beauty, love, lust, sex, Sir, women

Rough Magic (Sir 2.0)


Things fall apart by degrees. System errors and missed appointments.



Despite the surveillance, the neurological conceits which form the Sir experience, it goes unnoticed by everyone.



Except you.



Daddy.



Ingrid leaves. She gives you the remaining craft projects in a cloth bag, blunted needles and strands of wool scrambled together in a riot of colours and kisses you goodbye on the cheek. She tells you it’s stopped being fun for her and a pang of guilt rises in your gullet, hot and acid.



‘Why are you staying?’



You cannot meet her gaze, desperate not to lie to her and you decide not to.



‘Daddy.’



Her mouth twists into a cynical grin and she shakes her head.



‘Master got reassigned, and some of the other people, well Christ there was this one guy…’



She grimaces and shakes her head. Your mouth tastes of copper, adrenaline and guilt alongside the bubbling excitement which runs through your veins.



‘Ah yes, Daddy.’



She gives you a dry, chaste kiss on the cheek and inhales your hair before her mouth moves to your ear.



‘Be careful.’



She leaves, wiping the tears from her eyes as she strides out of the dorm with her small bag of belongings tucked under her arm.



The phone vibrates and you search around before retrieving it and reading the screen.



WANT TO PLAY WITH DADDY?



Your heart races with excitement and you reply as fast as your fingers allow.



Your name comes over the tannoy.



A long-sleeved white blouse with mother-of-pearl buttons and a high collar.  A charcoal pencil skirt which falls just above the knee. He has laid a set of hair clips out for you and a pair of diamond chip earrings on a velvet pillow. The look is crisp secretarial, and everything fits you like a glove. The shoes have a good heel and gleam like oil. You clip the stockings to the suspender belt although the panties don’t match. You clip your hair up, apply the dark lipstick and the red velvet choker with the small charm dangling in the hollow of your throat.



You follow the lights. Your legs are hollow and weak with your nerves, excitement and apprehension flooding your perceptions in languid, repeated waves of ebb and flow.



The door opens and you look at the four poster bed, fresh cotton sheets and pillows arranged in a horse shoe at the head of the bed. There are matching bedside tables and overhead, a ceiling fan whirrs in lazy repetition.



There is no sign of Daddy.



‘Don’t turn around, baby girl.’



His voice is thick, rough at the edges like he’s spent a long time silent or in heated conversation.



Warm, rough fingers close around the nape of your neck. You shudder at the contact, caught between apprehension and excitement. His fingers bite into your skin and you move your head but he keeps his grip. He pulls you backwards and presses his crotch against your backside.



‘What are you going to do Daddy?’



His fingers slip upwards, curling as he pulls your hair. A flare of warm, bright pain floods through you and you gasp at the contact as he pulls you around, rough and urgent with need.



He presses his mouth against yours, the rasp of his unshaven scruff prickles and scratches against your face. His left hand makes a fistful of hair at the back of your head whilst his right hand closes around your throat. The fingers press into either side and your head goes light from the constriction.



‘Daddy wants you to fight back, baby girl.’



You bring your hands up, pushing against his broad chest. He wears a black shirt and you grab the front, pulling the cloth away as he kisses and constricts you with an animal urgency. His hand squeezes your throat but you ball your hands into fists as his fingers bite into your arteries before he releases his grip.



‘Check in?’



The adrenaline is cleansing and electrifying, your breathing is rapid and shallow, heart fluttering like a bird’s wing in the cage of your ribs.



‘Green, Daddy.’



He pulls your hair and kisses you, muscling into your space as he holds you close against him. You wriggle and struggle but his grip is immovable. You shove, using your hips to generate momentum but he is too strong. When you look up, his face is a mask of stern determination which ripples through your body.

 

His warm fingers are firm either side of your throat. You feel small beneath his grip but undiminished by it. The small notes of fear add a piquancy to his actions which make you throb with a feral desire, sudden and  powerful.

 

You struggle again but his right hand is tugging the hem of your skirt upwards and you push your knees together, enjoying the challenged grunt he gives as he pushes his left knee forward. He moves with intention but not violence as he pushes your legs apart and shoves his hand between your thighs. The crotch of your panties is damp beneath his fingertips and he massages you in crude circles as you push against his hand at your throat. You are whole and tender, showing your resistance to see how he breaks you of it. You dance to the tune of your thoughts until he compels you to find the rhythm and silence of your feelings.

