beauty, love, lust, sex, Sir, women

Surrender – Sir 2.0

Chaos creeps in by degrees.

Within the dormitory, murmurs of disappointment, punctuated by outbursts of frustration, shrill and sharp from the women who have found their appointments cancelled without warning.

The men’s section is more overt in their disapproval. The clatter of things thrown to the ground. Conversations become arguments.

Arguments become fights.

The ambient tension makes your stomach ache. Your palms are damp and your lips are tender from where you last kissed Daddy and you feel a pleasurable ache with each step.

Waiting is the worst part.

It always is, isn’t it?

The warm, rough memory of his hands. His mouth. His voice.

You have never felt so captive as when you are on the verge of freedom. Daddy offers it to you in glimpses, a myriad of sensations which rub you raw and make you strong at the same time.

Staring at the surrounding air, you imagine the spread of tiny machines, fuelled by your orgasm as they investigate and undermine the surrounding systems.

Ingrid comes back one afternoon, with reddened skin over the knuckles on her right hand. You ask what’s wrong and she grimaces.

‘They had this guy tickling me. One of my hard limits.’

She flexes the fingers of her right hand and winces.

‘Funny thing was, being punched in the face happened to be one of his.’

You shudder, fighting the complicity you feel in what has happened to her.

She smiles and tilts her head to one side.

‘Oh it turned out all right. Snafu in the records, and they made it up.’

When you ask her how, her eyes gleam with delight, glazed over with a surplus of post-coital languor.

‘Plus there’s something about a man who fucks you knowing you could kick his ass anytime.’

You laugh with her, relieved not to be an accomplice to someone’s humiliation.

‘I can be soft with him.’

Ingrid raises her eyebrows.

‘Who do you mean?’

A warmth creeps up your throat and your lips tingle with the association.


She whistles under her breath and shakes her head.

‘What does he look like?’

The question is a fish hook in your stomach. You describe him in broad strokes, torn between wanting to share and the fear she might have been subject to his will.

Ingrid frowns and shakes her head.

‘Never met him. He sounds good though.’

He is, you tell her. A pang of absence washes the fish hook away and you lower your eyes, desperate to hide what you are feeling. Ingrid has a habit of reducing situations to a point where you feel silly for even mentioning your feelings.

She smiles at you and touches your cheek. She tells you it will be okay.

You touch her hand and look into her eyes before she tells you she will sleep.


You wear a peach baby doll nightie with French silk panties in peach and stockings. There is a small black velvet choker and chunky peach and pink rockabilly shoes with a small heel. Your hair is in a chignon and when you see your reflection, you smile with delight at how you look. Life has offered you a glimpse of this which you ought to bring into reality and you see her in the full length mirror.  Daddy has chosen these items with care, and the silken kiss of the material comes direct from him. He touches you without touching you and in his instruction, you find a freedom which unsettles you with its possibility.

The LEDs flash in different patterns. A jagged randomness which leaves swatches of darkness ahead but you carry on, stopping at each door. They don’t respond to your palm so you keep going, grateful not to interrupt someone else’s session without cause.

The right door opens with a sigh you feel in your bones.

He’s arranged for the office setting. The coffee station where you messed up his order and he put you over his knee. Your skin burns with the memory and when he looks up from the book he’s reading, your heart punches against your ribs.

He glances around before he clicks his fingers and the air shimmers around you, like the inside of a snow globe.

‘We can talk now, baby girl.’

You run to him as he stands up, opening his arms as you wrap yourself around him and cling hard. You rest your cheek against his chest and close your eyes, drinking him into your senses. He runs his hand down your back and strokes the skin between your shoulder blades.

‘I’m not dressed for the office, Daddy.’

He chuckles and lifts your chin with his finger, brushes his lips over yours and it melts your insides into soup with its careful, glittering expertise. You sigh into his mouth and press yourself against him, enjoying the planes of his chest against you. He is safety and danger, play and action and he sighs with a quiet delight in how you hold onto him.  The kiss lasts as long as you can breathe, and you pull backwards, your face burning and eyes damp with emotion.

‘How are we supposed to pretend this is all just normal?’

He grins and cups his face in your hands.

‘Because we’re working towards something here, baby girl. I’ve got back doors in most of the systems but I need to wait for the next cycle of updates to cover our tracks enough to escape.’

