beauty, men, poetry, women


I’m dark celebration

Bright lament

Quiet and low

Rich fertile soil

The kind I lay you down to

Fuck upon

Nothing much

To say and the words

Are how I reach across

The sky

Saying hello

Toeing the dirt with

The tip of my travelling shoe

See you and tell you my stories

When it pleases us both

To do so

I struggle to be

Polite with you

Rough hands see you

And call you home

So this is me

Just a man



Walking around

Building a better world

A bigger playground

And seeing who comes



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.


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.


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.


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.’

beauty, love, lust, poetry, sex, women


Stripped of everything

Including civility

I’m speaking in acts

The words have done

Their work and retreat

Against the urgency

Of you

Only you

Hem lifted

Underwear torn away

Things I would apologize

For if I thought it

Necessary but

How your eyes shine

A little fear,

A lot of want,

You may not see the



But feel it

Hard, bright and beautiful


Trembling thighs apart

As my fingers find you

Obeying my only rule

Feed me with your eyes

The honey on my fingers

Tastes as sweet as it feels

And even my caveat

Of asking permission

Is a route to

pulsing surrender

Watching sunsets explode

In your eyes

Breaking and


Say my name

As my actions

Gift feeling

Better stronger and more

Than anything

You’ve known



beauty, love, lust, poetry, sex, women

kisses on new skin


Let my frankness

Speak but my body

Reacts faster to you

Than I can write

And a heat uncoils

Lends me velocity of

Thought in the way

We wonder how we keep up

But we do

And I am halfway between

Angel and animal with you

Lust as the breaking of thirst

Have me fill you

Until you break


And understand

I will remake you

Anew in the

Forge garden kitchen

Of my fuck

And kisses on the new skin

You wear after I’ve fucked

The clay to dust and spat

Inspiration into every

Cell of you

beauty, love, lust, poetry, sex, women

Breath Has No Doubt

No doubts

About the trust

As my hands find

Where you breathe

Surrender and find

What freedom feels like

Take the ride

To wet, shuddering liberation

Fuck the sheets to sodden rags

Underneath us

And I whisper

How I want to

Fit my hand inside you

Not to shock or frighten you

Because the only thing which

Does is for you to

Never know

The depths of my ravishment

To smell my fur on the breeze

And you to water

Slick with want

Ready to know what

Angels whisper

In their throes

of pleasure

Your eyes grow wide

Plead for liberation

I can no more stop

Than I could cease






beauty, creative writing, fiction, short fiction, time, women


I keep the tables clean. No one lacks for a napkin when Mike does his shift, no, sir. I keep watch without staring and remember to keep the tail of my shirt tucked in. I find laces difficult so I have these big Velcro straps and I love the ripping sound they make.

They sound like a big fart and I can spend hours just pulling the strap off so I can hear the big, raspy tear of them.

Mom says she should have buckled down and made me learn laces because at least it was quiet. The trainers have big thick soles on them so I can be on my feet all day and it doesn’t hurt. Iris, who does a few shifts with me, she wears special shoes, ortho something because she had a car crash and it hurt her back. I tell her she has a pretty smile and she says it’s the pain pills but it makes her happy so I tell her every day.

Oscar is at the register with his yellow tongue poking out the corner of his mouth as he rings up an order. He has a big shiny head and a bigger, but not shiny stomach. He gave me a job because Mom asked him to, but I work hard when I am here.

Mom says the key to success is showing up and working hard, but I keep doing that and the door stays locked. We sit in our small apartment, at a small table and eating small dinners but she believes in things being bigger and better as time goes on. Last night we had some of the Salisbury steaks which Oscar gave to me along with the money and tips I earned from the shift. Small things but it was nice of him to do. It tasted of wool but it made our money last a little longer.

Made it bigger.

I like Sunday mornings. All the families come in from church for breakfast. I like it when people dress up and they carry the glow from singing about God and Baby Jesus. I go home with less in my pocket than on a normal shift, but they’re nicer people and I feel better for making sure they eat at clean tables. It’s busy with happy smiling people and laughter dances through the sky when they’re here. It feels more like church than church does.