The rhythm of his fingers joins with each small squeeze of your throat. A deep, sonorous pulse begins in your stomach which reached further outwards with each controlled and deliberate motion. A rough, primal magic plays within you and when he slips his fingers inside your underwear, you bite back a tight whimper.

 

‘Who does this pussy belong to, baby girl?’

 

You try to tell him but he finds your clit with his index finger and strokes it like a feather against you and the words fall over.

 

You gaze at him, enraptured and letting the rapture take you to meet everything without leaving the brute safety of his embrace.

 

‘Yours, Daddy.’

 

He gives a small smile, a break in character to remind you he’s there before his face grows stern. You ripple and open to him as he keeps stroking your clit. Each contact builds upon the last and it sends waves of deep, dark pleasure through you.

 

His touch strings your soul with Christmas lights and you ask him for permission to come.

 

He pulls his hand out and with a hooking motion of his fingers, tears the crotch of your panties apart and then pulls them off your hips and ass.

 

He eases two fingers inside you and you cry out, blooming and ready to be full of his will.

 

‘I can do anything I want to it, can’t I?’

 

You nod and he squeezes your throat, making you light with the restriction. He has you check in and you whisper green before his fingers move with urgency inside you.

 

‘Yes, Daddy.’

 

The pressure grows inside you. He rests his index finger on your clit as he angles his fingers upwards. The slick play of it makes you reel with ecstasy and you ask him for permission to come. He shakes his head and you push forward, eyes gleaming and wet with need.

 

He smiles and comes forwards.

 

‘There’s nothing you can do, baby girl. You’re mine and you have to ask permission to come.’

 

You ask him and when he shakes his head, your stomach aches with the furious, slick need for release and your lips curl back over your teeth as you dart forward and bite into his hand.

 

He laughs and you pull back your mouth. His skin was tangy against your lips and you want more of him. He takes his hand from your throat and grabs the hair at the back of your head and wraps his fingers in it. The hot sting of it seethes down your spine as he growls at you to look at him.

 

You ask him again. He leans forward and touches his forehead to yours as he plants a soft kiss on your lips.

 

Yes.

 

You push against him, putting your whole body into the dance of it. Somewhere between a prayer and a seizure as you buck against his fingers and spasm with joy in his firm embrace.

He holds you without flinching and watches you gaze into the infinite, lost to everything but feeling.

 

When your eyes well up with tears, he removes his hand from between your thighs and holds you, moving over to the couch and sitting you on his lap as he strokes your hair and watches you with a tenderness which makes you ache to stay underneath it.

 

You close your eyes and turn against his chest, he flexes his hand and you ask to see it. There is a livid purple crescent on the webbing of his hand. You’ve marked him and he catches the thought as he smiles at you.

 

‘It’s okay, baby girl. I didn’t feel it.’

 

You take his hand and kiss the mark you make, looking up at him as he grins with amused warmth.

 

‘Thank you.’

 

His other hand cups your cheek, strokes your eyebrow and he leans in to kiss you before he tells you you’re days away from being free.
























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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.

‘Daddy.’

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.

2.

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.

‘Green.’

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.’

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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.

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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.

‘Green.’

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.

‘Everything.’

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.

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

Drop (Sir 2.0)

It’s when you are away from Daddy which causes doubt and confusion. The tingling certainties are flushed from your system by the routines of waiting.

 

Ingrid puts down the book she’s reading when you’re sat together, you are laid on your bed, palms flat against your stomach and breathing through the restlessness.

 

‘Does he take care of the drop?’  

 

You turn onto your side and bring your knees up to your chest as you peer at her beneath your fringe.

 

‘Yes, he does.’

 

She leans forward, hugging her knees. There is a small red mark on her neck and the faint odour of antiseptic when she moves.

 

‘Do you think it’s real?’

 

The words are spittle on your cheek and you cannot avoid the affront of it. Your upper lip curls back over your teeth, the sting of implication hurts and all the more so when it strikes the soft, open places where Daddy leaves his mark. You turn away.

 

‘It’s his job.’

 

You lower your chin and mumble about being tired. You hear her come over and touch your shoulder.

 

‘I don’t say that to be cruel. When I’m with my master, it’s real but it’s why we come here.’

