Filthy logo

Baby Loves Daddy

A submissive explains the nuances and rules behind her relationship with her dominant, and just why Baby loves Daddy.

By Phoebe AsterisPublished 8 years ago 6 min read
Like

On Father’s Day, Daddy put me in a cage.

“Look, it’s very spacious,” he said generously, locking me in. “You can crawl all around to the back.”

Daddy’s voice is deep, rich, and heavily accented. I get wet just from the sound of it on my cell phone.

He pulled a chair up to the front of the cage and gazed down at me with his vampire eyes. He looked so handsome in the black leather he always wore to the fetish clubs, his silver hair pulled back in a ponytail. I’m forty-two and Daddy is thirty-six, but he says women age like wine. He makes me feel like a little baby.

The cage was dark and clean. I crawled to the back and wiggled my ass in the air.

He said, “Hey, Kitty.”

I said, “Meow.”

He laughed.

The cage’s former occupants—or perhaps Paddles’ management—had left small links of chain here and there on the carpeted floor. I jingled them for him. He laughed again.

Daddy and I are both married to other people. My husband is my partner in the waking world, but Daddy is the one I dream about.

Daddy’s wife was there at Paddles, too, with her male slave and the guy who liked to put on ladies’ lingerie and clean their house. Daddy’s wife is beautiful, European like him, and very generous. She actually cruised me for him at a fetish party in Brooklyn.

I crawled to the front of the cage, got on my knees, and pressed my breasts through the bars. He caressed me. I shivered.

I dared to look in his eyes.

Claimed by Daddy

Image via Genuine Men's Lifestyle Magazine

Eye contact has special significance in Dominant/submissive relationships. I often keep my eyes lowered when I am with Daddy, because downward gaze is a sign of submission. Yet hiding the eyes can also be a way to evade. I look at him when I want to make sure we are connecting.

As he held my gaze, I welled up with tears. I love my Daddy with a desperate, doglike love. He put a collar on me a few months after we met, which is the way a Dominant claims a submissive as his own. It’s an elegant silver collar, but I preferred the thick leather one he had me in that night.

Daddy’s eyes are warm brown, almond-shaped, and satirical. As I kept gazing into them, my tears dried up. I lifted my chin in mock defiance.

When sustained, eye contact can become aggressive. Animals and boxers stare at each other before they fight. I cannot hold Daddy’s eyes that way for long, but it’s fun to try. My nipples hardened as I felt the tension rise. I like to show Daddy the strength of what he owns.

He gave a half-smile and nodded, as if to say, “That’s enough.”

I dropped my eyes to his lap. Submission poured down my spine like honey.

Daddy has the most beautiful cock I’ve ever seen: thick, uncut, and so long that when I wrap both hands around it—and I have big hands—there’s still shaft showing. I cry when he puts it in my ass, I gag when I eat it, and when he fucks my pussy, it fixes things deep inside me. I wished he would consensually rape me inside the cage, but you’re not supposed to have sex at Paddles.

I rolled over, offering him my belly. Tonight’s theme was Back to School. My pink plaid schoolgirl kilt fell back, exposing white cotton panties that were already soaked. Daddy pushed a Doc Marten through the bars and stepped on my bare stomach. The weight pressed me back into the hard floor of the cage.

“Is it too heavy, bebezinha?” he asked, using the charming Portuguese diminutive.

“No, Sir,” I lied.

He rode his Kawasaki in these boots and said he liked the way they gripped the road. The dirty soles felt clean on my skin. I caressed the stiff leather, feeling all the tension leave my body.

Some people have a fetish for feet—there are always a few guys crawling around Paddles offering foot massages to every female—but not me. I worship Daddy’s feet because they are his. It is an act of devotion, a way of showing him that even the lowest part of his body is sacred to me.

The More It Hurts, the Better I Feel

Image via Lust Edition

Now, this is very important: I don’t submit because I think I’m inferior. Nor does Daddy feel better than me because he’s the one with the dick and the whip. These are roles we play. The fact that he respects me as a human being makes it OK. I don’t need to be afraid. I can be his filthy little whore and still look myself in the eyes in the morning.

When I was nine-years-old, I used to get naked, put on a macramé plant hanger I’d made in craft class, and pretend I was a slave in harness. Daddy says that growing up in Transylvania, he used to fantasize about keeping three girls chained to the side of his bed like cows. He imagined going from girl to girl, taking them from behind.

I don’t know why we’re like this. Maybe it's because I grew up without a real daddy, or because his parents named him after a flower. I don’t need to know why. I just need his strong hands on me, and his magnificent cock in all my holes.

“Hey, Kitty,” he said, petting my pigtails.

I purred. I pretended to try to bite his hand. Then I started trying for real, but I couldn’t catch him. He slapped my face lightly.

“You need to be domesticated, Kitty,” he said, fastening a leash to my collar.

We laughed. Submission rolled over me in a big, soft wave.

“Are you thirsty, bebezinha?”

“Yes, Sir.”

I knelt and opened my mouth for water. He only gave me a few drops.

“More!” I demanded, pretending to be a brat.

He pulled the bottle away, pretending to be mad.

“I decide how much you get,” he said.

I admired his perfect cheekbones, sculpted goatee, and the ropy muscles of his forearms. Daddy is so sexy when he’s mad. I got on all fours and set my cheek against his boot, lifting my ass in the air.

“Don’t forget which side of the cage you’re on,” he said, petting me through the bars.

“Never, Daddy.”

“And which side has the lock.”

“I love it that way, Daddy,” I said, looking back up at his eyes.

He winked. There was a spanking bench in the alcove next door. Soon he’d let me out, bend me over that bench, and whip me until I cried out in laughter and pain. I was shaking with the excitement of it.

If I was a very good girl, maybe he’d give me bruises. I miss Daddy so much during the long work week—it helps to have his marks on me. I watch them change color: red blossoms on the morning after, purple on Wednesday, yellow when the weekend rolls around and I get to wear his collar again. The more Daddy hurts me, the better I feel.

fetisheserotic
Like

About the Creator

Phoebe Asteris

Brooklyn writer, fitness professional, and ethical slut. She has been married for ten years and active in the NY kink community for just over three.

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.