lola's little stories

Dollification, bondage, dominance, undertones of bimbification and erotic mind control/programming.

It's a humbling experience to be inside a suitcase. Humid darkness fills all available space, of which there is very little, to the extent that it almost begins to feel tangible. The intricate, origami-like folding of my body required to accommodate my containment produced an intimate awareness of both space and boundaries. It felt all at once familiar and foreign, disturbing and comforting. Rarely in my adult life have I experienced such comprehensive bondage, moving about the world with full autonomy, lacking actual spacial limits. The sacrifice of those freedoms simplified my existence in a way that erased time and pressures. My choice was made for me; I could conform to my vessel and only move as much as it (and who chose to put me within it) allowed. I felt my mind relax, freed from the burden of deciding if and when and how to move. My restrictions carried me to a meditative state where I was mindful to every sensation.

I knew I was in a car because I could feel the rumble below me and hear the other cars around. Sometimes the car would slow and stop, or turn, shifting me minutely within my luggage womb. The radio was playing. I could also hear the familiar sounds of my Owner, sitting in the driver's seat. The pattern of his breathing was easy for my mind to latch on to, lacking the visual stimulation I craved, and for my own breathing to synchronize to. Occasionally he would clear his throat, a gruff noise that momentarily disrupted the pattern. I craved his every breath.

I was his doll.

My only indicator of time's passing was the radio. After four songs, the car came to a final stop. The radio, then the engine, turned off. A seat belt was released with a dull click. I felt the vehicle rock slightly as a door opened, my Owner exited, and the door was thrown closed with a finality. For thirty seconds of complete silence and solitude, my heartbeat built up into a frenzy. I had no autonomy to free myself from the suitcase, let alone the car. I tried to relax myself. I reminded myself of my mantras. A good doll doesn't worry. A good doll doesn't think. A good doll doesn't make choices. A good doll obeys. A good doll trusts. A good doll-

The door, the other door, opened. Fear melted away. My Owner. Pressure on two sides of the suitcase indicated I was being held, then picked up. My head felt like it was swirling. I felt safe in His arms, in His bondage. Based on the sounds and changes in temperature I could vaguely sense from inside the suitcase, we entered the house and went into a room, probably the bedroom. I was set down on the floor.

I swallowed in anticipation. I was so excited to see Him! But I had to be a good doll.

I heard and felt the zipper begin to move. I closed my eyes to ensure the light didn't disrupt my perfect stillness. I wanted to be perfect for Him.

I could see the light from behind my eyelids, but I could not see even a shadow of Him. I kept my face angelic and relaxed, careful not to betray any emotion despite my disappointment and eagerness. A good doll was always attractive to her Owner.

He spent a few seconds looking at me, I assume, and then I felt his strong hand gently slide between the left side of my face and the spot on the suitcase it had been lying against; his other hand crept to the soft skin behind my knees until he had a sturdy hold in both locations and could lift me up. I surrendered my entire weight to his hands, resisting any urge to tense up or hold awkward posture. I hoped he noticed my dedication, how soft and supple and demure I was for him. 

I hoped he approved.

He laid me gently on the bed. I allowed my body to fall however it fell without correcting it for comfort. My hair fell in front of my face. I wondered what I looked like to him. I wondered what it looked like to observe both of us. But I was just His doll, unknowing and trusting, pretty and ready to be played with. All I wanted was his attention and approval.

He brushed my hair out of my face and rearranged my body so that I was laying on my back with my legs outstretched and arms relaxed at my sides. I was wearing nothing but a simple beige silk baby doll. I felt the lacy hem scrunched up around my waist; it must have gotten twisted when He moved me. That meant my white cotton panties were exposed. I could feel the goosebumps on my skin and the strain of my hard nipples against the silk nightie. But wherever my Owner touched me the skin warmed deliciously like a low flame, and my entire body flushed with passion when I imagined his eyes roving me. His touch was erotic not inherently, but because my entire being yielded all control to him; his hands had all authority over me, over what was His. He moved with confidence but care, examining His doll for flaws or damages while in transit. I was lost in the sensations, forbidden reaction or resistance. His fingertips floated against the tender soles of my feet, my inner thigh, the inside of my bicep, like sensuous torture. He turned my limbs this way and that to caress and observe them. I was impressed by his meticulousness. His touch was so delicate and so attentive it brought me to that place it always did, in awe of His love for His doll, and feeling so valued and beautiful in his hands. What is a doll that is unloved? Nothing. She is and I exist only to be loved, to be used, to please the Owner. And in these moments I surrendered even more fully.