 

The phone beneath your pillow. The pea beneath the stack of mattresses and you feel it all the time. Not the phone itself but the connection. The subtle prohibition of contact outside the room is the end of the argument but telling Ingrid invites scrutiny you are better off without for now.

 

‘I don’t know. A lot of this is new to me, and I’ve chosen to forego certain things in order to have this.’

 

Your words are careful. You have less here, but also more. What life was before, away from here is something you know all too. The frenzied, packing prickling and the cynical walls between you and your happiness. Queen and subject in the same body, wrestled and opened then in the aftermath he holds you with the same fervour until you tingle for the aftercare as much as the sweeping, expansive symphony of his will and hands working in concert.

 

He hurts.

 

He heals.

 

A small, dark seed passes from Ingrid to you. The soil of disappointment suffocates everything but the toughest, gnarled weeds and there, they sprout with speed, hungry for the air of limited circumstances and disappointment.  You swallow without tasting and Ingrid hears her name called. You close your eyes against the small tight pebble of tension which rolls around the hollows of your eye sockets.

 

Your name calls you from a thin, restless sleep.

 

Your thoughts are chattering, dancing out of time with the normal flow of anticipation, sensation, affection and affirmation. Everything feels packed, jostling as you walk to the changing room.

 

You shower but the water falls like nails and you twist beneath the water, inflamed and irritated by ancient, nameless beasts of insecurity. The predators which you came here to escape from. 

 

A pink t shirt dress which falls to mid-thigh.

 

Black panties with dayglow stars in a constellation pattern across the back and a half cup bra underneath.

 

The path leads you but you’re shifting, restless and dark. You are on the verge of tears when you press your palm against the door and it opens onto Daddy stood over a black rectangular table, with holes inset at each corner. He wears a black t shirt which clings to his shoulders and across his chest. A fresh shave makes his cheeks and head glow. The smile on his face falls when he looks at you.

 

He takes you in his arms and the warm, soft rush of contact pinches you hard enough to cut your breath short.  Every cell hungers but your doubts are a thin, dark film over everything and tears won’t wash them away.  He holds you tight and strokes your hair but he stops and steps backwards.

 

‘Baby girl?’

 

You glance up at him, eyes blurred with tears as the anxiety clamps you between its teeth and shakes you like a rag doll.

 

‘Am I real to you?’

 

He furrows his forehead, jaw tight with tension as his arms fall by his side.

 

‘I mean, do you have this with the other ones you see? I wouldn’t be mad if you did Daddy but I need to know because –‘

 

The words lurch out, tender and squalling like sick baby birds fleeing the nest.

 

‘Traffic light?’

 

Saying green would be a lie but you’ve twisted yourself into a knot over this so tight you can’t fucking breathe.

 

‘Amber.’

 

He comes towards you, takes your hands in his and stares into your eyes. His luminous brown eyes, pools of gentle warm humour are harder and glistening like fresh scar tissue.

 

‘I don’t see anyone else.’

 

You look at him. The taut, lean body and his face. Glancing at his hands prompts a tiny apocalypse in your body each time you see him.

 

‘Don’t blow smoke up my ass, Daddy.’

 

He gestures to the door behind him.

 

‘You can log a complaint, see my client roster anytime, baby girl.’

 

His voice is hard, eyes flaring with assertion. The idea stabs at you and you shake your head from side to side.  You start to step away, shivering and upset.

 

Fucking Ingrid.

 

Fucking insecurities.

 

His hands stay down by his sides.

 

‘You can leave at any time, move to a different power exchange and see how you get on there.’

 

The hardness does not leave his voice but his eyes are soft.

 

‘If you feel I’m faking this, baby girl, then you should go and find something more authentic.’

 

Your eyes are itching with unshed tears as you lean forward, babbling against the tumult of fears and insecurities, a swarm of stinging insects vandalising the hive they’ve build in your soul.

 

‘I never said you were faking it, Daddy, but there are other exchanges going on..’

 

You move towards him. His hands come up and cup your face in his warm, rough hands. They smell of fresh coffee and vanilla and he whispers his thumbs over your cheekbones.

 

His eyes darken and he tells you in a low, gentle voice to get on the table. The hard light of surrender chases away the murk of anxiety and uncertainty but it does not defeat it. You flinch and he strokes your face.

 

‘Traffic light?’

 

You shiver and look towards the table. You can go back anytime you want, but you know the place too well to see it anew. He is not pleading or defending himself, splattering you with reason and logical arguments.

