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.