After diligently examining my arms and legs, He moved to straddle me. I could feel His thighs on either side of mine, His warmth. He delicately shimmied the nightie up my stomach and, finding He could not progress further, wrapped his large hands on my petite rib cage and firmly pulled me up from the bed so that I was pressed against His chest in a limp hug. I could hear His heartbeat, bold and confident against my ear, and feel His hands pressed against my back, the only thing preventing my rag doll body from falling back against the bed. I longed to open my eyes, to see Him, but I was a good doll, and I would not disobey my Owner by doing so without his command. I was His and I would see Him if and when He allowed it.

The silk slid up over my pointed nipples. My arms were pulled up over my head, held by the wrist, so that the baby doll could be pulled off my head. I don't know where He put it; it doesn't matter. He slowly, slowly laid me back down, brushing my hair off of my shoulders. His hands lingered at the sides of my head, his thumb caressing my cheeks. He cherished me. I could feel it in the way his fingertips moved over my eyebrows, my eyelids, my lips, below my chin, behind my ears, down my ticklish neck and the curves of my collarbones. Down my chest. Curving around my breasts, not touching them yet, not giving me what I craved yet. Sliding along the underside. Gently, gently cupping them, feeling the weight of them. Not being able to see, only feel, heightened the sensation and my yearning. Then finally, grazing my sensitive nipples, and I fought not to betray any pleasure on my face. I assume He was pleased - he rewarded His doll by softly rolling my nipples in between his fingertips, gently tugging, feeling them. I wished it would last longer than it did, but this was only an examination. 

He was pleased and so moved on.

The anticipation continued to well in my stomach and between my legs. And heightened when his fingertips slid down my sides to my hips. He lifted my hips like I was weightless. In a few motions he slid my cotton panties down my smooth thighs, then to my ankles, and off they were. He moved off of the bed for a moment to do something I could neither see nor hear. I felt exposed. I could not move to cover myself, to preserve my dignity and purity. A doll has neither of those, nor the ability to preserve them, nor the desire to do so. I knew, hoped, He was looking at me, at the doll I created and became for Him, desperate for His touch and approval. I was entirely His. My doll body dripped sex for him.

The floor gently creaked and I knew he had returned to the side of the bed where my feet were. He effortlessly cupped both heels and reposed me into a yogic lotus position. My naked pussy was completely uncovered. I felt a new surge of excitement and passion strike me as I reveled in my vulnerability. His hands gripped my hips once again and pulled me so that I slid toward him, still on display in lotus. The next time he touched me, his intentions were explicit, and the tone of his touch had minutely shifted from adoration to hunger, a subtle shift that spoke volumes to me. He spread my doll parts for him to see, looking deep into my wetness and poking and prodding. He stroked the skin around my clitoris, then exposed it and gently blew. My inner thighs jumped and the disappointment immediately set in. I wanted to wail. I felt like a failure.

"Ah, the new model has enhanced sensitivity. Just what I wanted."

My heart melted. He knew me, and saved me from my own unspoken evaluation. I was rescued from my own expectations. He brought me back to my place; I am a good doll. A good doll does not think. A good doll is what she is told. I do not need to reach any standards but my Owner's. He slid a finger inside of me and I swear I never felt everything so intensely ever before. He slid in another finger. I wanted to orgasm just from His slow, clinical touch. But then He withdrew his fingers and, with it, a string of my juices.

"Self-lubricating," I could hear His smile, "a nice touch."