 

He is action, and just when you need it.

 

‘Green.’

 

You climb onto the table

 

 

 

 

 

 

M B Blissett
Show quoted text

It’s when you are away from Daddy which causes doubt and confusion.

Ingrid puts down the book she’s reading when you’re sat together, on your bed, palms flat against your stomach and breathing through the restlessness.

‘Does he take care of the drop?’

You turn onto your side and bring your knees up to your chest as you peer at her beneath your fringe.

‘Yes, he does.’

She leans forward, hugging her knees. There is a small red mark on her neck and the faint odour of antiseptic when she moves.

‘Do you think it’s real?’

The words are spittle on your cheek and you cannot avoid the affront of it. Your upper lip curls back over your teeth, the sting of implication hurts and all the more so when it strikes the soft, open places where Daddy leaves his mark. You turn away.

‘It’s his job.’

You lower your chin and mumble about being tired. You hear her come over and touch your shoulder.

‘I don’t say it to be cruel. When I’m with my master, its real, but it’s why we come here.’

The phone beneath your pillow. The pea beneath the stack of mattresses and you feel it all the time. Not the phone itself but the connection. The subtle prohibition of contact outside the room is the end of the argument but telling Ingrid invites scrutiny you are better off without for now.

‘I don’t know. A lot of this is new and I’ve chosen to forego certain things.’

Your words are careful. You have less here, but also more. What life was before, away from here is something you know all too. The frenzied, packing prickling and the cynical walls between you and your happiness. Queen and subject in the same body, wrestled and opened in the aftermath he holds you with the same fervour until you tingle for the aftercare as much as the sweeping, expansive symphony of his will and hands working in concert.

He hurts.

He heals.

A small, dark seed passes from Ingrid to you. The soil of disappointment suffocates everything but the toughest, gnarled weeds and there, they sprout with speed, hungry for the air of limited circumstances and disappointment.  You swallow without tasting and Ingrid hears her name called. You close your eyes against the small tight pebble of tension which rolls around the hollows of your eye sockets.

Your name calls you from a thin, restless sleep.

Your thoughts are chattering, dancing out of time with the normal flow of anticipation, sensation, affection and affirmation. Everything feels packed, jostling as you walk to the changing room.

You shower but the water falls like nails and you twist beneath the water, inflamed and irritated by ancient, nameless beasts of insecurity. The predators which you came here to escape from.

A pink t-shirt dress which falls to mid-thigh.

Black panties with dayglow stars in a constellation pattern across the back and a half cup bra underneath.

The path leads you but you’re shifting, restless and dark. You are on the verge of tears when you press your palm against the door and it opens onto Daddy stood over a black rectangular table, with holes inset at each corner. He wears a black t-shirt which clings to his shoulders and across his chest. A fresh shave makes his cheeks and head glow. The smile on his face falls when he looks at you. A cabinet stands to the right, made from black hardwood, closed to you.

As you feel to him.

He takes you in his arms and the warm, soft rush of contact pinches you hard enough to cut your breath short.  Every cell hungers but your doubts are a thin, dark film over everything and tears won’t wash them away.  He holds you tight and strokes your hair but he stops and steps backwards.

‘Baby girl?’

You glance up at him, eyes blurred with tears as the anxiety clamps you between its teeth and shakes you like a rag doll.

‘Am I real to you?’

He furrows his forehead, jaw tight with tension as his arms fall by his side.

‘I mean, do you have this with the other ones you see? I wouldn’t be mad if you did Daddy but I need to know because–‘

The words lurch out, tender and squalling like sick baby birds fleeing the nest.

‘Traffic light?’

Saying green would be a lie but you’ve twisted yourself into a knot over this so tight you can’t breathe.

‘Amber.’

He comes towards you, takes your hands in his and stares into your eyes. His luminous brown eyes, pools of gentle warm humour are harder and glistening like fresh scar tissue.

‘I see no one else.’

You look at him. The taut, lean body and his face. Glancing at his hands prompts a tiny apocalypse in your body each time you see him.

‘Don’t blow smoke up my ass, Daddy.’

He gestures to the door behind him.

‘You can log a complaint, see my client roster anytime, baby girl.’

His voice is hard, eyes flaring with assertion. The idea stabs at you and you shake your head from side to side.  You step away, shivering and upset.

Fucking Ingrid.

Fucking insecurities.

His hands stay down by his sides.