Escape. An involuntary shudder twists within you. It is difficult, in the moments before surrender, to keep still around Daddy. He gazes into your eyes and comes forward to kiss you again. You raise up on your toes and touch the stubble on his cheeks, enjoying the rasp against your fingertips and already thinking about your face will burn with irritation afterwards.

‘So what we do in the meantime?’

He leans into your space and his fingers rest against your throat, giving a light squeeze which makes your thoughts swoon and carouse in your skull. His eyes shine with desire as you gasp around his tongue in your mouth. He moves it in soft stabs, never jamming it with over eager clumsiness but the deliberate and informed play of muscles, lips and tongue working in concert. His kisses fill you with light.

He eases his grip after a few seconds and the rush of function makes your knees hollow but you keep your hands on his arms as he draws back and looks at you.

‘check in?’

A look of lust so intense crosses his face it frightens and thrills you in equal measure. The air has a tang to it, which sits like whiskey and milk on your tongue, the memory of metals and his skin all mingle together. You reach up and put his hand back on your throat. Arousal has your tongue between its teeth and you stare back at him, willing him to test you.


His fingers insist against your throat, a confident placement which cuts the blood supply for a moment before he eases the pressure without removing his grip. He leans forwards and rests his forehead against yours.

‘Sometimes baby girl, I want you so fucking much, I could tear you apart.’

You go to kiss him but he draws back, screwing up his face in mock-indignation and shaking his head.

‘Don’t be so eager, baby girl.’

You whine his name and he gives a soft, knowing chuckle. His left hand remains at your throat whilst he traces small circles over your collarbone. The static snap of his touch travels under your skin, makes the roof of your mouth prickle and your tongue swell in your mouth.

‘Whining has no hold on me.’

His voice is playful, but the firm edge of it dives in after his touch and you shiver. You go to speak but his fingers close on your arteries and cut your words off. His right hand strokes downwards, idling against the silk before he smooths the ball of his right thumb over your left nipple. The contact sends a delicious ache down your spine as he traces around the stiffening peak of flesh. He squeezes it between his thumb and forefinger, hard enough to make you feel it before he repeats the gesture with the other one.

‘Sometimes, baby girl, I want to just play with you. Use you.’

Your pulse quickens and you step forward, but his left hand holds you in place. His gaze is dark with a rippling, agile lust which excites you in its openness.

You clench your thighs together as a burst of arousal wells up inside you, thick and warm oils trickling down into the crotch of your panties.

He moves his hand down, plucking the hem of your nightie upwards in a practiced flick of his wrist before his fingers slip under the waistband of your underwear. You are ready for him, his touch remains as insistent and exciting as ever as he strokes the smooth, warm skin around it. His fingers follow the curve of your pussy before he massages you in a slow semi-circle, drawing your labia apart with the care a butterfly emerges from a chrysalis. The tip of his index finger dips inside you and you cry out as the sensation travels up your body in a thick, insistent wave of pleasure. He withdraws the finger and strokes upwards, delicate and controlled as he strokes across your throbbing clitoris.

His left hand closes around your throat, careful not to restrict your windpipe as his fingers close off the blood supply in a slow squeeze. The restriction becomes a storm front of sensation, crashing against the tongues of sweet fire lapping upwards. Trembling, you reach out and pull at him, seeking the stern reassurance of his body against yours as each stroke builds upon the last. His touch is intent but careful, a surgical artistry as the sensation swells up inside you, pneumatic and bubbling like lava before he eases his grip. The rush of oxygen is fuel on the fire he is teasing from you with his fingers. A primal instruction wells up on your lips.

‘Daddy, please.’

He gives a hard grin and shakes his head.

‘No baby girl.’

Your limbs shudder with revelation as you push against him, almost wrestling but not to extricate yourself.

You crave contact, the divine surrender of your constant dance of change versus the solid, implacable column of his will. The hot pressure of your impending orgasm, made wild and furious by his hands roars upwards and you squeeze out tears as you babble pleas for his permission.

‘Please Daddy, can I come?’