His fingers slid down to examine my other doll part, which I mentally fought to keep relaxed. His finger slid in easily and I wanted to burst from the sensation. I was so tightly wound I amazed myself with how relaxed I kept my body. He added another finger and stroked my inner walls. I fought to keep my breath regular. My doll parts ached from how much I wanted Him inside.

Then, He was done. I heard him wipe his fingers off on something - the panties? - and lift me by the shoulders. He sat me up against the headboard, I think, and then left.

When he returned, He quickly set up to dressing me. Various fabrics were slid or shrugged on to my body, then either kept or removed. He wasn't sure what He wanted me to wear. I couldn't see what He had chosen, as my eyes were still closed. I was worried my eyelids would start to twitch if He didn't allow me to open them soon, but then I remembered that a good doll does not worry. I waited patiently.

After He was satisfied, he moved on to my hair. He brushed it gingerly, careful not to hurt my scalp or pull too hard. I was touched by the adoration in his actions. He put my hair up into two pigtails and I felt him fasten something to them - hair bows? - and then He was done. He wrapped me up in His embrace once more and carried me to another spot in the room. He carefully placed my feet on the floor but did not release me, knowing I would need to transition to supporting my own weight. He manually straightened my legs to signal that I was to stand, then posed the rest of my body so that I was standing with perfect posture and arms relaxed at my sides. My head, awaiting correction, was slumped to my chest. He placed his finger underneath my chin and slowly lifted my face. My heart jumped again at his touch and I felt its pace quicken. 

Showtime, I thought.

He walked around me so that he was facing my back and pressed gently on the first notch of my spine at the base of my neck. Eagerly, but with poise, I said my programmed phrase: "Powering on. Please wait patiently."

I gathered myself for a few seconds and focused myself. When I was ready, I opened my eyes and did my best to keep my face neutral as I adjusted to the light. I stared directly ahead into a mirror and into my own eyes. From my peripheral vision, I could see what He had chosen for me and what I felt earlier - and it was very little, to my embarrassment and pleasure. I also noticed Him standing behind me. I was so glad to finally be allowed to see Him. I smiled brightly.

"How may Your fuckdoll serve You, Sir?"

I found it doing laundry the other day. It looked ordinary in every way; it was a fitted high-neck tank made from gray jersey cotton fabric. In the center, two simple words in bold black letters. “FEMINIST HERO.”

I brought it home one day from college. My anthropology professor required us to attend a speech by a visiting feminist he liked. The speech sucked, but somehow they had the budget to give us all a shirt.

My friends and I decided to wear them ironically while shit-talking over coffee afterward, and I ended up just wearing it back to our apartment by accident.

So there I was, stirring dinner on the stove in my “FEMINIST HERO” shirt and jeans. I was just getting the risotto how I wanted it when I heard the key turn and the door open.

“Hey babe!” I called, fixated on my task. “I’m making risotto. How are you?”

“Work sucked as usual. But, I’m great now that I’m home,” he said as he glided up being me and slid his hands around my waist to hug me from behind. He rested his chin on my shoulder. “That smells good.”

“Thank you, hopefully it’ll taste good too,” I smiled. “Oh, I have to get the pepper,” I turned toward him, breaking the hug, and attempted to grab the pepper from the opposite counter.

“Feminist hero?”

Pepper in hand, I blinked confusedly until I realized he was talking about the shirt. “Oh, that,” I flipped my hair over my shoulder. “I’ve converted.”

He raised his eyebrows and smirked, amused. His eyes provoked me.

“Yeah, I’m empowered now,” I put my hand on my hip and leaned against the counter. “I’ve seen the light.”

“Oh? What light?” He grabbed an olive from the bowl on the side and popped it in his mouth.

“Men are evil and I should become a political lesbian.”

He almost choked. I couldn’t hold back my shit-eating grin.

“The good woman finally taught me the truth. So I have to get rid of you,” I fake sighed, turning my back to him. I resumed stirring the risotto. “It’s a shame, I kind of liked you. But I’m a feminist hero now. What can you do, y’know?” I shrugged.