There’s a new couple here today. They arrived before church ended, a man and a woman. He’s tall, stooped over like he’s trying to hide how tall he is and he has a suit on, which is normal for a Sunday here. He doesn’t smile much, but he looks around and takes everything in with eyes which are cold but not cruel. Sometimes you see people who have so much hurt they need to share, but he looks like he’s expecting something bad to happen.

She’s shorter, red hair and moves like a pair of scissors crossing. Snip snack as her heels hit the floor. They look like they’re selling something but they don’t have briefcases as they come in and take a corner booth. Iris takes their order, and I am wiping a table down whilst glancing in their direction.

‘It’s too open here.’ The woman says.

The man sighs and checks the watch on his wrist. It’s too big for his wrist, held on by a worn leather wristband and there’s no numbers on there, just lights blinking on and off.

‘Eighty two percent says it’s here. Stop worrying.’

His voice is smooth like he’s reading aloud from a book he’s read before. The woman looks past him, glaring at me until my cheeks burn red and I return to cleaning the table.

‘Like I said, too open. Should have run this through a few more times before we turned up.’

He sighs and sits back. There’s something behind his ear, like a piece of jewellery and he touches it with his index finger.

‘We’ve got time for breakfast at least.’

She frowns and shakes her head. I look at the clock.

Church finishes in twenty minutes. Iris has given Oscar the order. Two specials with coffee. Oscar has the grill running before dawn, so it won’t take long until they are ready.

Time enough for what?

Mom doesn’t like me watching the news. I get upset when there’s bad stuff happening. If a kid gets hurt or animals, I fight tears and sometimes she has to find my blanket and hold me until it passes but I know things. Bad things happen and there’s nothing we can do to stop them.

I wonder if there’s a bad thing coming here. On a Sunday. Will it be taking a booth and ordering a coffee?

Are they the bad thing coming?

I look around me. Oscar is sweating behind the grill, Iris is taking a pair of plates full with gleaming eggs and bacon over to them and I am wiping the table.

The door swings open and Kenny Ambrose comes in.

Kenny’s face looks like someone filled a balloon and stuck another balloon over it with a picture of his face on. His eyes are too big and white for his sockets and what teeth he has are small and yellow and are loose in his gums. Kenny doesn’t have a mother to make sure he cleans his teeth, but as he opens the stained, torn overcoat, I see he has something else.

A shotgun. It looks mean and ugly, a blunt snout where he has sawn the barrel off and he swings it in front of him. There are five of us in here, and church gets out in fifteen minutes. Iris is putting their plates in front of them.

Kenny and I were in the same classes at school. The eldest kids because school was something we never grasped, like trying to knit with boxing gloves on. I tried but Kenny doubled down, huffing at recess and drifting further out from the centre of the world.

He has battered sneakers on, the laces are grey and dusted with tiny tufts and the ends had frayed into puffs of material like nylon dandelions as he shuffled forwards, terrified and angry at the same time. The skin around his mouth is wet and red like bubble gum chewed too long. He stinks of old sweat and metals as he points the gun right at me. The end of it is a black metal zero, there are rough edges where the hacksaw slipped and they look like petals on some horrible flower.

The couple in the booth watch it all happen with an open and terrible interest.

‘Register.’ Kenny said.

Oscar keeps his hands up as he comes around the counter. Iris is shaking, and me?

I look at him and see his eyes rolling in their sockets. He isn’t a bad person, he gets frustrated because the world is too fast for people like us. It’s why we keep things small.

Kenny hurts because he wants to be bigger.

Oscar opens the register and Kenny walks over to him lowering the shotgun as his forehead drips sweat.

I look down and see the stray lace slip under the heel of his sneaker, tugging to the right.

I try to call out but he lurches to his right, the shotgun turns in his hands from where he’s sweating and he keeps falling.

His head slams against the corner of the table with a damp crack sound, like breaking the shell on a boiled egg and the shotgun turns in his hands.

I look straight into the big black zero.

