beauty, love, lust, sex, Sir, women

Sir 2.0 Clean

You wait two days until your name is called. When you follow the lights, you find that you are not directed to the shower facilities and you fight a growing trepidation that the routine is not being followed. The guard who escorts you, a dark, muscular young woman with Senegalese braids and a nose ring tells you not to worry which doesn’t actually help.

You are escorted to Room 26. The guard walks on and you press your palm against the pad to open the door. Each door has opened onto a different scenario, and your heart thumps hard in your chest at the common factor in each of them.


You are concerned that he has not chosen an outfit for you this time. After waking up in your own bed, you wonder if something has changed between you, and if you are within your rights to address it. His trust is the foundation of the dynamic after all, and the idea that his tenderness might be feigned disturbs you. Such thoughts are common to you, a last push before you enter into his dominion and he takes care of it all.

You walk inside and the room is dark. The door closes behind you. There is carpet beneath your feet and each breath brings

‘Take off your clothes.’

You feel a ripple of gooseflesh. Daddy’s voice is low and soft. He is here in the room but you cannot see him. You start to undress. Your nipples harden and your skin tingles as you remove the top and the pants as he has instructed. You hear his footsteps come towards you. You sigh when you feel his hands placed on your shoulders. His fingers stroke in slow sweeping motions and you shiver. You feel his breath on your cheek and you reach your hands out but he tells you no, and you put your arms down by your sides.

He leans forward and inhales through his nose.

‘You smell so fucking good, little girl.’

There is a thick hunger in his voice, a deliberate slow uncurling of his intention that reaches down into the pit of your stomach and stokes a deep, unbidden heat within you. You part your thighs, feeling how you have started to respond just to the sound of his voice.

‘Why are we in the dark, Daddy?’

He inhales you again, and he trails his fingers down your arms. You shiver and he pulls you towards him, putting his mouth to your ear.

‘Because I want it that way, to begin with.’

Your palms are damp. You want to touch him, to confirm that he is real to you beyond his hands and his words. These thoughts are swift and breathless, little concerns manifesting and the response to your collected anxieties. How you twist before him, and how calm, how certain he is in the face of that. His touch injects femininity into you. You sparkle with want, and his fingers graze over the backs of your hands.

Tell me what to do. Show me. Command me. You bubble with warmth and it is all you can do to remain upright and silent.

His hands circle around your wrists. You sigh as his grip tightens, and he leads you forward.

‘Come with me, little girl.’

The wildness within you, beatific and destructive makes you pull back and he chuckles.

‘Don’t be scared. Trust Daddy.’

You follow him, clutching at what you’ve known, and still following his lead in the darkness. Another door opens and the light spills in and you shut your eyes against its glare.


He keeps hold of your wrists as you look around at the black, sparkling tiles and the shower heads mounted into the ceiling at angles. The lights reveal him to you, in a white shirt and jeans with his feet bare. He has a black leather belt buckled with a large pewter version of the bat symbol which makes you chuckle.

‘Daddy’s a nerd, huh?’

He smiles at you. On a shelf to your left, is a clear squeeze container of shower gel, a sponge and beneath, on a rail, two large white towels, fluffy and thick as sheepskin.

‘Undress Daddy, little girl.’

Your fingers tremble with the work of the buttons and his eyes take you in with a warmth that makes you focus. Beneath the breath of his encouraging whispers, you pull the shirt from him, revealing his furred hard chest and taut stomach, his wide shoulders that make your tongue run across your lips in anticipation. There is an anxiety here, but the alchemy of his presence turns it into something else entirely.

You unbuckle his belt and then start to unbutton the fly of his jeans. You can feel the length of his cock through his jeans and you look up at him with wide eyes.

‘Will I get to play with this if I’m a good girl, Daddy?’

He smiles and steps out of them, kicking them away behind him. He has blue knitted boxer shorts that cling to his thighs and ass and you hook your fingers into the waistband and slide them down his legs.

