I climbed into bed like it was Christmas Eve every night that week and came for him exactly as instructed. Hard. Obeying his assignments like a good girl, fingers soaked and trembling while I read his filthy stories and listened to his voice telling me when I was allowed to let go.
But the night before my trip… that night hit different.
Because now he knew. He had me figured out.
He knew me, knew what I was starting to ache for. Knew what I was only beginning to admit to myself.
And instead of backing away, instead of brushing it off as a fantasy, he welcomed it.
He fucking named it.
And then he teased it open wide.
He said, “I’m going to assume you haven’t had the opportunity to engage in any D/s dynamics in real life?”
Fuck. D/s?
I read it over and over again, thighs clenched, toes curled. D/s? As in - Domination and submission?
All I typed back was, “No.”
But what I wanted to say was, “No, but I want to. I want all of it. Teach me. Please.”
Then he said this:
“Climbing naked onto my table and giving your body over to me for your session is, in itself, a small act of submission. I will be controlling what you feel and when.”
I didn't breathe while I watched the typing bubbles go on.
“We could consider putting you on the door before taking you to the table. We wouldn’t have to incorporate all the stimulation from that story, but if you'd like that, we could try it.”
The Door.
The door to his massage studio. The one in his true, erotic story I read online. Where the woman is cuffed, blindfolded, slowly, erotically undressed, claimed and marked before her massage even begins.
I could practically feel his breath on my neck. I had fucked myself so hard to that story - my dildo stuffed in my cunt while I hovered my rose toy, teasing, just above my throbbing clit. The idea of being restrained and teased before I was even really touched - before I was even on his table...
And now he was offering it to me.
A softer version of the story. A baby step.
A shift in control before my massage.
And just like that, my breath caught. My abs clenched and my spine straightened. And something opened.
My reply came from somewhere deeper than arousal. It came from surrender. From honesty.
“Yes,” I told him.
I gasped it out loud before I typed it, like the word itself shoved two fingers inside me.
“Yes. Please. The idea of being placed, restrained, undressed by you… Yes. Yes, please. I’d like to be put on your door Saturday.”
As soon as I hit send, my fingers were instantly back between my thighs.
Swollen.
Soaked.
Starving.
And I came again, alone in my bed, with my phone in one hand and my secret desires in the other.
---
Friday evening. The day before my session. I arrived in his state, and my cabin. Trembling with excitement, wonder and need.
No service at my cabin so I drove into town and messaged him, “I’ve arrived and checked in. If there’s anything you want me to do - or not do - tonight to be a good girl, let me know. But I can't read your online stories - I don’t have service.”
He teased back instantly, “How are you texting me if you don’t have service?”
I laughed, face blushing, thumbs trembling. “Got me! Actually I’m at a brewery in town right now. Needed something to eat.”
I finished my beer before I heard from him again. “I’m going to introduce you to a concept… called a ritual. Do you know what that is?”
“No,” I whispered out loud, replying instantly and honestly, knowing it wasn't the kind of ritual I was thinking. Oh, how I ached for him to teach me everything. I felt my eyes soften and widen like a sweet summer child while I watched for his reply.
”A ritual is an activity a submissive engages in daily when not with her Dom. It’s designed to remind her of her submissive needs and her connection to him, especially when she can’t physically be with him. I won’t ask you to commit. But would you like to try one tonight?”
My pulse thundered. “Yes sir - I’m game,” I typed, breathless.
He shot back immediately, “Wait. Let’s talk about honorifics. I’m definitely not a Sir, or Master. At heart… I’m a Daddy. Would you like to call me that - Daddy? But only if it feels right to you.”
I breathed it before I even texted back, “Yes. I like Daddy.” I was stroking the side of my phone case with my thumb. And then I said it again - I called him that.
“I’d like that, Daddy.” It felt good in my mouth. I was grinning, biting my lip and gripping my crotch and I didn't care who noticed.
“Good. It makes me melt so I'm glad you like it, baby girl.”
That was the moment. The Moment. Baby girl. He called me baby girl. Daddy... I was Daddy’s baby girl.
That was the moment my whole body melted into those words. Into him. Into the feral need to turn my body and my pleasure over to Daddy.
He asked about the brewery. The bathroom. Private or stalls. “Private,” I answered.
My outfit. “Shorts and a T-shirt.”
How wet I was. “Dripping. Soaked clean through my panties.”
I pressed myself against the seam of my shorts, felt my clit grow harder against it and wriggled as I waited breathlessly for - for what? Why was he asking me those questions? I glanced around the brewery, my mind racing.
His reply took several minutes, then it came all at once and it was long.
He gave me six clear, methodical steps for my ritual, and I scrolled through each one - my mouth hanging open and my pussy juices pooling. “Okay Daddy - I understand. I'll do it now,” I managed to reply.
“Enjoy your first ritual, baby girl. Take your time on each step. Be sure to really watch yourself in the mirror and imagine that it is Daddy watching. I can’t wait to read how you experienced it.”
I felt his warm, confident smile.
I walked to the bathroom with my panties stuck to my pussy, biting my lip, looking around, heart pounding like a fucking jackhammer through my arteries til I locked the door and leaned back against it. I looked in the mirror, deep into my own nervous, joy-filled eyes. Long, deep exhale. I was really doing this. A ritual, to connect a submissive - me, to her Dom - him. A Pleasure Dom. A Daddy Dom. My Daddy.
I propped up my phone so I could read his text, and started.