It rushes up to swallow me and I think about Mum, Iris and Oscar. Looking up, I see the couple stood up in the booth, they have smiles of awe and the look reaches into me, fills me up with a charging, rolling power. My left hand comes out with a will of its own, slaps the barrel away with a flare of pain for my trouble.

The shot takes out the window and Iris screams.

I put my hands over my ears and look at Kenny as a pool of blood spreads out underneath him and his lips pull back over his teeth as he looks back at me.

He looks smaller now and I get down on my knees next to him.

‘Oh Kenny, you didn’t tie your laces.’

He stares at me, trying to figure out what happened before his eyes roll back in his head and he falls asleep. It looks like it aside from the blood on the lino underneath him.

The couple watch from the booth, and I try not to look at them. I cry because Kenny was like me, or could be if his mom had been around.

It becomes a loud, nasty circus with the churchgoers upset they can’t have breakfast. It upsets me too until I see the couple in the booth slip out to the parking lot. I run after them, and no one stops them.

They’re at their car. It looks new and I can see my face in the windshield: bloated and sweating but smiling.

‘You knew, didn’t you?’

The blonde chuckled and shook her head but the man turns and looks down at me with a quiet pride in his eyes. People don’t look at me like I matter, but this is what I imagine it feels like.

‘We pick up on anomalies. You don’t know what those are though, but yes, we knew something would happen.’

I look between them.

‘Kenny died.’ I said.

He smiles and reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket, retrieves a small silver pin and affixes it to the collar of my shirt.

‘You stopped him. This is a reward for it.’

I touch it and it hums against my fingers. It’s not frightening: more like a baby bird or a small insect but I put my hand back in my pocket, still confused.

‘What does it do?’

He smiles and pats me on the shoulder.

‘You’ll know when the time comes’

The woman rolls her eyes as she opens the passenger side door.

‘You’re such a ham, Ryan.’

Ryan smiles at me and gets behind the wheel of the chair. They drive off, the engine is silent and I stand there in the sunshine, my heart thumping in my chest.

Everything is too big to think about, so I go back inside and see if anyone needs help.


Uncategorized, Sir, beauty, love

Sir 2.0 Interlude Part 2.

The skin on your forearms prickles with apprehension, raising knots of gooseflesh which you try to smooth out with your palm. In the twilight, Sir’s eyes gleam with a cold, amused appraisal.

‘You were expecting someone else?’

You shake your head no, cautious and defiant as you stare across the room. He sits alone and the silence he wields stirs your stomach with its focus.

‘You’re not getting the benefit of my discipline today.’

A whispered thank you be the safest recourse for you.

Questions bubble up at the back of your throat, a carbonated silvered rush of withheld desire which has found solace in the rough care of Daddy.

‘There are boundaries here. For your wellbeing. We are explorers on the sea of desire, and it is important to define where safe harbour lies.’

Your heart thumps against your ribs and you wipe your palms against the thighs of your slacks.

‘Do you understand?’

You nod.

‘In laboratory tests, they exposed rodents to doses of cocaine through depressing a small lever. The rodents gave up food, water, even breeding for another hit.’

The implication strikes across your forebrain like indignant lightning. His eyes thirst for a reaction and you keep your face still as he continues.

‘The bonds of pain and pleasure are indistinguishable and addictive without cause. A shitty or clumsy dominant, a confused or uncertain submissive can lead to more harm than good. Do you understand?’

You nod. Caution keeps you present, a perfect bulwark against a vague suspicion.

‘Good. It is why we limit communication and connection, which might seem counter-intuitive but it is for your well being.’

You will yourself not to think of the phone. He leans forward and a smirk makes his upper lip curl in amused curiosity.

The moment hangs suspended. There is no sound beyond the thump of your heart, the rhythm of your breath as you keep the motion even.

He sits back in the chair.

‘If you exceeded those boundaries, you are risking yourself.’

The risk with Daddy is in his absence but you keep it to yourself.  You nod with understanding and he sighs, disappointed by your compliance.