He strokes your hair and sighs as his cock lengthens against his thigh.

‘You are a good girl.’

Your cheeks burn red at the demonstration of his approval. His voice goes deep into you, it finds the wounded places and offers them a chance to turn into light and heat. He kicks his underwear away and points to the shelf.

You come back with the shower gel and the sponge. He looks up and clicks his fingers, activating the water which comes in, hot and teeming.

‘What do you want me to do, Daddy?’

He grins and lifts your hands to his chest.

‘Wash me.’


You squirt some of the gel onto the sponge. It gives off a scent of coconut, vanilla and mint that pleases you and you let the water soak the sponge before you press it against his chest. Suds fall against the muscles of his chest and you rub the sponge in slow, deliberate circles. The steaming water caresses your skin and you brush your wet hair from your face as you focus on the task of washing him.

The sponge serves as an agent of your will, soaping up his skin as you squat to wash the insides of his thighs. His cock juts upwards, and you glide soapy fingers down its length before you run the sponge gently over the tight skin of his scrotum. You squeeze the sponge over his cock, enjoying how the suds fall off it.

‘You have the most beautiful cock.’

He sighs and gazes down at you.

‘Show me how you appreciate it.’

You kneel in front of him and look up at him as your fingers wrap around the base of his cock, licking your lips as you bow your head and take him into your mouth. His fingers slip around the back of your head and you take him as deep as you can, drawing him out to the tip as you look up at him. You want him to feel your devotion, you want to test that calm resolve and see how he behaves when unleashed.

The beast in him roars louder than your demons and you want to be wrapped up in that envelope of energy.

Your want becomes need and you gulp him down, breathing through your nose and his fingers tighten on the hair at the back of your head.

‘You love my cock, don’t you little girl?’

You glance up at him and answer with a wide-eyed look of adoring surrender. Here, you are the object, the vessel and he makes you frantic with the need to be full of him. He hardens in your mouth and strokes your face with his other hand.

‘I’m going to fuck your mouth, little girl.’

You keep your head still, relaxing the back of your throat as he moves his cock out of your mouth then guides it slowly back in. You focus on breathing through your nose but the arousal, the surrender that you offer up has you soaking wet and on a whim, you put your right hand between your thighs and stroke yourself.

He stops and pulls his cock free of your mouth.

‘What are you doing?’

His voice has an edge to it. You look up and struggle not to panic.
‘You turn me on so much, Daddy, I wanted to come when you did.’

He shakes his head and picks you up to your feet.

‘What did you forget to do?’

Relief flares in you. He offers you the chance to make it right, every time and you look down at the floor, disappointed and excited at the same time.

‘I didn’t ask permission, Daddy.’

He tells you to place your hands against the tiles and lean forward. Your hair hangs in sodden trails, plastered against your cheeks and you see the shimmer of movement as he stands behind you. He kisses the line of your neck where it meets your jaw, and you gasp with delight and trepidation.

He puts the fingers of his left hand between your lips and tells you to hold them there. You brace yourself against the wall. When his right hand cracks against your buttock, you suck on his fingers to muffle your cries. The hurt makes you shut your eyes and you mumble a thank you between each one. Your buttocks sting, tender with the force of the blow and the constant stream of the shower. There are lights behind your eyes, enough to chase away the darkness that comes with the thoughts and you soften with each blow. When he nudges your thighs apart, you rest your head against the tiles and arch your hips for him.

You want all that he has to give you. You are greedy for it, and he spanks your tender, throbbing pussy with a deliberate force that provides escape velocity for the doubts and thoughts. A column of bright, shining hurt and arousal soaks you more thoroughly than the water does.

He steps to the shelf and picks up a small clear plastic bottle. You hear the squirt of liquid dispensed into his palm as he steps close to you.

‘Check in?’

