He told me I could tell you that.
That I licked him in French.
Which he had ordered me to do. Yesterday. My brain was moribund yesterday, due to the dark and the wet and the continuing exhaustion from my trip north. I had sent him a morning greeting but admitted I didn't really have anything to say. He was not pleased. He doesn't care if I exercise my body or not, but he will not tolerate an idle brain. So he gave me 3 phrases to translate into French. Phrases which I was to translate and then use today while serving him.
I am your whore, Daddy.
Enjoy your little girl.
Fuck my mouth, Sir.
Everything sounds better in French.
And everything tastes better in French.
Not my Daddy's cock.
That is always delicious.
There is no cock in the world as sweet as my Daddy's cock.
It's the words that taste better in French.
It's the words, in French, that are so sensuous in my mouth.
Je suis votre putain, Papa.
Tenez plaisir de votre petite fille.
Baisez ma bouche, mon Seigneur.
The word they told us never to use.
Of course, that was back in Junior High School.
I didn't tutoyer him. I used the formal vous. Votre. A sign of respect, a reflection of my place kneeling at his feet, and somehow a much more powerful and graceful signifier of place than the capitalized pronoun thing.
So I spoke to him in French.
I incited his passion in French.
I sucked his cock in French - lingering over every syllable, saying both for fille and all three for petite. The words in my mouth turned me on.
They obviously turned him on.
The beast was in the room.
Daddy told me later that the beast had been there, trying to get out, but I already knew. I had seen him in Daddy's eyes, in his face, and felt him in the way he tortured my breasts, squeezing their softness, twisting and pinching the nipples, even as he tried to contain the raging sadist who has a name of his own.
There is danger there. I know what to say to arouse Daddy's passion, what to say to make him roar, to make him cum, but those same words, those same images, those same scenarios can summon the beast. It's a fine line, a dangerous line, and the greatest danger is the seductive air of the beast. I know I should stay away from him, but I can't help flirting with him, calling to him, wishing I could dance with him without being destroyed.
Because he would destroy me.
Daddy and I both know that.
He would destroy me and destroy what we have.
And yet, I can't help but thinking that he is sitting in on the planning sessions for my Master's friends to use me. Which both excites and frightens me. As does the whole project. Things are proceeding there. Schedules seem to be coming together to make it possible. At least twice, with different people.
One could be pleasurable for me, Daddy said today.
The other, he said, won't be.
But I knew that.
He has friends who will enjoy hurting me...
Speaking of hurting, that was something else Daddy said I could tell you all. That I hurt him. Something to do with his hamstring. I wonder if he's like me, putting the tension into his leg muscles as he becomes more and more aroused. And oh my, Daddy was most definitely very, very aroused.
And I was grinning.
I knew what I was doing.
I knew the pleasure I was giving him.
Je suis la putain de Papa.
And I am a very good little whore indeed.