‘You can leave, move to a different power exchange and see how you get on there.’

The hardness does not leave his voice but his eyes are soft.

‘If you feel I’m faking this, baby girl, then you should find something more authentic.’

Your eyes are itching with unshed tears as you lean forward, babbling against the tumult of fears and insecurities, a swarm of stinging insects vandalising the hive they’ve built in your soul.

‘I never said you were faking it, Daddy, but there are other exchanges going on..’

You move towards him. His hands come up and cup your face in his warm, rough hands. They smell of fresh coffee and vanilla and he whispers his thumbs over your cheekbones.

His eyes darken and he tells you in a low, gentle voice to get on the table. The hard light of surrender chases away the murk of anxiety and uncertainty but it does not defeat it. You flinch and he strokes your face.

‘Traffic light?’

You shiver and look towards the table. You can go back anytime you want, but you know the place too well to see it anew. He is not pleading or defending himself, splattering you with reason and logical arguments.

He is action, and just when you need it.

‘Green.’

You climb onto the table. The hem of your t-shirt dress rides up your backside and you go to tug it down but Daddy takes a slow appreciative intake of breath. The response is visceral, and a thin, hot wire of desire cauterizes the doubt for a second. You turn and lay on your back, resting on your elbows as he walks over to you.

‘Lay down with your arms above your head.’

His voice is firm but playful as you tingle with surrender.

You stretch out and he walks around you. The lights dim around you as he goes to the cabinet and opens the doors. He comes back with three pairs of restraints, Velcro cuffs with lengths of black elastic trailing off them and a blindfold.

He wraps one pair of cuffs around each wrist and loops the elastic down through the holes in the  upper corners of the table.  Your heart thumps in your chest, tasting adrenaline and nerves on your tongue but already feeling a slow, rolling build up of moist arousal deep in the heart of your pelvis.

‘Traffic light?’

You gaze at him but he does not smile.

‘Green.’

He nods and walks down to the other end of the table, affixes a cuff to each of your ankles and repeats the process. He adjusts the tension, using your expression as a barometer of intent before he stands back and admires his work. He pushes your thighs apart and looks at you, the material over your crotch is damp, making your thighs oiled with arousal. The t-shirt has ridden up your hips and he steps forwards, smooths it down your stomach and gives you a smile of quiet reassurance as he strokes your stomach and gazes into your eyes. He strokes your hair and breathes with you before he glances down the length of you, restrained and displayed, a banquet for his attention with no awareness of his appetite or capacity beyond experience.

He holds the blindfold over you, allowing you to see it and reading your face for any expression of discomfort.

‘Traffic light?’

‘Green.’

He drapes it over your eyes and the warm, complete black drops you into another dimension of sensation.  You hear the clip of his feet and you yelp when his hands rest on the waistband of your panties. His fingers trace along a seam and you lift your hips to accommodate him but he presses his palm against your stomach and pushes you down. Both hands gather at the seam like conspirators, bunching the material between his fists as he tears them off your ass. You writhe with surprise.

‘Hold still.’

You obey him and he pushes your thighs apart.

‘Ready for more, baby girl?’

You nod with a clumsy enthusiasm, salivating with excitement as he grazes his fingertips down the ripe curve of your pussy.

‘I know I make you a little crazy but it’s natural.’

His hand cracks against your pussy, a slap which makes you yelp and buck against your restraints. His breathing deepens and grows thick as the intimate, tender pain sets you reeling with its argument.

‘Can you handle more?’

You nod but he remains silent and still.

‘Yes Daddy, I can. I’m being a good girl.’

He smacks you again, the sting is sublime, and the rough strength of his hand against you makes you tender to everything. You arch your back, thirsting for the uncomplicated bliss of his hurt. It is not pain without context, when he removes his hand, the throbbing rush makes you wet and tender as you rub your thighs together, using the friction to heighten the sensation. You take to his hand like its purpose. It is less complicated than obligation and propriety. You are surfing a wave of intimate pain, every pore a choirboy singing to the surrounding universe. He comes up and strokes your face.

‘Traffic light?’

You whisper, blessed out and exhausted.

‘Green.’

He unwraps your wrists, massaging the flesh between his thumb and forefinger before he leans over and kisses you on the forehead.

‘You took it like a good girl.’

