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Work is over. I can’t wait. I get in my car and drive, drive to where you are. An early evening in Autumn, the leaves well and truly everywhere. It’s a change of Season, and as if to subconsciously mirror that, you’re not where I expect you to be. Oh, not physically. You’re in your usual place at your laptop, tip tapping away on some essay or other.
I let myself in with my key, and bound down the hallway. Creeping upon you from behind, I give you a huge hug and ask, “So – are you going to be a good girl for Daddy later?”

“Maybe” you reply.

The playfulness ebbs away like a receding tide, like the cold ocean less than a mile away.


One word, worse than “no”, even. It hints at ambivalence, at detachment, at separation.

It’s not your fault, not really. You have a dozen things to juggle, of which I guess I’m only one. Is it wrong to want to be the most important? More of a priority than your university course, more a focus than your child, your parents, your friends, your everyday reality?

I stand in the kitchen watching your fingers type. Those little fingers, ***ted fingernails, busy creating sentences, then paragraphs, full of reasoned arguments, focussed debate, conclusions.

Adele sings, “why don’t you remember?” And I want to ask you the same question.

You look gorgeous. You look like My princess. In your big fluffy jumper and hold-ups, in the half-light from the electric fire, you’re somehow apart from me.

I leave you typing and go upstairs. Alone in your bedroom, I attach ropes to the four corners of the bed, and lay my favourite cane within easy reach.

It’s time.

When I get back to you, you’ve hardly moved. For a split second I have a reality check. What am I doing? You have a deadline to meet. The course is important. The rest of your life starts with you passing your exams.
But it only lasts an instant. And in the next, I’ve grabbed your hair at the nape of your lovely neck, and dragged you from your chair, letting it clatter to the tiled floor, cold like your detachment.

You protest, but only half-heartedly at least. Progress? Who fucking cares.

You’re half-dragged, half-led, backwards, to the foot of the stairs, which I negotiate simply by pulling your hair harder. Amazing how you manage the turn when the *** is intense enough! Each stair is a journey as your legs scrabble for purchase. I’m cold. I have focus too, you see. To make the point I turn your long hair in my grip a half-turn and you move faster, desperate to keep up and lessen the ***.

We’ve made it to the bedroom, into which I *** you, half-sobbing now, and hold you down on the bed while I restrain your wrists and ankles. Finally, there you lie, on your back, wondering what the hell is going to happen. I guess that *** is heightened since I’ve now blindfolded you. I adore heightening your sensations. I’m sensuous that way. I’m your Daddy you ambivalent fuck!

This would be the time to relax, to give you a breather, to let you play on your own ***s, far more potent, possibly than the reality I’m about to inflict on you. But what the hell. I’m not in it for the art, I’m in it for the gratification. So I pick up the cane, and as you lie supine and slightly tensed, I let it fall, heavily, on your breasts.

“Fuck!” you gasp.

“Maybe” I grind out, sarcastically.

And then I go to town. No not literally, you dumb fuck. Metaphorically, my thin, mean weapon of choice falling again and again on your naked breasts. Within minutes you’re sobbing, begging me to stop. You were never a *** slut, but hey, someone has to push you, right?

I watch the stripes appear.

This isn’t new I admit it. I’ve done this to you before. But we both know it’s not the act that makes the scene, it’s the mindset. I know you’re coping, somewhere inside. Somewhere inside you’re enduring. For me? I don’t know for sure. For yourself maybe. Some pride perhaps. I remember when it WAS for me, when whatever I inflicted on you, you suffered, for me, because that’s who I was to you, for you. Your number one. Once upon a time you gave; now I take.

I stop. It’s intuitive. I can still tune in to you. I can feel you, feel your limitations, feel your arousal even. I let you breathe, and gently, gently, let two fingers stroke your wet cunt. Yes, wet, like I knew it would be. You don’t disappoint me Princess.

You’ve recovered somewhat. Your breaths are short, lustful, wanting me.

“Please fuck me … please” you barely say. Like a breath in the sudden silence.

I want to. You don’t know how much.

“I remove my fingers from you, stand back, gaze at you, loving you.

“Maybe” I reply, as I leave the room, gently closing the door behind me.

Downstairs Adele is singing, “sometimes it hurts instead”. Too right, but which of us is hurting more.

I pour a drink as you lie upstairs, waiting and wondering.


I love a "Maybe" 😁  Thank you for sharing with us, another great story.

1 hour ago, PixieDust said:

I love a "Maybe" 😁  Thank you for sharing with us, another great story.

Happy you liked it.... more to come if you'd like.

1 hour ago, Unseen1 said:

Happy you liked it.... more to come if you'd like.

Most definitely would love to read more 🙏

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