‘You’ve been quiet.’

You run your tongue over your lips and he blinks, raking his fingers through his hair before he smiled and cocked his head to one side.

‘Permission to speak.’

You lower your eyes, shifting from one foot to another.

‘I’ve been good.’

You want to ask where Daddy is, humming with anticipation.

‘You can go.’

You walk out of the chamber. When you are back on your single bed, with the lights out and the blankets turned into sky and shelter and the phone, warm in your hand are you allowed to feel without caveat. Your fingers dance over the screen, shaking with need.


The phone is silent. Your eyelids are heavy and you slip it underneath your pillow. A small hum travels through the material and you slip the phone out, feverish with need and see the envelope icon spinning in three dimensions.


The excitement is palpable and your skin tingles with anticipation as you bring your knees up to your chest and try to follow his command.


The trail of lights snakes down the corridor, blinking in rapid patterns. The coconut and cinnamon wash sits in its dispenser next to bottles of shampoo, conditioner, a glass flute of perfume which smells like bergamot, lavender and irises. A white man’s dress shirt with starched collar and cuffs drapes from a coat hanger along with a pair of black silk panties and a matching bra with lace edging. The black heels slip onto your bare feet like a delicious punch line and you turn in the full length mirror, getting used to the ache and the visual enjoyment in how they lengthen your legs.  You dry and brush your hair, apply the make up and look at yourself with a quiet, thrumming pleasure. The excitement pools in the heated, hollow places of your body, every nerve at attention as you prepare yourself.

It is excitement which illuminates you, more than the clothes or the cosmetics.

Messages of prohibition and expectation are a constant litany but your body makes a compelling argument in opposition.

The path of lights blinks in time with your heartbeat as you walk along the corridor.

The door opens with a pneumatic hiss and you step inside.

A leather and chrome couch with tables set on either side, lit from above by single diffused lamps set into the ceiling, the lights changing colour and texture on a random cycle of filters.

‘Did you have to say you were sick?’

Daddy’s voice is cautious but you smile and shake your head.

‘No, but I don’t know who the girl was, Daddy.’

You hear the pad of his footsteps.

The clean coffee-musk smell of his skin makes your mouth water and you force yourself to remain still. Your excitement is an invitation to misbehave and the memory of how he deals with your infractions makes your head swim with lust. There is concern for who this woman is, what does she mean to Daddy and the burbling, turbulent stream of anxiety charges through your veins like fire. His hand caresses your cheek, the rough-soft brush of his palm against the curve of your cheekbone makes you sigh with comfort. He brings his face close to yours, eyes glittering with desire and a warm, careful regard.

‘It’s better for now you don’t. You can’t betray someone if you don’t know who they are.’

You revolt at the use of the word betrayal.

‘What is going on here?’

He rests his forehead against yours and puts his left hand on the curve of your hip. Your skin is warm through the shirt, craving his firm, gentle touch as you close the space between you. His arms wrap around you and you turn your head to rest your cheek on the soft fur of his chest. His fingers stroke the hair on your head and he kisses the crown of your head.

‘Do you want to get out?’

You shudder and grip him, your hands slide up the taut planes of his lower back along to where his back flares out, the muscle full and strong beneath the skin. His lips are soft against the line of your neck and the hot intake of breath through his nose as he smells your hair and pushes against you. A thigh slips between yours as his fingers bite into the meat of your buttocks, pressing through the silk of your panties.  His urgency is apparent in his actions.

‘Not if it means leaving you.’

Your hoarse whisper makes him buck against you, his fingers in your hair pulling a handful firm against your scalp as your mouths find one another. The edges of his front teeth brush against your lower lip and you protrude it forwards, scrabbling for the release of pressure, hurt, anything to feel his attention turned into tangible. His hands remain at your head and on your backside as you rub against one another. He trembles with a withheld urgency as you feel the roar of his breath, the fierce engine of his heartbeat thrumming through his broad chest, conducted through contact into yours. He pulls your hair tight and the flash of pain makes your eyes widen with sensation as you dig your fingers into his back. The primal gravity of his desire makes you both careless, but his hold on you is absolute and you twist against one another until your head pounds with want.