“Focus on each step for a full 30 - 60 seconds, minimum.
“Step one: Lift your top. Free your tits. Stroke and tease and pull your nipples until they harden. Don’t take your eyes off yourself in the mirror.”
I obeyed. My hands were trembling, but I didn’t stop. My nipples were quickly searing with pleasure.
“Step two: Pull down your shorts. Let your panties fall to mid-thigh. Stroke your lips slowly, thinking of my hands.”
I gasped aloud. My face flushed. I raked my fingers through my slick, spreading it all over my puffy folds, thinking of his strong hands being there between my legs, coated in my juices tomorrow.
“Step three: Slide one finger into your pussy and finger fuck yourself softly and slowly at first, but with increasing speed and force. Again, imagine my fingers in you.”
My knees buckled. I grabbed the edge of the sink with my dry hand to stay upright. I did it all - I fucked myself, slow then hard, even added a second finger. I could have cried from wishing it was his fingers. My breathing got heavier, louder.
“Step four: Circle your clit slowly and whisper, ‘This is Daddy’s pussy.’”
Something inside me cracked wide fucking open. I whispered it once.
Then again. Louder, gasping through my exhales.
And again. “This is Daddy’s pussy.”
Over and over, like a prayer. Like manifesting. Like a promise.
“Step five: Curl your finger back inside your pussy. Bring it to your mouth and taste yourself.”
I did. Sweet mercy, there was so much of me on my fingers. The string of it snapped warm against my belly as I brought it past my bare tits to my mouth. My slick was warm and tangy on my tongue. I moaned softly, sucking, tongue swirling, eyes locked on my reflection. I desperately wanted him to see me right now. All of me. All my pleasure, my whole body. Even the parts I hated - every squishy imperfection.
I didn’t look away. I let myself be seen. I didn't want to move.
Every sound outside the door made my heart jump now. Somehow I'd managed to ignore it all during my ritual. A laugh, the scrape of a chair, the server shouting. Any second someone would knock. Jiggle the handle. Try to walk in.
By the time I mopped up my dripping pussy and cleaned my sticky thighs, washed my hands (after tasting myself just once more), composed myself and opened the door, there was a line of women waiting. Every one of them saw me - breathless, flushed cheeks, swollen lips, eyes wet with guilt and pleasure.
One of them huffed and glanced behind me, like she expected to see the man who’d just fucked me senseless.
But I didn’t care.
I was proud. I had obeyed.
I was Daddy’s good girl. His good baby girl.
I bolted to the dark, private, safety of my car and texted him, rapid-fire, typos and all - about my ritual, my arousal, how it was hard to not look away, how I tasted, about the mess I made of myself and the girls in line who all knew what I’d done.
He told me he loved all of that. And that he couldn’t wait to see me the next day. And that he was proud of me.
Daddy said he was proud of me.
My cunt clenched instantly. That voice in my head. Those words. That edge.
His final text made both my hands fly to my hot face. “And tonight you can play, baby girl, but don’t cum. Save that for Daddy.”
I was not the same woman who messaged him seven days before. Somewhere between reading his first story and tasting my pussy in a brewery bathroom, I’d become something else. Submissive. Obedient. Owned, in my mind, if not yet in my body.
That night in my cabin, I ached. My body was lit up, but underneath it all was fear. What if I couldn’t - couldn’t cum? What if my body betrayed me tomorrow night? What if I couldn’t cum from him - for him - the way I hadn’t cum with any man in sixteen years? What if I truly was broken?
I pushed the fear away and let myself instead imagine surrendering, being entirely free with him. Entirely open...submissive. My nipples burned, so I pulled and pinched them. I felt my juices leaking down over my tight asshole, and without thinking I rolled onto my side and let my baby finger reach around and rub myself there. I’d never tried anal play before, not even on myself, but now I wanted it. Now I ached to be filled. Stuffed. Completely. To feel what it would be like to surrender every inch of myself.
What if... what if I asked him to put his finger in my tight, wrinkled, virgin asshole? I rubbed myself harder there, pressing inside a tiny bit.
What if... I begged him to fuck me with my dildo...with it buried in my pussy, and with his finger stretching my asshole? Would he? Could I even ask him?
And ohhh...if I'm being brave...I could tell him - I wanted to be spanked, hard. To burn. To beg. To be marked in places no one could see. Would he let me ask? Would he do it?
I edged myself until I was panting, hips rolling, humping my palm hard against the mattress, fingers trembling over my slick folds. I pictured his hands warm with oil, pinning my wrists above my head. His fingers curling inside me. His command in my ear: “Don’t cum until Daddy tells you to, baby girl.”
I whispered my new mantra until it echoed through the cabin - “This is Daddy’s pussy…” over and over until my eyes blurred. But I didn’t cum. I was a good girl, his good girl. I was saving it for Daddy.
The next morning I bathed, shaved, lotioned, and dressed slowly. A cute summer dress and sandals. Brand new black lace bra and panties, like he often described the women in his stories wearing.
And my dildo, packed discreetly in my bag.
By the time I stood on his porch the next evening, the ache, the fear and the wild anticipation stole my breath. I was no longer just curious about a massage with an erotic masseur.
He was Daddy.
And I was his good girl, ready to be claimed.
---
Next comes Part Three, “Good Girls Get Good Things”, the massage itself. Daddy’s hands on me for the first time. My first spanking, my first surrender on his table, and more. If you’re newer to a D/s dynamic too, feel free to ask me anything…