He grunts in the negative and his upper lip curls in a snarl as he keeps the rhythm of his right hand constant and presses his fingers against your arteries.  Your thoughts lose coherence for a second, and in the gap between consciousness and release, your body imposes itself upon the moment and your orgasm tests the limits of your obedience as you plead. Hot tears well up and trickle down your face as you buckle forwards, wrapping your ankles around his calf as he massages your soaked, pulsing pussy.

You ask him again.

He shakes his head.

He squeezes your throat again and you sob with a savage joy as your pleas gain speed but lose coherence. Their velocity does not change his mind nor slow down the inexorable pace of his fingers against you. You will fail against his will, and not as an act of submission, but surrender. A carnal faith asserts itself and burns the scales from over your eyes with its brightness.   You cling to him, hard and scream with the utter pleasure of it as he eases the grip and your body floods with orgasm, pushed outwards by your breath.

He does not pull away and you rasp you are ready to come again. His fingers continue and you ask him for permission again.

He grins and nods. There is no gap between his permission and your reaction as a second orgasm barrels through you. It takes a tremendous amount of will not to collapse, but you lean forwards and he supports your weight as you become a vessel for something feral and divine.

There isn’t time to ask for permission for the third and you are speechless before the unyielding power of his hands and eyes.

The last conscious memory is how he sweeps you up into his arms, his hand stroking your hair and telling you to breathe. You are a weeping riot, attuned and sensitive to every whorl and eddy of the air around you but the strength within you brooks no argument.

He holds you and you nuzzle against the hollow in his throat and squeeze him with whatever strength you have left. Your throat is tender from his grip and your thighs are soaked from the juices of your arousal whilst perspiration glues the nightie to your back.

‘You took it like a good girl.’

You try to speak but the words fall, useless from your lips so you hold onto him and he kisses the top of your head.

‘Daddy, when we’re out, will it be like this?’

He lifts your face to his, kisses you in the way which turns your bones to jelly and rubs your nose with his. Your lips and cheeks burn from the stubble but it’s a glorious feeling.  A badge of honour you wear with pride.

‘No, baby girl.’

You’re shocked but his smile is easy and he shakes his head.

‘It’ll be better.’

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

Fluid Magic – Sir 2.0

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Traffic light?’ you say.

He grins and kisses you again.

‘Green, baby girl.’

You smile and gaze into his eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Baby girl.’

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

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

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

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

‘Are you okay, Daddy?’

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

‘Yes, I am.’

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

He looks deep into your eyes.

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

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

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

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

Waiting for things to fail.

beauty, love, lust, sex, Sir, women

Capacity For Escape (Sir 2.0)

You experience snatches of him in dreams.

The salt of his skin, suffused with coffee and bergamot taunts you as it wells up in your sinuses and across your lips.

His weight, held above you, used in service to open you up. You play the brat with him, alternating between coquette and little and in dreams, the heat follows you into your waking moments.

There are moments where the quiet press of his rough, strong fingers stroke you into wakefulness and you come to, gasping and tender with the memory blooming in the soft, damp places on your body.

There are no sessions assigned to you. He keeps contact to a message on the hidden phone between you.

You are in the queue for the cafeteria when you feel the cautious brush of something being pressed into your palm. Two red gelatine capsules.

Daddy tells you to swallow them, chase them down with water. They taste of nothing but the virtue of following his instructions but sweet.

Large swatches of intense silence, fertile ground for creatures borne from doubt and anxiety, their teeth glistening in the dark, ready to bite into your fragile hopes. There are perfect neural storms of ecstasy, heightened by his control of your breath or your nerves by the sting of his hands against your skin or the handful of hair he takes as he drives his uncut cock inside you in slow, hard strokes. You open to him, and the recollection of how his face grows grave in the approach to his own pleasure makes you clench with delight.

There is a grey fuzziness to your thoughts, and the bed sheets are damp and hot from the unconscious conflict of the night before

Showering is blissful, your skin tingles with the youthful violence of purpose, making you soft and slick as you dress in a peach and scarlet baby doll nightie and thigh highs. You dry and brush out your hair before plaiting it into pigtails. A red velvet choker on a velour display case and you place it around your neck with trembling hands.

Surrender is freedom and when he tests you, despite the gentility of his manner, he allows you to test without fear of offending him. You are wearing clothes which feel little, soft and luxurious against your skin. He dresses you to please him.  The fluffy mules are an amusing touch, demonstration of how he pays attention to the flamboyance within you.

