For those of you who’ve followed my blog for a bit, you’ll have heard of my dear friend, Wicked Daddy. You may also have had an opportunity to read some of my sexy stories inspired by his amazing, naughty toys! Well, WD had a bit of a health scare over the weekend and is under doctor’s orders to take it easy and to make some time for relaxation. And, in my mind, what better way to relax than with a bit of smut, right?? 😉 *insert fiendish laugh here*
This story is slightly different than my typical writing and I’m curious to hear what you think of it. Feel free to drop me a line when you’ve got a moment.
Now, without further ado, this one’s for you, Wicked Daddy! Rest up and enjoy!
I want you to hold this for me, little one.
When he’d whispered the words in my ear just over an hour ago, it had seemed such an innocent request. And when he extended the nine-inch clear glass rod in my direction, my instinct was to reach out my hand. But my instinct was wrong…and I quickly found out exactly how wrong I was.
Now—face down, ass up on his bed—as he buries the greased rod snugly in my bottom, twisting and pumping it firmly into my most private hole, it occurs to me that Daddy isn’t entirely devoid of a sense of humor. Because not only does he want me to hold it for him, but his expectation is that I maintain control of the rod for a full hour without letting it fall to the mattress beneath me.
This is a game for him—for us—a test of wills he will inevitably win. He always does. But, oh, how he loves to give me the illusion of having a fighting chance.
As my tight ass clenches around the rod, appreciating its weight and depth, I soon realize that each nervous twitch, each shift in position, and each errant suckle engages my internal muscles and surrenders a fraction of the smooth probe from the sheath of my body, getting ever closer to failure. And despite the sheen of perspiration cooling across my exposed back, I know that only about ten minutes have passed since we started. It’s far too soon to admit defeat, far too soon to lose this challenge.
I’d hate to disappoint Daddy.
Unfortunately, there’s no way for me to be sure how much time has gone by. Determined to deny me any comfort in this scenario, he’s removed my watch and unplugged the alarm clock. The countdown is entirely in his hands. He could keep me like this for hours, if that were his preference. The thrilled frisson of arousal from this little mindfuck forces an inch of the rod out of me. I need to relax if I have any chance of enduring this exquisite dilemma for the full hour.
Although I can’t turn around to meet his eyes, I feel his gaze caressing my backside, searing me with his intensity. Occasionally, he whispers words of encouragement, sotto voce good girls that course through my body, tightening up my core and threatening to dislodge the smooth, well-oiled glass toy he’s placed there for his pleasure.
Judging by his soft footfalls, the distance of his voice, and the clicking of his thumbnail against the ridges of a crystal tumbler, he’s poured himself a drink and has taken up position in the plush seat in the corner. Daddy is determined to enjoy the show. This is one instance in which I’m actually happy I’m pinned in place, this time by precarious predicament as opposed to the rigid restraints he typically favors. We both know that if I were able to sneak a glimpse of him, I’d inevitably see the smooth black cane perched across his thighs, my inevitable punishment for failure laid out in the starkest terms possible. The full body shudder I’d undoubtedly experience would send the rod plummeting to the mattress and the biting penance would commence.
Determined to give him the obedience he deserves, I focus on my surroundings in an attempt to relax and to will the rod to stay right where he put it. After a deep, cleansing breath, I squeeze my eyes shut, limiting my senses and eliminating any excess stimuli. With my face pressed into the bed, the fresh smell of the crisp sheets blends with the comforting scent of his single malt scotch wafting from across the room. The cool air crisscrossing my exposed flesh and pussy is a welcome reprieve from the heat emanating from my core. A soft groan and the sound of his hand brushing across the fabric of his pants tells me this little game we’re playing is making him hard. That telling insight steels my resolve and my tight little asshole clutches the rod as firmly as I can.
It is from within this complex, seductive miasma of submissive bliss and struggle that I come to the ultimate realization about Daddy. And about myself.
There are no winners or losers in this battle, only dominance and submission in their purest forms. If I last the hour, I will have obeyed Daddy’s command, made him proud, and—if he’s feeling generous—earned a soul-penetrating orgasm. However, if I allow the rod to drop, I will have disobeyed him, disappointed him, and will have earned the punishment I know he’s desperate to give me.
But either way, I have the power in this situation. Daddy has entrusted his little one to do what needs to be done—to give myself the experience I need—thereby providing him the opportunity to exert his dominance in the way my submission demands. What once seemed the illusion of choice is now the empowering knowledge that I am the only one who can balance our dynamic, the only one who holds the key to who we are when we’re at our best. And the hard, unyielding, yet comforting toy he’s buried in my ass is a tangible reminder of everything we share.
With a final sigh and a conscious disregard for the clock ticking its way toward the hour mark, I stop struggling to hold the rod. If it falls, it falls. If it stays, it stays. One way or another, I’m going to give him the submission he needs from me.
And as the glass slides its way out of my slightly stretched bottom, inch by smooth inch, and I hear the light tsk tsks from my Daddy, I can’t be bothered to hide the smile creeping its way across my lips.
Because I’m submissive. And I’m all his.