Your head is full and empty, cleansed of doubt and alive to everything. You reach up and touch him. Your hand trembles where you touch him, and he smiles at you. His soft, full lips are curved in a smile and you reach up, pulling him down to you. His lips graze over yours and you kiss, propelled by sheer hunger for the fragile treasure of his mouth against yours. When you draw back, you feel electrified, soft and free again.

‘I did Daddy.’

He reaches over and unwraps the cuffs on your ankles and slips his hands under the backs of your knees, lifting them as he gazes into your eyes and draws you forward.

‘Traffic light?’

You shudder, breathless with anticipation as he turns his mouth against the inside of your thigh. His mouth is soft and languid as he kisses downwards, breathing in through his nose as he tastes your skin with an intense, bold concentration. When you look down, his eyes are on you and the tickle of his breath against your pussy, tender from his discipline makes your spine uncoil with sublime sensation. He turns his face towards you, and licks upwards in a hungry, slow sweeping motion. You cry out as the tip of his rough, warm tongue circles around your tender, pulsing clit and when his fingers dabble around the first inch of your vagina, the heightened sensations are unequivocal and undeniable. It is not instant, but his control and your surrender are conspirators in your pleasure. You ask him for permission to come and he shakes his head no, lips and cheeks shining with your arousal.

‘Please Daddy.’

He lowers his mouth back to you and you reach for him, clutching with need as he teases delicate patterns of wonder with his lips and tongue. You catch the mingled scent of your musk and his, the pheromone symphony of fuck as you press against his face, free to be greedy with pleasure as you move against his face, asking him for permission to come. He denies you a second time and you turn your face, shutting your eyes as a brutal wave of pleasure washes you away.

Third time is the charm. He whispers his assent, an amused consideration which sends you reeling as you relinquish the last notions of your anxieties and doubts. You dive into the ocean of you, and he is the undercurrent, the bedrock and all things between. You grind yourself against his mouth and the first signs of the impending orgasm arrive in hard, expanding bursts of joy. You cling to him and force everything within you, salt and sweet, hard and soft into him.

Daddy can take it. So can you.

Your vision blurs and your temples throb. The absence is as overwhelming as the totality of your orgasm and he is there, wrapping you up in his arms and pressing you against his chest. Tears fall but he kisses them away without seeking to resolve them past falling. You whisper in his ear.

‘I’m sorry Daddy.’

He keeps hold of you, stroking your hair as you plant clumsy, joyous kisses all over his face. The perfume of your orgasm is sticky like wild honey on his face, and you lose yourself in the comfort he offers you.

‘There’s nothing to forgive. I can tell you all day about how I am, who I am baby girl.’

You take his face in your hands and the love crushes and rebuilds you in the same perfect moment.

‘I love you Daddy. I’m sorry‘

He puts his finger to your lips and shakes his head.

‘But I’d rather show you. Which is what I need to tell you.’

He starts to whisper and you squeeze him close, and what he tells you is terrifying and thrilling.

A way out. Together.

M B Blissett
Show quoted text

Standard
beauty, love, lust, sex, Sir, women

Breathe (Sir 2.0)

You dream of him.

The remnants cling onto you as you wake. His rough, strong hands search out the hot, perpetual ache within you and crack the clay over your soul with their knowing, focused touch.

You see his gentle eyes and full lips, sometimes bruising and urgent with want or considerate and placid in the aftermath.   You awake with the taste of him on your lips and you run your tongue over them, committing the tang of him to memory.

You hear your name whilst you finish the ramshackle sewing project. Your hands shake and you drop the needle onto the table. In the excitement, you stab the tip of your index finger and a small spot of blood wells up. You suckle on it as you dash to follow the blinking path of lights. Your stomach aches with the pleasant pang of anticipation and when the shower room opens, you dash inside, peeling off the sweatshirt and track pants. Your skin feels new and hungry, tingling with a charge the hot water does not touch. You soap yourself up, gasping when you wash between your legs, throbbing with anticipation at the thought of seeing him again.

You find a white shirt on a hanger. The dimensions of it are familiar and when you slip it on, the cuffs lurch over your hands and the collar is ludicrous around the neck. It is cotton and linen fibres, soft and gentle against your skin but it carries the faint musk of wear. You bring it to your nose and inhale, closing your eyes as a slow, deliberate heat rises inside you like a campfire on a summer night at the beach. The appetite for him has grown.