The door opens onto the four poster bed. There are Velcro cuff restraints set to each corner and a small table with a lacquered wooden box on top.

Daddy has on a crisp white shirt, rolled to the sleeves over his thick, vascular forearms. His cheeks and chin are dark with stubble as he lifts his chin to appraise you.

‘Traffic light?’

You flush with pleasure at the sight of him and the preparations he has made.


He tells you to come forward and you scamper into his arms. You press yourself against his broad chest as his hands slip down your back and lock you into his embrace as you bring your arms around him. The solidity of him is a relief, unspoken certainties to alleviate the anxiety present in the thickness of his thighs and the burn of stubble where his cheek rests against yours. His lips, soft and full brush over yours and you whimper with anticipation as his fingers bite into your flesh. He makes his need apparent through his actions and the soft, rough play of his lips and tongue against yours. When you draw back, your head is swimming, intoxicated and open to his authority, sourced in nurturing and surrender.

You take his hand as he guides you onto the bed. A restless heat seethes between your thighs, the oil of anticipation slick against your skin as he lays you down and tells you to extend your arms and legs.

‘What are you going to do, Daddy?’

He leans over, his eyes are dark with complicated lust. You recall, from a book you browsed through, of how intelligence is a comfort and acceptance with ambiguity and nuance. You surrender to this man, but the power you receive is gigantic, a transformative excitement where you are soft and bold in the same instant.


Fingers close on your left nipple through the silk and tweak between thumb and forefinger, a light but insistent gesture to draw sensation to you. The bright flare of ache surges down your spine into your pelvis, mitigated by the cool damp breath of silk against your breast. He repeats the gesture with the other one and leans over to kiss you on the lips.  He goes to the table and opens the book, lifting a pair of small silver clamps with tiny chains dangling from each one and showing them to you.

He strokes your thigh with his left hand, growling with anticipation as he draws upwards, lifting the hem of the nightie over your stomach and stroking the soft skin with a delicacy which makes you shiver. He bends over, an animal in feeding and takes your nipple between his lips, making it stiff with a wet, suckling heat before he stands up and pinches it, slipping on a clamp to keep it stiff and tingling. He grins and leans over, licks across the nipple with a deft swipe of his tongue which makes you arch your back. The tension builds as he repeats the action with your other breast and pulls the nightie down. You squeeze your thighs together, sending a burst of heated, tingling pressure through your stomach as your body responds to him faster than your thoughts.

The restraints are applied with care as he pets you, talking you through your nerves, not to abate them but to harness them to your pleasure.

He has the power to hurt you, but it is a power you give him and he respects it without reservation.

Your arms and legs are held out, but he checks and asks you to make a fist then splay your fingers, checking for any pressures of constriction which might accumulate during your time together.

He stands to your right and applies an amber lubricant from a pump dispenser onto his hands in an even layer.

He uses his left hand to tug on your pubic mound between his thumb and forefinger, with the ball of his thumb resting next to, but not on your clitoris. The slick pressure invites a whimper from you as he grazes it in a small lazy circle. He bends his right hand at the wrist and strokes between your labia in small, direct motions which allow you to experience a slow penetrative advance as he presses the tip of his index finger inside you. The competing sensations of restraint and exploration gather, pleasure’s collaborators at work inside you.

Your aching nipples, sending shivers through you with each brush of silk.

The restraints, snug but firm holding you in place, unable to move beyond a range of motion which keeps blood flowing to your limbs.

His hands, moulding, breaking, insisting between your legs. His breathing deepens and you close your eyes as the pleasure grows, gathering in subtle brushes of delight as he brings another finger into play inside you.

Two fingers now, moving back and forth, gaining depth on a glacial pace.

The slow pace is torture, making you sensitive to each eddy and motion as you close your eyes and sigh with pleasure.

‘Who’s my good girl?’

You struggle to answer, your thoughts frolic in an ocean of sensation but when he inserts a third finger, you cry out against the fullness and he has you check in.

Green.  He smiles and asks if you’re ready for more.

He smiles and reaches with his left hand for the box, draws out a small, conical plug with a gem set into one end. It is devoid of edges and he applies a layer of lubricant to it. He tells you to lift your hips as he draws your buttocks apart and strokes the tender, tingling knot of your ass. He draws the plug around it and you close your eyes again, sighing as you exhale against it. The pressure is immediate but not unwelcome as Daddy understands how you like to be full. He checks in with you again and you tell him green.