He pulls the cheeks of your ass apart with his splayed fingers and you melt as a lubricated finger massages oil into your tender, tight asshole. He brushes in small circles, inserting it for the least amount of motion. His glacial patience belies your mutual hunger.

‘Green.’ you say.

You remember to breathe out as his finger applies small, deliberate amounts of oil and relaxes the tight ring of muscle. You push back as you feel the raw head of his cock press against you and suck down on his fingers,

‘Take it like a good girl.’ he says

Each inch of his cock sends a storm of tight, nasty sensation hurtling through you. He moves inside, holding position there and you breathe through accommodation with the fullness and power of him cradled inside your ass. The power of it oscillates between your spine and your pelvis as you push to take him deeper.

He removes his fingers from your mouth and slides them down your collarbone, taking each nipple and pulling on then as he squeezes them between his fingers. The hard, bright flash of pain makes you push back and moan with sensation. He strokes over the soft curve of your belly then down between your thighs. Your pussy is soaked, and when his fingers start to massage around your throbbing clit, it is all you can do to remain standing. You are pinned, unable and unwilling to do anything but surrender to the feeling.

His feeling.

‘Can I come, Daddy?’

You manage the words with a tremendous amount of difficulty but he leans forward without losing the slow, steady rhythm of his cock moving in and out of your pouting, tingling asshole.


He strokes your clit in small light, feathery circles. You put all your weight onto your palms, shutting your eyes and letting the packed, tight feeling off the leash of obedience that he has you wearing. The universe spins around you, soft flashes of red and white filling your vision as you show this tender beast something of the beautiful wildness within you.

You buck and thrash, screaming out as he holds himself deep inside you whilst his fingers press against your clit, grounding you in place as you return to yourself. He brings his arm around your waist and breathes out as he withdraws his cock with a careful, practiced motion to ensure that there is no discomfort.

Aside from the emptiness that comes, the drop into emotional free fall that follows such intense experiences. He turns you around and pulls you into his arms. Beneath the water, he holds you tight, tells you to breathe.

‘I’ve got you, little girl. Just breathe.’

You cry in his arms, without shame or inhibition. He does not seek to understand or mitigate it, sourced in the steady, resolute consciousness of masculinity and dominance that you crave. There is no work here, no negotiation beyond your limits and the courage for you to test them. The steam fills the air, adding a dreamy, surreal air to proceedings as you clutch at him until the tears pass.

You are drained and elated as he steps back, picks the sponge up from the tiles and begins to wash you. He works with gentle, profound care as he soaps you up, and turns you around to massage shampoo into your hair. The tenderness of it brings tears to your eyes again and you lower your chin to your chest.

His warm lips kiss your shoulder and a fluttering of joy palpates through every limb as you accept the gift of his domination. He rinses your hair, then massages in conditioner and washes you all over again, parting and scrubbing until you are pink and glowing, soft and child like in the kind of innocent allure that would have made Adam and Eve sing with want.

He tells you to hold still as he dries you and wraps you in the surrounding towels, taking your hand to the other door at the end of the shower room. It is a small room, a double bed laden with pillows and he invites you onto the bed with him. He embraces you tight enough to make you struggle for breath at first, covering your face with sugar, sweet kisses until you fall asleep in his arms.

He is there when you awake.

‘Thank you.’ you say.

He grins and shakes his head.

‘You never have to. I give my gifts without expectations of reward or acknowledgement.’

You run your fingers through the curls of hair on his chest as he stretches out.

‘You’re real, aren’t you?’

You say this to yourself as much as to him. He grins and runs his fingers through your hair then down the line of your jaw as he kisses your mouth again.

‘Yes, I am real.’

He is laid next to you but he is enormous in his power. Ten feet tall next to you, and you curl into him, closing your eyes and craving the anonymity, the cessation of self that he offers without a caveat beyond surrender.

You never want to leave and you drift off into sleep again.

‘Good.’ you say.

beauty, dominance, lust, short fiction, women

Sir v2.0 To Receive

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

‘Who did you get?’ Inge asks you.