The underwear is black silk, fringed with lace and cut high at the waist. It feels wonderful against your skin, a slick, gentle kiss which rasps with delight where it clings to you. You button up the shirt on and it hangs to your thighs. Heels are next, black Manholos which lengthen your legs. You wonder if he chooses the things he wears.

A full length mirror shows you the answer.

The trail of lights leads you further than before. You don’t know how big this building is and the bonds of power keep you to a few locations even as his touch, his attention sets you free beyond anything you’ve known before. You have power and agency, and surrender reinforces it. The palm reader which tingles against your hand. Your knees are hollow and trembling, a feverish anticipation which tingles across your skin like a spring shower.

A bedroom. The four poster bed dominates the room. It is a charcoal sketch made tangible, distressed, lacquered black hardwood with brass panels inset into the teak base. The walls are purple and to your left, a docking station sits on a small lacquered hardwood table. Wireless round speakers sit either side of it, resembling a series of cubes

Daddy sits cross legged on the bed, wearing just a pair of black trousers. He grins at you with such warmth it makes your head swim.

‘Hey little girl.’

You blush and grin back at him. He gets onto his knees and picks up a small remote, points it at the docking station and the speakers

The music starts, the metallic clink of a synthesizer and the confident low voice, youthful without being sharp.

‘The club isn’t the best place to find a lover..’

He sits on the edge of the bed, places his palms either side and lifts his chin.

‘Traffic light?’

A squall of nerves runs across your skin. The music continues and you glance at him, the question apparent in your eyes as he leans back. The lighting here is soft, indirect and you stare at the sleek, dark hair on his chest and the ridges of muscle in his shoulders and down his arms press against his olive skin. You want to stroke through the hair on his chest, but you want to be a good girl for him. His displeasure excites you, sourced in warmth but still capable of pushing your limits.

‘Amber. What do you want me to do, Daddy?’

He gestures towards the stereo on the wall as his eyes take you in. His full lips curve in a smile and his eyes darken with lust.

‘Dance for me.’

You ask him if he can start the song again. He raises his eyebrows and points the remote at the docking station.  You slip the shoes off and he chuckles.

‘Those are Manolo Blahnik you’re not wearing, little girl.’

You giggle and wriggle your toes against the thick carpet.

‘Oh Daddy, I’d dance like a baby bird in these but they are beautiful shoes.’

You bring your hands above your head, fingers in your hair and pout. You’re working from a body of memories and experiences, rejecting what feels awkward and trusting to the music, as it illuminates and invigorates you. He sits with his thighs open, you turn so you are sideways to him as you sidle forwards, hips moving to the music as you mouth the lyrics whilst you gaze into his eyes. He shifts and you can see the outline of his cock through his trousers as a flush of blood creeps up his throat and his breathing deepens as you step between his open thighs. His hands reach out to brush up the length of your thigh and you pull back, shaking your head.

‘No touching, Daddy, those are the rules.’

He sits back, eyes narrowed as he tilts his head to one side.

‘Not my rules, little girl, but I’ll allow it.’

You keep yourself attuned to the rhythm. You look into his eyes as you slide the meat of your thigh against the soft bulk of his crotch, angling your hips so you brush along the length of his cock through the material. He growls and pushes forward, but you step backwards and turn your back to him, dipping down and pushing your backside where your thigh has been. You make a small circle, massaging him before stepping away. He gets up to follow you but you shake your head and pout at him.

‘Daddy.’

You say it in a sing-song voice and he sits back down, inhaling through his nose as you come back to him.

His reaction inflames you and you come back to him, unbuttoning the shirt to the collarbone and showing the outline of the bra as you dip at the waist and flip your hair. A squall of self-consciousness fires up but you dance past it.

Through it.

You lean into his space. The heat comes off him in febrile waves and you dance closer. Your nails rake down the planes of his chest, the dark curls of fur are soft against your nails and you enjoy the sigh of contentment he gives. His hands come over yours as the song finishes and he pulls you onto his lap. You sit on his lap and stroke his face, running a fingertip down the cleft in his chin as his hand slips up under the back of your shirt.

‘Did you like that, Daddy?’

He smiles and unbuttons the rest of your shirt, stroking your stomach then upwards as his fingers dabble in the hollow of your throat.

‘Yes I did.’

