dominance, erotic writing, erotica, lust, Sir, Uncategorized

Sir – Black Mirror Meets Fifty Shades of Grey

My series of erotica (NSFW) which I remain proud of, and thought I would bring it to people’s attention, especially with so many new subscribers here.

beauty, love, Sir, Uncategorized

Sir 2.0 Interlude Part 2.

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

‘You were expecting someone else?’

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

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

A whispered thank you be the safest recourse for you.

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

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

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

‘Do you understand?’

You nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sits back in the chair.

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

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

‘You’ve been quiet.’

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

‘Permission to speak.’

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

‘I’ve been good.’

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

‘You can go.’

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


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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Did you have to say you were sick?’

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

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

You hear the pad of his footsteps.

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

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

You revolt at the use of the word betrayal.

‘What is going on here?’

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

‘Do you want to get out?’

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

‘Not if it means leaving you.’

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

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

He draws back and gazes into your eyes.

‘Traffic light?’

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


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

‘Daddy, please can I come?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Missing you already, little girl.’

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

‘What am I going to do, Daddy?’

He kisses you on the forehead.

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

Are you a prisoner here?

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

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


You message back and slip the phone beneath the mattress.


bath, beauty, dark places, desire, dominance, erotic writing, erotica, fiction, lust, psychology, seduction, sensuality, sex, short fiction, short stories, Sir, surrender, touch, Uncategorized, wildness, women, writing

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)

anxiety, beauty, culture, dark places, desire, dominance, emotion, empowerment, erotic writing, erotica, experience, fiction, fragile, hunger, lust, passion, pleasure, process, psychology, seduction, sexuality, short fiction, short stories, Sir, surrender, touch, Uncategorized, wildness, wisdom, women, writing

Sir 2.0 Episode 2: Processing.


You swallow but your throat is acrid with tension. You cannot make out the details of the people watching you, only that they are there. The gown continues to shift up on the back of your legs, adding self consciousness, drop by drop, over the stir of emotions that collide and change within you.

‘To complete processing, you will undergo a cursory medical examination and a bathing procedure. Once those are complete, you will be assigned sleeping quarters and then left to your own devices until tomorrow morning.’

You narrow your eyes against the light. The voice has retreated behind an air of routine and its emotional content is all that you have to go on in terms of figuring out what is going on here. How much trouble, you potentially are in depends on what information you can glean from your present circumstances.

‘The correct response is yes sir.’

Your heart beats hard and faster. There is a low murmur of conversation, and a stifled giggle which rakes its nails down your spine. A hot flash of humiliation bursts in your stomach, a perfect emotional time travel, taking you back to high school again. The spotlight is hot, and you can feel perspiration beginning to teem underneath your arms and at the small of your back. At this precise moment, every sense is sharpened, ready to cut like a theatre of eager surgeons. Whether it’s you or someone else, depends on the response you give.

‘Yes, sir.’

You raise a hand and a titter snakes through the audience.

‘Am I being held here against my will?’

The laughter grows and someone calls out ‘not with those thighs, dear.’ Your cheeks burn with blood and tears well in the corners of your eyes.

‘Don’t laugh at me.’

That draws a series of oohs.

‘What upsets you more, being held here against your will or being laughed at?’

The voice comes through, silences the others in its wake. The way a comet burns up air on its passage through the night sky.

‘Don’t play doctor with me. I want an answer to my question.’

The voice gives a dark chuckle that makes you shiver to be its subject.

‘What if you had already been asked that question?’

You frown, aware that the spotlight makes every expression exaggerated. Another ripple of laughter starts up. It hurts more than the first time and you start to back up.

‘Stop right where you are.’

You jerk at the change in tone and volume and in response, the back of your gown hitches up a centimetre, highlighting the backs of your thighs where they meet your ass. You give an involuntary yelp, which fuels the embarrassment even further.

‘I wouldn’t, there’s nothing wrong with me.’

He pauses and the laughter dies away again. It’s application reminds you of a whip or a paddle and its sting unsettles rather than the pure, stable joy of pain that you enjoy. That you recognise this comes to you unbidden and without import.

‘My point, exactly.’

A wall to the left bursts into brilliant, white light and coalesces into a screen. A series of numbers dance across, teeming in patterns of deliberate complexity before it opens on a woman’s face, smiling.

Your face.

‘Hey, look you’re probably freaking out about now, but that’s kind of the point. I am you and you are me, before all this starts off.’

You watch yourself give your name, date of birth, social security number, mother’s maiden name and that you have paid to experience SIR, signed a raft of paperwork to avoid indemnity and that you should just relax and go with it.

Offscreen, a female voice asks you onscreen how you heard about SIR. You smile, and you recognise yourself, the telltale blink that you give and the bitemark on the inside of your lip that you could probably slip the edge of your front teeth again and find the indentation by instinct.

Your capacity to tear yourself to pieces without cause, a thought arises, might be part of why you are here.

Not that you are sure what here means.

‘I go to a munch two towns over once a month and one of the subs there went. She did not stop talking about it so I looked into it and -‘

You watch yourself spread your arms and grin. A hopeful light twinkles in your eyes. If this is not you, then it’s terrifying in its accuracy.

‘Here you are. Or I am. Sorry, I get tongue tied with things like this.’

The interviewer chuckles and you join in, a little ahead of the beat and the audience in the room follow along. The screen fades into black.

‘We’ve installed a block on your memories. We don’t change anything about you, and at every turn, we’re a bit like the opposite of a supermarket. We always offer choice. You are here because you want to be, but part of what makes this so popular and so important to maintain discretion is that we agree that this is all part of the play.’

Your breath is molten in your lungs and a heat begins to pool in the pit of your stomach, drawn downwards by gravity and you clench your thighs together to make the sensation flare deeper and warmer.