When he eases a third finger inside, you gasp and buck a little, breathing a little faster against the power of his fingers and plug.  In your surrender, you are open to him, and his exploration of your depths, your capacities for pleasure is inventive, but as the pressure builds, you marvel at how he does not mould you to an ideal in his head, but draw upon whatever is there, waiting to be nurtured.

He returns his left hand to your clit, drawing back the hood and stroking it with a fingertip as he bunches the fingers of his right hand together into a blunt triangle and eases them inside you.

You cry out and he checks in with you.

‘Your hand’s inside me, Daddy.’

The fullness is not unkind, but it is insistent. He does not move his right hand, telling you to breathe in a voice gruff and low with excitement as he massages your clit with his fingers. Each time you clench, it sends a roaring blast of sensation through your body, flooding every limb with the impending surge of orgasm.

You try to speak but you are incoherent. He gazes at you as you flex your fingers three times to denote you are still present with this.

‘Do you want to come baby girl?’

You nod, growing warm and sweat as the pressure builds. It has a power which came from everything  outside you, the pushing of your limits being an action of tremendous transformation. Your clit throbs in time with your heartbeat as he keeps his strokes light, allowing the pressure and fullness to fuel your transformation.

‘I give you permission.’

You whimper, then cry out. Past caring how it looks to anyone as you buck around his hand inside you, the plug inserted into your ass and his firm, warm control of your body. Perspiration gathers at your hairline, the small of your back and thighs are slick as you writhe underneath the direction of his will.

It arrives in slow, pulsing waves and you go into yourself, each nerve and pore bursts with a delightful, terrible release. Your eyes well up with tears and when you cry out, your ears ring with the volume as you surrender to it.

Torn apart with pleasure and rebuilt in the same instant as he fucks you with his whole hand. Your vision wavers and you black out for a second, squeezing around the enormous pressure of his hand inside you, tested to a capacity you once considered beyond your imagining.

He keeps his hand inside you as he reaches up and strokes your face. His fingers are slick and warm, perfumed with your sex as he whispers reassurances to you. He moves his right hand out with the glacial pace of dance or kata before he comes up and unties you. You sag against him as he bundles you into his arms and crushes you against him.

He holds you in his arms as you tremble with the aftermath, consumed with the descent into absence and vulnerable beyond words.

‘You did good, baby girl.’

You remember the process he explained. How it would work in two parts. Through your surrender, the courage to explore yourself beneath his tender authority you have fulfilled your part.

Now it is his turn.

beauty, love, lust, sex, Sir, women

Sir 2.0 Toys And Objects

Since you have been apart, he messages you once a day. Sometimes you torture yourself in waiting to check it, but you have to practice a kind of discipline different from what you share with Daddy. Still, the urgency makes the sudden, soaring delight as you read his words all the more intense.

You read them in his voice, sat on the John and hoping no one peers over the cubicle door. Your legs shake with the repressed nerves, all of it building to the moment where you would be His again.

You cannot get enough of it.

The phone lies hidden under your pillow. You go to the shower room and find a red and black nightgown on a hanger with red hold ups. There is makeup, a pair of earrings set on a black velvet pillow and a small bottle of scent. You apply it behind your ears and at the back of your knees as per the typewritten set of instructions. You shudder with excitement and anticipation at the thought of it. Of Him.


You follow the lights, but if it were not for the change in location, you would make your way there by the slow yet acute pull of desire you have for him. You ask yourself if any of this is real, and it makes you ache for him all the more.

You stand at the door, press your palm against the lock and the door opens inwards.


He strides over to you, and his hands are on you, his arms around you with enough force you cannot breathe. You grin beneath the kiss he plants on your lips and you reach to run your fingers around his waist. You are little in his embrace. His strength holds you in place as your mouths explore one another.

Hi Daddy.’

He grins and touches your cheek. His eyes are lit from within at the sight, the touch, the smell of you.

‘I’ve missed you.’
A bright warmth arises in your cheeks, and you press against his hand where it rests against your face.

‘I’ve missed you too.’

