear his gaze whilst you reach out and hold his face in your hands as you lift yourself up on your toes and press against him. Your vision wavers at the edges, like changing the reels of celluloid in a picture and the shudder shoots down your spine, riding the electric wave of sensation and deprivation into the pooling, seething bolus of ecstasy building in your pelvis.

‘Traffic light?’

You whimper, finding it difficult to think past the perfect storm of deprivation and sensation he wields within you. His hand inside your panties grows bold, lubricated by the thick mineral oil of your arousal as his touch strengthens and a finger slides inside you. The delicious pressure continues into every sinew and fibre of you as you feel the sentiment floating before you, almost out of reach.

‘Green.’

His fingers close on your throat as he pulls on your throbbing clit between his thumb and forefinger whilst his other finger is hooked upwards, undulating against the rough swollen patch of tissue. Layers of sensation build within you. You go limp in the face of such a powerful confluence of feeling and he lightens his grip on your throat as you suck in a deep, greedy breath. You prickle with guilt and unease away from him, but in his hands, you are broken and remade anew. Malleable flesh which reflects the internal conflict, and all your power to wield or gift as you need to.  You shake your head, compelled towards a fullness as you push down, shaking with the need for fullness as his other hand denies you breath.

You take flight without lifting from the ground. You try to ask for permission but your words slip from your grasp as you hump his fingers, urgent and ungainly but propelled into a hot, wet oblivion. His fingers let go of your throat but you carry on driving yourself onto his fingers.

‘Please Daddy please Daddy.’

Your body rages with a need which wrenches you from the fear, the uncertainty and into a state of sublime release. He breaks you with pleasure and you ride him to the world’s ending as you spit out a plea for absolution.

‘Yes, baby girl.’

Your eyes roll back in your head, all the pressure of release shoots out through every pore, nerves singing in perfect harmony as the crude pressure explodes inside you and you slip away, chased into euphoric oblivion.

You are not there long, but part of you remains there. At a remove, you feel his hands come away, replaced by his arms as he pulls you into his arms. The robust insistent strength becomes a firm, tender embrace as he strokes your hair and tells you everything is okay.

You don’t realise you are crying until you feel the hot splash of tears rolling down your cheeks. Every muscle in your body aches and you’re sensitive to everything. You imagine a dandelion, afloat on the breeze, fragile in its grace and propelled to destiny. You wrap yourself around him, dishevelled, damp and  triumphant.

He pulls you onto the bed as you continue to cling onto him and he lays down with you on top of him. He strokes your hair, unfazed by the sudden outpouring of emotion and the harder you squeeze him, test him, the more he remains present with you. You try to make conversation, to offer him something beyond the act, but he reassures you can just be. You drift off into a sleep as deep as anything you’ve known.

The last thing you hear is him speaking.

‘I want to take you out of here.’

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