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

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

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

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

You are trying to be a good girl after all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I have a time limit for this?’

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Green.’ you say. You gasp it.

He sits back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

‘Little girl, come in here now.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘How do I like my coffee?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Check in?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His hand comes down hard.

Thank you, daddy.

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

Thank you daddy

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hear the rasp his fly being unzipped.

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

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

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

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

‘Do you want to come, little girl?’

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

‘Whose pussy is this?’

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

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

‘You want to come, huh, little girl?’

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

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

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

Yes, he whispers, you can come.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Can I ask you something?’ you say.

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

‘What’s your name?’

He smiles and shakes his head.

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

He kisses your forehead and strokes your hair.

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

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

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

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

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

fiction, lust, sex, short fiction, Sir, Uncategorized

Sir 2.0 A Whispered Munch


You are directed to a small room, four single beds, a footlocker at the bottom with a single pillow and sheet. The lighting overhead is recessed, making the shadows thicken and giving a softness to proceedings that lends everything a dream-like hue.

The other women here inspect you with a cautious glance. You give a casual, awkward wave and scurry towards the empty bed. You sit down and one of the women, the tall lady with the braid smiles at you.

‘All done?’

You nod. The dissonance between the examination and this environment has caught your tongue. Your skin still hums from the guard’s hand between your thighs, Sir’s voice, the harsh buzz of the unseen audience and their laughter. You shut your eyes for a moment, trying to make sense of it all.

Humiliation occupies that part of your brain where you are more repelled than attracted by it. Whether it is a deliberate choice on Sir’s part, is not for you to say and when you try to figure it out, the only reward is the grey, fuzzy start of a tension headache.

You do not hear the woman sit across from you.

‘Hey, I’m Inge. What’s your name?’

You give it. It occurs to you that this might not even be your name. Memory alteration has become a subtle science, evolved and fed by money and novelty. However, the video of you appeared to be convincing and so you decide to yourself, that it is as good a name as any.

Inge gestures behind her, to the other pair of women and gives their names. Pepper has auburn hair, squints like she needs prescription glasses and a slight overbite that makes her endearing as she waves at you. She stands with the rounded shoulders  and upper back of someone used to slouching around shorter people to make them feel better. You note the pink marks on her wrists, not fresh marks of bondage but old scars.

It is a misnomer that an interest in these practices is a sign of damage. You know from experience in meeting other people in the scene that they all show signs of rude, psychological health. A quote from the sex columnist Dan Savage comes to mind, that it’s all ‘cops and robbers with your pants off’.  Pepper sees where your eyes go and lowers her hands down by her side. She’s used to hiding them, but here it will probably feature as part of her programme.

Therese has long, dark hair that falls in damp, cherubic curls around high cheekbones and warm, brown eyes. She is short, full figured and gives a broad, challenging grin as she nods her head in greeting. Inge called them over.

‘Apparently, it all starts tomorrow.’ Pepper said.

Inge chuckled and you look at her with bemusement.

‘It all started the moment we went through processing. We signed up for something we wanted, and agreed to have it as a new experience for us.’

‘We all want something new.’ Therese said.

We all had experience of bad doms and daddies, in their own way as dangerous to our bodies and self-esteem as needy, weak men or boys in adult bodies. We knew, intellectually, that we had the power in such an exchange and that comfort was as essential as the willingness to put oneself and their needs up for display. My hands began to shake at the memory of the guard’s hands, the steady glide of the razor against my skin and how he had looked at me, with hunger and respect.

‘I got a shave already.’ you say, and the women laugh.

Pepper giggled.

‘I got a shampoo and a comb. I guess I’m into the hair being pulled there, or something.’

Inge smiled and crossed her legs.

‘Waxing for me. The guard put a dildo in whilst she did it. I came twice before she was done. ‘

Therese ran her tongue over her lips.