A flicker of dark yearning crosses his eyes, like the shimmer of moonlight on water for a moment.

‘And you’ve been good with the phone.’

You smile and his fingers glide over the back of your hair. He stares into you with such feeling it takes your breath away.

‘I love hearing from you, Daddy. I know I’m not supposed to.’

He cocked his head to one side and smiled at me. A doting smile as he strokes your hair away from your face.

‘I made that decision, baby girl. It’s what a Daddy does.’

You glance around and he shakes his head.

‘No one listens. I insist upon discretion when I am with you.’

You grin and move towards him. He takes a firm grip of your hair and you stop, as he straightens up and takes a deep, hungry breath.

‘When I have you, baby girl.’

He swallows, his chest rising with some elemental depth of emotion inside him.

‘I want you so fucking much I could crush you with it.’

He turns you around with his hand on your hair. He brings his mouth to your ear and the warmth of his breath makes you shiver. Amidst the everyday, it was the promise of moments, of a man like this. He offered glimpses of his sweetness, but it was not without depth.

There is a couch in the corner of the room. He lets go of your hair and tells you to lie down. His eyes blaze with feeling, a midnight fire in a forest at autumn.

‘I will tear you apart with pleasure, baby girl.’

Your heart pounds in your chest and your skin tingles with anticipation.
These are vehicles for a nurturing that resists the cage of words and thoughts. Purest, the darkest feeling that sings you awake sometimes. Those nights are when you sneak the phone into the bathroom and read his messages. They all feed into these times with him.

He walks towards the set of drawers, finds three lengths of velvet rope and comes over to you. He tells you to lift your arms above your head and he sighs with pleasure. This is a glorious play within a ritual. It resists lassitude in its power and his approval reflects your arousal into you. He tells you to open your legs and rest them either side of the couch. He moves a small pillow under your ass and comes around to bind your wrists.

‘You’re such a good girl.’ he says.

You tingle with approval. He makes you feel light and free, contained and devoted in the same moment.

The leather of the couch is warm beneath your back. You test your bonds and he shakes his head.

‘You’re not getting away from me, baby girl.’

You giggle and raise your eyebrows.

‘I could get out anytime I wanted, Daddy.’

He comes and touches your face.

‘You don’t want to do that.’

His voice has lowered, the muscles in his face taut with a regal delight.

‘This is where you belong. With me.’

Your eyes prickle with the onset of tears.

‘What are you going to do Daddy?’

He kisses you, his soft lips grazing over yours. There is a trembling he keeps at bay. You recall these afterwards, when you replay the things he has done with you, that he will do to you. It is not a pain he holds at bay, but a depth of feeling kept under control.

He pinches your right nipple between his fingers with a slow, confident squeeze. The hurt is quick and energising. You arch your back as he pushes open your thighs with one hand then smacks your pussy. You gasp and your eyes widen with the energy of it. Your whole body becomes the feather on an angel’s wing. He does it again, and your eyes moisten with the onset of tears. The release is beginning inside you, lending a sensitivity of deep, deliberate beauty to your senses.

He walks back towards the chest of drawers. His back is to you and you hear the slide of the drawers opening. He reaches out and pulls a wheeled table to him.

‘Now what to choose, baby girl?’

You look and see him place a clear plastic bottle filled with the lubricant he has used before. There is the glint of the soft lights, almost wet against the purple rubber of the dildo. He sets it down next to the lubricant.

He retrieves a small white butt plug, flared at the base whilst looking at you.

‘I will test you today, baby.’

Your breath gains weight in your lungs as he wheels the table over to you.

He squirts lube into his hand, rubbing it into his fingers as he stares into your eyes. He smiles with a primal, controlled excitement. Your pussy is tender from his blows, and you shudder as he massages you in small circles. His eyes move between your face and your pussy as his touch deepens and blooms. Every nerve in your body hums with pleasure at the fullness he gives you, by tiny degrees, raindrops at the start of a thunderstorm.

You relax against his touch. He slips a finger inside you and with his other hand reaches down between the cheeks of your ass and draws his finger downwards in a slow stroke that lifts you off the couch. Between his hands, your first orgasm makes itself known. It is always a sharp pleasure, the relief of a cramp rather than the expansive flowing journeys that your body takes you on.

‘Please Daddy, can I come?’