I gasped (accidentally squeaked) as his strong hands tugged back on my belt loops. The wooden spoon clattered to the floor, leaving a creamy wet risotto puddle on the floor. My hips bounced when they connected with his pelvis.

“Hey!” I protested, laughing. I tried to detach myself and lean forward to retrieve the spoon, but when I made it about 30 degrees, he swiftly slid his right hand up my nape, got a tight grip on my hair close to my scalp, and yanked me backwards into him. The fingers of his left hand pressed hard into my hip. My hands flew to my sides and instinctively crashed onto the edge of the counter behind us. I panted, heart pounding.

The tone had shifted.

“You kind of liked me?” He said in a low, clipped tone. “You have to get rid of me?”

He was breathing directly onto the skin behind my ear. I felt the heat. I knew this feeling.

Fear. Excitement. Lust.

“Well? Are you mute now too?” He tugged back on my hair, exposing more of my neck, straining my muscles. “Or just fucking stupid?”

The edge in his voice cut straight through my adrenaline-pumped body, traveled up my ticklish inner thighs and settled in the hollow of my stomach. My blood was cold and my skin warm and alive. I opened my mouth to respond but he prevented more than a syllable from escaping as he shoved three fingers in my mouth. I gagged.

“I don’t care what you have to say. You’ve said more than enough. It’s obvious you don’t know your place anymore. This has been a long time coming. If you know what’s good for you,” another yank on my hair, “you’ll start sucking, feminist hero.”

I quickly closed my lips around his fingers and sucked. My legs were trembling. I was embarrassed, nervous, needy. I couldn’t tell what would happen. I couldn’t decide what I even wanted to happen.

“There we go,” He cooed cuttingly, working his fingers in my mouth and around my tongue. I felt his hard-on pressing against my ass. It excited me, how he got off on this. “Look at you, so strong and empowered,” he bit my earlobe and chillingly whispered: “bullshit.”

He took his left hand out of my mouth and smeared my saliva on my face. I gasped for air. With his left hand still wrenching my hair, he pushed me forward. I awkwardly fell onto my knees with my neck straining. I looked at the risotto and spoon on the floor.

He started walking to the living room, forcing me to crawl as he pulled me by my hair.

“Owowowowow,” I whined. “Fuck, that hurts!”

He pulled me over the coffee table and yanked my jeans off. He threw them across the room. They hit the wall with a heavy thud and clatter. I yelped and clung to the coffee table as he yanked my panties to my knees and his broad palm made contact with my ass. I cried out.

The blows came rapidly like punctuation. “You’re not a feminist hero,” another strike, “you’re a cunt,” another, “three holes,” another, “a dumb,” another, “fucking,” another, “slut,” another, “who needs,” another, “a man,” another, “to control,” another “her.” I sobbed, tears and snot running down my face but pussy juice dripping down my inner thigh. I ached with need. I could hear him breathing huskily. I pictured him looking at my red ass.

“Ask me for another.”

“Hit me again, Daddy.”

It came fast and hard. I sniffled.

“What are you?”

“A dumb slut.”

“Whose are you?”

“Yours, Daddy.”

He rewarded me by soothingly stroking my stinging backside. I sighed, shaking. His fingertips ghosted to the center of my lower back. He took both hands to spread my pussy and asshole. I squeaked and squirmed, shock earned me a pinch to the inner thigh and a warm, sadistic chuckle.

“Let me get a good look,” he said sweetly, stroking my inner thigh and melting me from the inside out. I dripped, craving his fingers, his tongue, his cock. Anything he would give me. “My dumb, sweet, baby...” he purred like honey, filling my head with tiny pink popping stars and an overwhelming plea: “oh fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuckmefuckmefuckme.” I didn’t realize I was actually moving toward his fingers until he firmly grabbed my hips and moved them up so I was on my tiptoes. I braced my arms on the coffee table. Heat radiated from my ass. When he released me, I let my heels fall to the floor.

He gave me another firm smack and I bounced. “Thank me.”