‘I’m almost too excited to sleep. I mean, the whole thing of the guards, the atmosphere, I’ve been tingling all over since I got here.’

Pepper had flushed and sat down next to Therese.

‘What do you think Sir looks like?’

Her voice is breathless, and the adolescent nature of this makes you smile.

‘It doesn’t matter. He’s an idea, I suppose.’

Therese bit her bottom lip and gazed upwards.

‘The accent, it’s arrogant. British, I think. Like how they play the villains in movies.’

A loud clicking sound announces a statement. All participants are to be in their bunks. The voice sounds curt and efficient. The four of you look at one another and then depart, moving to your beds and getting in under the covers. The lights go out, and you continue to talk, whispers scouting through the dark as you share little details, hopes and dreams that you seek to hide from the all-seeing eyes and ears of Sir. Sleep comes by degrees and you find relief in it’s absolute certainty.

You feel your hands being lifted and a length of rope looped around it, bent double at the wrist before your head is cradled at the back and another loop is slipped around your neck. Then it is adjusted so that it sits between your breasts, taut against your stomach and down your thighs. You are rolled onto your sides with a professional care and the rope tightens, biting into the skin of your stomach and pelvis.

‘Put your hands behind your head, lace your fingers.’

You think you recognise the voice, not Sir though.

You do as you’re told. Your heart thumps in your chest, hard and fast. A pair of hands starts to work with a second rope and then adjusts the first one, so the pressure is taken from your neck and passed on down between your thighs.

‘Good girl.’

There are two knots that you feel at your sternum and navel then you gasp as you feel gloved fingers pinch your nipples. You arch your back in response and the rope begins it’s work, harsh but delicious against your pulsing clit. You hear the breathing deepen and you try to work with the perpetual discomfort of the ropes, gritting your teeth and biting back the sobs of sensation that assail you.  You bite your lip in an effort not to cry out and a hand brushes your cheek.

‘Oh, you are a fighter, aren’t you?’

You cannot move your hands and you find yourself rolled onto your front. The rope between your legs insists itself and you push against it, shutting your eyes against the harsh pleasure of it. You feel cool hands on your exposed buttocks then the mouth close to your ear.

‘I’m going to put my fingers in your mouth now. You are not allowed to let go of them until I say, understand?’

You nod as much as the rope work allows. His index finger slides between your lips, the skin tastes faintly of good coffee and vanilla extract. You wrap your lips around it and shut your eyes, eager to show what a good girl you are.

The first blow makes your eyes water but the rush of endorphins is a beatific sensation. You take it, the sting ebbs into a deep warmth before the next blow comes and relieves you of that. You suck on the finger in your mouth, your eyes fill with tears. The harsh, painful, heated pleasure surges through you and sets a reaction that starts from the points of pain, meeting and expanding through you. You piston your hips against the rope, sucking on the finger and breathing through your nose as everything gets reduced down to the sensations you are experiencing.  Two more blows against your buttocks and you buck hard against the rope between your thighs, eyes rolling up behind the closed eyelids and shuddering as you come.

The finger is removed and you are untied with careful efficiency. You are gently laid on the mattress and the voice appears at your ear again.

‘You are a good girl. I look forward to doing this again with you.’

The hand strokes your hair as you sob with relief, the understanding of the crash that comes after such a tumult of sensations is a subtle thing that good doms and daddies understand. It is not to be feared, but seen as the gift that it is. A simplicity of feeling, a tunnel from the confusing disparities of the everyday into a state of cleaner, brighter consciousness.

The hand strokes your hair until you fall asleep.

You could tell yourself it was a dream but when you awake, the marks are still there.



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Sir 2.0 Episode 3: Spoken Word/Audiobook

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Sir 2.0 Episode 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Undress her.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You must be clean for Sir.

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

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








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Sir 2.0 Episode 2: Processing (spoken word)

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Sir 2.0 Episode 1: Processing. (audiobook)