‘So, I volunteered for this?’

A hum fills the air and you experience the interview directly again. The leather chair underneath you, the scent of the Ethiopian coffee that you were offered on arrival and the drive over, calculating how much this was going to cost you. Chrissy had said it was ‘life-altering’ and you knew that your life could use some of that.

Some people went into simulations about the zombie apocalypse, you came here.

‘Does that answer your question?’

You stare into the darkness. The want is bolder than your fear, it puts a leash on it and a muzzle. The courage hardens your nipples, relaxes the muscles between your thighs, opening and transforming the emotions into fuel for the engine of your desire and your fear and your need.

There have seldom been clear distinctions between them and that, you know is part of why you are here. You smile and lower your head. Deferment is part of it, and you know that there is expectation and a responsibility here for you. It is a misconception that the submissive is powerless, and you stopped explaining this to vanilla types a long time ago. Here, you have the power and the voice, the eyes in the darkness are asking you to take it.

‘Yes, where do we start?’

The table is wheeled in with stainless steel stirrups mounted on telescopic stands mounted on the ends, a section cut away in the middle and velcro straps at the top end. A second table is brought in with a bowl of steaming, lilac and coconut scented water and a natural sponge. You run your tongue over your lips, and your heartbeat drowns out the thoughts in volume and rhythm.

No one is laughing at you now. Which is a good place to start.

‘Whenever you are ready.’







dominance, emotion, erotic writing, erotica, fiction, sex, surrender, Uncategorized, women, writing

Sir 2.0 Episode 1: Processing.


Episode 1 is here

 You awoke in nothing but a hospital gown. Blue cotton, soft on your skin. It is dark when you hear the door open and a hand touches your shoulder, rousing you from a blank, dreamless sleep.

‘Time to get up.’

The voice is smooth, assured and you strain your eyes to see who it is that has woken you. All you can make out is a silhouette and then you are helped to your feet with a brusque care that unnerves you. Normally, you need coffee and gentle coaxing like a wild animal trapped underneath your porch to do anything in the morning.

Not that you are sure what time it is. It is academic, you are on your feet and your legs wobble with the last vestiges of fatigue still in your muscles and bones. The gown is short, and you go to pull the hem down but you hear the voice tell you no, in a firm, polite tone.

‘Sir doesn’t like that. Don’t make this difficult for yourself.’

The hand goes to the small of your back and guides you forwards. The light streaming in from the door hurts your eyes and you lower your chin to your chest to avoid it cutting into your eyes. The hand at your back does not falter, insistent in guiding you out of the room.

You find yourself joining a line of women, all clad in gowns. You are stood behind a tall blonde woman,  with shoulders and thighs that she has spent hours feeding and sculpting. Her hair is tied back in a french plait that falls between her shoulder blades. She looks over her shoulder at you, green eyes glinting with excitement and trepidation. You turn and look at the guard. She has a feral androgyny, with short black hair, high cheekbones with her lips pressed together. She had on a black t shirt and cargo pants, a black belt and on her hip, a small black box attached to a pistol grip.

‘Face forward. Don’t hold up the line.’

The woman in front did not turn around, kept moving forward but she gave a small sigh. You lean forward, afraid that this might be seen as an infraction but curiosity gives courage to your tongue.

‘What’s going on? I just woke up here.’

The woman does not turn and you both shuffle forward.

‘We get processed then assessed.’

Processed has a mechanical ring to it that makes your throat tight with discomfort. You are suddenly conscious of the length of the gown again. It keeps riding up on the backs of your legs, exposing them to the eyes of the guards that stand and watch you.

‘Processed and assessed for what?’

You hear her lips smack together.

‘For Sir.’

The discomfort moves down from your throat into your chest, heating the air in your lungs and then sinking into your stomach.

‘I don’t remember how I got here.’

She gave a soft laugh, lending you the memory of high school all over again, the laughter that lived and died the moment you walked into the classroom or the lunchroom.

‘It affects all of us differently. Don’t worry, just do as you’re told, you’ll be fine.’

You go to ask her again but a guard catches your eye and puts his index finger to his lips whilst fixing you with a harsh glare. You get the message, sinking into yourself and following the line.

The corridor leads to a large hall, where the single line that you are in splits in two, leading to two large doors through which the women continue to file through. A guard stands at each door, waves each woman down with a tablet that they tap into before nodding and letting them walk through.

‘That depends on what I am being told to do.’

You stop thinking for a time, letting yourself go inside your head, focusing on your breathing and when you find yourself at the door, you blink heavily as the guard waves the tablet over you and nods.

‘What’s the tablet for?’

The guard, blonde hair with curls that resist taming and the look of a dissolute, slightly degraded surfer in the line of his jaw and the bright smile that he gives, raises an eyebrow.

‘Medical. You can go through now.’

The door opens and your heart hammers against your ribs. Inside is a rich, velvety darkness and there is a change in temperature, slightly chill compared to the corridor that you walked through. Perhaps it was the proximity of the other women, but for now, you are alone.

The door closes behind you. For a moment you are in absolute darkness, absolute silence.

A spotlight comes on, harsh as a slap and you raise your hand to shield your eyes. Your gown rides up at the front and your other hand holds it down.

‘How adorable.’

The voice snakes out of the darkness. You cannot make out anyone but the voice is low, confident in it’s primacy. A voice that does not need to be raised to be heard, but you can hear the capacity for it.

‘What are you doing?’

There is a pause. You can make out the shapes of others.

An audience, distinguished only by the different patterns of breathing and the shift of bodies in constant motion. Their eyes glint in the darkness, a thousand flavours of hunger, all of them focused on you. You shift, uncomfortable with the scrutiny.

‘Whatever I want.’

A lilting amusement is there.

Processing has begun.





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