He shakes his head and you groan with a rising urgency that whips within you.


His smile sets a glow inside your stomach as his fingers move inside you.

You will fail. He tests you with the sweet, expert power of his touch until your will buckles and with it, the need to think anything beyond the raw, powerful call of your own desire. You squeeze your eyes shut at the sweetest, most beautiful failure you will ever know.

You cry out and jerk against your restraints as he strokes you into ecstasy. He presses a warm palm against your navel to ground you as your senses return to you.

He introduces each toy the small lubricated plug he eases into your ass, coaching you to take deep breaths and push out, understanding your body with a firm, almost indifferent ease.

The dildo he uses with the plug, sliding it in shallow stabs he angles against the places that command pleasure from you. He does not work against you, but with you, reading you the way a bird reads the air or a wolf reads the forest.

You lose track of your orgasms, recalling only his hands and his tools against you. You are sodden, tender and wracked with a pleasure that robs you of speech beyond cries and pleas, breathy and sweet in their sweeping, open joy.

He denies and grants permission. His word becomes a refuge and a test of your capacity for surrender. When he wraps you in his arms following a brutal, sustained orgasm that pushes the dildo out of you, you weep and he reaches up and unties you.

Being set free again. It is a language to him and he teaches you, by example and without words.


He kisses you on the forehead before he walks back to the drawer and brings out a small white ovoid device that sits in the palm of his hand.

It will fit inside you. With a message from his phone, it will set up a link that will allow him to send controlled pulses and patterns of vibration. It will serve as a way for him to reach you wherever he is, whatever else he is doing and touch you with his will.

You weep with excitement. He holds you again and leads you to the shower. He undresses and joins you. Without speaking, you wash him before he washes you, looking into one another’s eyes with such depth that you are not sure if it is the series of orgasms or the titanic intimacy of the looks that you share that makes you weak with joy.

It is difficult to leave him. He touches your face. You follow the trail of lights home.

The egg hums and you smile. Only a few feet away and he has to have another taste.

erotic writing, erotica, love, lust, sex, Sir

Sir 2.0 Episode 4: Bathing Before Sir.


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

The hand between your legs begins to move in small, careful circles, the pad of his index finger studious and maddening in how it never quite lands on your throbbing clitoris. Around it, towards it, and each stroke is as deft and light as a breath. The fingertip grazes the tender, aching flesh and you take in deep breaths, looking up at the black ceiling, letting the light blind you with it. The sweet fury of his touch, at Sir’s behest starts to send currents of delicious, incendiary potential down your thighs, nearly fibrillating with the intensity of it. The detached, distracted motion develops before he removes his fingers from between your legs and you find yourself sopping wet. He picks up the sponge again and rinses you off, beneath a deluge of warm, scented water.

‘Would you like me to shave her?’ the guard asks.

He looks at you, the guard, and gives a gentle, almost reassuring smile.

‘Yes, I think that’s a fine idea.’

He walks away from you, his hand grazing along the inside of your thigh a moment too long before he departs. He offers a look of comfort, which is comforting in and of itself, yet has an air of rebellion and discontent to it, here in this place.

He returns with a straight razor, a bowl and a badger hair brush. He places the brush in the bowl and whisks it with a careful turn of his wrist. When he lifts it, thick clots of creamy suds drip lazily off the brush and he applies the lather in slow, careful circles to your groin. The lather is warm, almost luxurious and he ensures that you experience a heavy, damp layer of the shaving cream against your skin. He replaces the brush in the bowl and opens the razor, its edge gleaming in the light. You bite your lip, concerned of the edge against your delicate, throbbing flesh. He leans over and touches your forearm.

‘You can relax. I’ll take care of you.’

The assurance in his words, calm enough to almost be off-hand lowers your heart rate and he uses his left hand to pull the skin taut and lowers the razor to your groin. His strokes are sure and you register the edge of the blade in the abstract. He does not look from his work. He looks into your eyes only when he rinses the flecks of hair and foam from the blade or applies another layer of foam. He works in a breathy silence, and when he brings a soft sponge and wipes everything away, the delicate unshaven skin tingles where it makes contact with the air. You want to crane your head to look but the sensation tells you everything you need to know.

From the darkness, Sir’s voice rings out.

‘Impeccable work, as always.’

