Daddy moves about the kitchen, specks of flour lightly gracing his forearms and a white line smeared across his forehead. I like him like this, his shirt’s untucked, his sleeves are rolled up and he has that look on his face that means business. The same look he carries when he’s intent on doing unspeakable things to my body.
At least that’s how I imagine it when he tells me he’s cooking. I picture myself perched on a counter-top watching him work in fascination and an undercurrent of lust, as he kneads and slaps the dough, working it over with skilful hands.
A notification pops up on my computer with a message that Daddy’s making muffins. I lick my lips trying to imagine the smells and tastes of fresh baking that would fill my senses. I quickly type back a reply “I’d lay back on the counter and watch you the whole time.”
Forgive me, I turn into a slut when I’m horny, only it’s the acting on it that’s my problem. ‘The Test’ had awoken something inside me that only a certain kind of presence could fulfill. Even the bite of a belt, something that usually calms any trace of anxiety in me would be rendered useless to me right now. The fear that had insidiously crept inside me since the time he left had now sprouted doubt in my mind, raking up old insecurities from their resting place. “Maybe I’m not good enough” is written on the head stone. So how on earth does a babygirl win over her Daddy Dom, after all by their very nature Doms are in complete control, they are the puppet masters.
The answer is that he’s in tune with his babygirl, he picks up on the need in her voice, the want to please him. And in this case he obliged, allowing me to run my feet up his body to gently nudge his sack, using my toes to curl around his penis while holding his gaze in a silent stand off. I wanted so much to watch this powerful man crumble. I wanted to bring him to his knees and render him unable to think clearly, let alone leave again.
But after all was said and done this enigma was topping from the bottom, with a deck full of cards. Throwing down aces every time, demanding me to stop and open myself for him, having me abandon all insecurities and spread my legs wantonly before him. Submitting to him for me was as necessary as the rain in a storm, or the cold in a snowflake. This imposing man if nothing more than words alone, brought a whimper to my throat and shudder through my body and a need for him tightening my core. He continued his claim over me, pulling each one of my strings and making me dance before him. I sucked my juices from my fingers as he instructed, and with everything he had me do, each more scandalous than the last, a constant tempo ran through my mind- “silly girl, I own you.”
Thoughts and feelings moulded into one until every nerve ending I possessed was connected to him, governed by the hold he had over me. We were one, I was an extension of him, as simple as it is to move your arm he had me cumming. One crooked finger was all it took in the end to shatter my mind and body and let him take over control. He brought my body gently down with soothing words, he held me close. I’d called his name and he was there holding me in my desperation, loving me when I shattered and putting the pieces of myself back together. And when to my embarrassment I realized for the first time ever, I’d gushed, he praised me for making him proud.