Bring that chair over here.
Take the pad and pen.
Cross your legs.
Sit up straight.
"Like a secretary!" I said.
Like a secretary.
And so I took dictation.
There were three points.
- Daddy's ear piece
Actual physical exercise.
Daddy has never put any pressure on me as far as my body goes. No requirements that I lose weight. Oh, he did eventually order me to shave my pussy hair, having worked up to it slowly so I would be ready to embrace it by the time the day came. And back when I was going to the health club regularly, he did forbid me to harden my stomach muscles. He has this thing about a vulnerable soft belly...
But lately he has been talking about how taken he is with the channel that runs down my back. The one from which he ate his black and white cookie and drank his coffee. He says it is exquisite. But there are certain parts he wants to define a little more clearly. Hence, the required exercises.
The second item was a bit of research, which he requests every so often. In this case it was for a classical composer he heard while driving in that morning. It was an easy project, and even in my post-visit, post-orgasmic floaty state, I found the answer shortly after he left.
And the third item?
That mysterious third request?
No, the sadist does not wear a hearing aid.
He has commissioned a creative piece.
Creative and sensual and submissive and sexual.
A ritual recitation.
Words to slide off my talented tongue
directly into his waiting, trembling ear,
while I fondle my Daddy's throbbing cock.
Our interactions are often quite different from that of most couples, no matter how you define your relationships.
For once he has delineated fairly specifically how he wants the piece constructed. A rare thing for him to do, as he made sure to point out, because he fears he will contaminate the creation. But in this case, he knows what he wants. And he knows his little poet whore can deliver.
And I will.
I always do.