Your heart races as you feel his fingers dance across the line of your throat. The pads of his fingers rest against your pulse. You close your fingers over his and, driven by the simple urge to feel his power and to give him your own, you press down. On his lap, you straddle him and his other hand slips under the waistband of your panties and strokes the base of your spine before he smoothes his palm until it rests on your navel. You push against his hands, and his right hand slips inside your underwear, petting the ripe curve of your pussy as he rests the tips of his fingers against your arteries.

‘Traffic light?’

He puts no pressure on your windpipe as he watches you. His attention is powerful, intoxicating, the absorption and intensity of an animal without a loss of control. You wonder if his stoicism would prove maddening but he shows himself in slices, and you have taken him out of his armour more than once.

‘Green.’

The fingers of his right hand close on your arteries whilst his other hand cups your pussy, the tip of his index finger draws back the hood of your clit with the lightest brush. A pounding begins in your temples as he brushes around your clit. The muscles in your thighs tighten as you bear his gaze whilst you reach out and hold his face in your hands as you lift yourself up on your toes and press against him. Your vision wavers at the edges, like changing the reels of celluloid in a picture and the shudder shoots down your spine, riding the electric wave of sensation and deprivation into the pooling, seething bolus of ecstasy building in your pelvis.

‘Traffic light?’

You whimper, finding it difficult to think past the perfect storm of deprivation and sensation he wields within you. His hand inside your panties grows bold, lubricated by the thick mineral oil of your arousal as his touch strengthens and a finger slides inside you. The delicious pressure continues into every sinew and fibre of you as you feel the sentiment floating before you, almost out of reach.

‘Green.’

His fingers close on your throat as he pulls on your throbbing clit between his thumb and forefinger whilst his other finger is hooked upwards, undulating against the rough swollen patch of tissue. Layers of sensation build within you. You go limp in the face of such a powerful confluence of feeling and he lightens his grip on your throat as you suck in a deep, greedy breath. You prickle with guilt and unease away from him, but in his hands, you are broken and remade anew. Malleable flesh which reflects the internal conflict, and all your power to wield or gift as you need to.  You shake your head, compelled towards a fullness as you push down, shaking with the need for fullness as his other hand denies you breath.

You take flight without lifting from the ground. You try to ask for permission but your words slip from your grasp as you hump his fingers, urgent and ungainly but propelled into a hot, wet oblivion. His fingers let go of your throat but you carry on driving yourself onto his fingers.

‘Please Daddy please Daddy.’

Your body rages with a need which wrenches you from the fear, the uncertainty and into a state of sublime release. He breaks you with pleasure and you ride him to the world’s ending as you spit out a plea for absolution.

‘Yes, baby girl.’

Your eyes roll back in your head, all the pressure of release shoots out through every pore, nerves singing in perfect harmony as the crude pressure explodes inside you and you slip away, chased into euphoric oblivion.

You are not there long, but part of you remains there. At a remove, you feel his hands come away, replaced by his arms as he pulls you into his arms. The robust insistent strength becomes a firm, tender embrace as he strokes your hair and tells you everything is okay.

You don’t realise you are crying until you feel the hot splash of tears rolling down your cheeks. Every muscle in your body aches and you’re sensitive to everything. You imagine a dandelion, afloat on the breeze, fragile in its grace and propelled to destiny. You wrap yourself around him, dishevelled, damp and  triumphant.

He pulls you onto the bed as you continue to cling onto him and he lays down with you on top of him. He strokes your hair, unfazed by the sudden outpouring of emotion and the harder you squeeze him, test him, the more he remains present with you. You try to make conversation, to offer him something beyond the act, but he reassures you can just be. You drift off into a sleep as deep as anything you’ve known.

The last thing you hear is him speaking.

‘I want to take you out of here.’

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Uncategorized, Sir, beauty, love

Sir 2.0 Interlude Part 2.

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

‘You were expecting someone else?’

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

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

A whispered thank you be the safest recourse for you.

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

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

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

‘Do you understand?’

You nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sits back in the chair.

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

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

‘You’ve been quiet.’

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

‘Permission to speak.’

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

‘I’ve been good.’

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

‘You can go.’

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

I MISS YOU DADDY.

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.

SLEEP, LITTLE GIRL. I WILL SEE YOU SOON.

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.

2.

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.

‘Green.’

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.

I MISSED YOU MORE THAN YOU KNOW BUT I SHOW YOU OVER TELLING YOU. I AM MY ACTIONS.

You message back and slip the phone beneath the mattress.

YOU ARE.

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