He pulls your head back, firm but careful as he kisses down the line of your neck. His mouth is an insistent verse, a symphony of lips and tongue honed into a single act, to show how the absence has left its mark on him. The ache in your scalp, the dull pleasant marks of where his fingers have bit into you are not wounds or scars but badges of honour as you curl yourself around him. His other hand slides from the small of your back under the shirt over the soft swell of your stomach. His fingertips graze over your navel and then slide past the waistband of your panties. You bloom with a tropical heat between your thighs as his fingers follow the ripe curve of your pussy and ease forwards, coaxing the labia apart and stroking you as a ball of pressure builds in the pit of your stomach, charging outwards from the intimate, delicious friction of his touch. He holds you still, and you relax against his fingers, grazing in tender circles around your pulsing clitoris, dipping inside you to paint you with your own arousal. The tender brush of his fingers sweeps away the doubt and anxiety as you shudder beneath his touch.

He draws back and gazes into your eyes.

‘Traffic light?’

You take a breath to collect yourself, but your body is awash with feeling, imagined and actual at war on the battlefield of your desires.


He holds your hair in his hand as he strokes you, delicate touches applied, studied and rejected based on your reactions. You’ve known men with boyish hands, scrubbing away as though you were a stain or a screen on a phone, used to being left sore and awkward. Daddy moves his fingers with a pianist’s deliberation, teasing out a smooth series of peaks and troughs, cosmic flares of sensation which live and die before you are flushed and every nerve is one touch from exploding into oblivion.

‘Daddy, please can I come?’

You strain the words out between gritted teeth. You are on the shifting verge between anticipation and oblivion, and it is his permission which will hasten your journey to the latter.

He shakes his head and you whimper, playful but working within a pocket of genuine need. You push your hips against him, wanting him to feel your need, to force his permission, to test his will as he tests yours.

Instead, he smiles and shakes his head. You cry out and cling to him, breathing out pleas as his fingers slide against your teeming, slick flesh. You close your eyes when he eases his index finger inside you, hooking it at the first joint and massaging the tender, swollen pad of your G spot as his thumb moves around your clit. He is artist and brush, you are paint and canvas, asking for permission to become art.

You breathe out a plea and touch his face to connect him to you. You want his permission and you work hard to get it. His eyes bear the weight of your desire and reflect it back to you.

One last plea before you surrender to the sweet defeat of his touch and he shakes his head.

Your muscles bunch up, throbbing and flickering as you are awash with a lightness of being as unbearable and beautiful as life itself. Tears prickle in your eyes as you cry out, the volume and pitch wrenched from deep within you.

It is an orgasm which you imagine takes years off your life, like the brand of cigarette God would smoke.

You squeeze and swell around his fingers but he holds you firm, pressing his palm against your pussy to ground you into the moment as he brings you close to him.

He strokes your hair, whispers in your ear and although you cannot make out the details, he offers the warm, primal assurance of protection. Sir does not frighten you with his presence, but Daddy does with his absence.

The difference is the latter is not something wielded against you. His actions reach you when his words, his body cannot.

You wish these moments would last forever. It has the hard, bright purity of prayer as you weep and he holds you even tighter, petting you as oxytocin drizzles through your body.

When it is time to leave, he holds you tighter than before and you can feel the wounded sadness in his breath. You ask him what’s wrong and he shakes his head before he holds your face in his hands and kisses you on the lips.

‘Missing you already, little girl.’

Dressed but damp and dishevelled, he walks you to the door. You want to ask him if he’s going away again, but the answers scare you. His fingers slip between yours and he kisses you one last time.

‘What am I going to do, Daddy?’

He kisses you on the forehead.

‘Wait and be good. I’m working on the rest.’

Are you a prisoner here?

Are you a prisoner anywhere where you cannot act on your desires?

Your thoughts take you back to your bed, but they stop you from sleeping until his message comes through.


You message back and slip the phone beneath the mattress.