The guard gives a nod and wheels the table away. He leaves you a long, lingering look and then disappears into the darkness.

‘You really are quite exquisite between your legs. I almost want to come over and spank it.’

You take in a sharp breath and hear the clop of heels as he walks around.

‘But I can wait for that.’

He claps his hands together.

‘Excellent, I think we can proceed to the next stage now. I will have someone take you along and we will meet again.’

He falls silent and another pair of guards come in and wheel you away. Down a corridor, then their gloved hands loosening your restraints. No one speaks and you are helped up with the care shown an invalid and handed a white gown made from cotton, longer than the hospital johnny you wore initially. On the left breast is sewn a badge with a single number 8.

You are escorted into a larger chamber, where the women and men you were processed with, stand in loose, casual groups. Your heart is pounding in your chest and your knees are weak with adrenaline and excitement. Then you walk in.


creative writing, erotic writing, erotica, fiction, love, lust, reading, seduction, sensuality, short fiction, Uncategorized, writing

Open To Reading Suggestions

We met in the library, idling amongst the shelves. She had a copy of The Truth About The Harry Quebert Affair, which I had returned that day. She turned it over in her slim, delicate hands and smiled to herself. I tried to look away, but she had captivated me, in the way that a random encounter with beauty always would. She had long blonde hair that fell to her shoulders in neat waves aside from a curled lock on her left side.
‘It’s very good.’
She looked up at me, a casual glance but there were nerves there, sparking like fireworks in her sky.
‘Yes, it does look good. I never quite know what to read, you know?’
I nodded in agreement.
‘I like to just come in and see what grabs me.’ I said.
Her fingers strayed to the lock on her left, twisting it around as she spoke.
‘Well, I’m open to suggestions.’
I fought the smile that wanted to come to my lips and half-managed it. I told her my name, and said that I was pleased to meet her.
There are those moments, the great leaps into the unknown, where you see if you can find someone who might be able to bear the weight of you. It’s terrifying and glorious all at once, those early tentative steps to a connection with another person. A delicate negotiation hidden behind polite conversation and the reining in of curiosity and enthusiasm. When, despite my nerves, I suggested coffee, her agreement raised an almighty burst of delight within me that I kept beneath a smile, almost spilling over with warmth.
That coffee turned into another. I paid for the first, then she paid for the second and when we parted, we had exchanged numbers and in the time apart, continued to message one another. The little things and nuances that you learn about another, fractals of the exquisite whole.
When, after a dinner that had started as a simple suggestion to eat, she kissed me outside the restaurant, my entire body transformed into a pillar of golden light, a dimension of heat and light contained within one human frame. She stood back, hand straying to the comfort lock as she waited for my reaction.
I reached up and touched her face, which in the end, was my answer to the implied question of her desires.

We learned to speak in kisses once the need for it robbed us of speech but not a slow ascent into lustful eloquence.  My hand would stray underneath the hem of her shirt and i would stroke the skin of her stomach. She would shiver and give a little cry, touching my face and pressing herself against me.
Her legs were draped over mine, my hand resting on her thigh, revelling in the simple act of skin hunger being fed.
She reached to me, stroking down through the hair on my chest and stomach. My cock stirred until she unzipped me, took it between her fingers and bending at the waist, took it slowly into her mouth.  I stroked her hair and made fists of it, taking control when she brought me close to my release.  We traded kisses, stretching and moving, my head rough with need between her long pale thighs, kissing her there with my tongue until she clenched and released against me, sighing as she clutched at the back of my head. After a refractory period, where we made ourselves drunk with our hands and mouths, she rolled a condom onto my cock and guided me inside her. Her eyes brimmed with tears, and I checked to make sure that she was okay. She nodded firmly and guided me inside her. The friction was delicious in it’s intensity and I balanced my weight on my elbows as I moved inside of her, in careful, gentle thrusts. She curled herself around me, looking into my eyes as she moved with me, growing in her enthusiasm and appetite, as we grew familiar with one another enough that she whispered for me to pull her hair as I fucked her.
Afterwards we laid and watched the shadows on the ceiling, she curled around me, watching me with an intensity that made me smile with affirmation. She opened up The Harry Quebert Affair and passed it to me. Asked in a small, soft voice if I would read to her again.