“ThankyouDaddy,” I trilled. He laughed. He moved in front of me, around the coffee table. I was eye-level with his bulging cock, just behind his jeans.

“How bad do you want it?”

I watched his hand move to rub himself through his jeans. My mouth was dry.

“I want your cock in my mouth so bad, Daddy,” I panted.

He thrust his hand into my hair once again and yanked me forward. I yelped as my shins hit the coffee table and then my stinging knees as I clumsily fell forward, face smushed against his hard-on. I moaned as he rubbed my face against it. Completely depraved, I fastened my hungry mouth onto the wet pre-cum spot of his jeans and moaned as I sucked and licked. He rewarded me with an expletive and a caress on my cheek.

“That’s my good, good girl,” he moaned so warmly I felt pure joy well up inside of me and another wave of lust crash down. He released his grip on my hair to hold my face. I kissed his thumb as I looked up at him. I adored him. He was everything I wanted. He was right. I needed nothing more than to be told what to do. To obey.

“Go ahead, baby,” he whispered.

I eagerly pushed my weight onto my throbbing knees and unzipped him. Pre-cum sparkled on the tip of his cock like a diamond that I kissed away. I licked him up and down until my thick saliva connected us in heavy threads. I listened to his breathing and moaning as I took him in my mouth and rubbed his balls with sore hands, bobbing and swirling and worshipping.

I was sucking hard, cheeks hollowed, and taking him fast and hard as deep as I could when he interrupted his rhythmically moaned “fuck” and “oh, baby”s to pull my head back, withdraw his hand, then start jerking himself off in my face. I looked up and realized he was filming with his iPhone. Embarrassment and pride replaced my disappointment at not being able to swallow his cum. I locked my eyes onto the camera. I smiled and let my tongue loll out of my mouth, hands still milking his balls.

He exploded in spurts on my forehead, cheek, tongue, lips and “FEMINIST HERO” T-shirt. I closed my left eye just in time to avoid being hit dead center. I licked at the glob sliding down my upper lip.

He backed up to make sure my shirt and bright red ass were visible.

“Say ‘I love the Patriarchy!’”

I couldn’t help but laugh.

“I love the patriarchy!”

Later we discovered the risotto had bubbled over and burnt in a scorched brown mess across the stovetop. He wasted no time in telling me to make him a sandwich.

“Do a good job and I’ll let you grind your sloppy cunt on my boot after you clean up the kitchen.”

When we’re in out of the house, leash me so that I don’t wander off and get lost, because I’m too little and dumb and loved to be left alone.

When something important comes up on our days off and I can’t come with you, chain me to the floor by the bed with my stuffies and a sippy cup so that I don’t accidentally get into something bad or yucky.

Cage me, cuff me, muzzle me, gag me, restrain me and tell me that it’s for my own good and because I’m too precious for you to let me have any chance of being hurt since I can’t take care of myself without you.

I usually woke up a few times every night. My mom called my brain “overactive”, and my dad called me “a thinker”; regardless of the label, I was never able to really turn my brain off. As a result, I performed well academically, but I was prone to overthinking, and often, despite being exhausted, struggled to rest soundly. My usual routine was to wake up three or four times a night but go back to sleep relatively quickly and repeat the cycle until it was time to rise at 6 or 7. Tonight, however, I was especially restless. I woke and could not return to sleep.

The pillow was too warm, so I flipped it over. The sheets were tangled around my ankle, so I adjusted. My socks were sliding off, so I flung them across the room. My hair was in my face, my night gown was twisted, my back hurt. I fussed and flopped as quietly as I could.

I looked at my phone. I had been trying to sleep for two hours.

I shoved my face into my pillow and released a quiet, exasperated sigh. I was so tired. Tears bubbled in my eyes and escaped onto my pillow. I tried to control my breathing so that I didn’t disturb my boyfriend beside me. 

I felt the bed shift and two strong hands cup my shoulders and pull me towards a familiar, fuzzy chest.

Well, I <i>tried</i> to be quiet.

I sniffled and wiped at my nose while he rubbed my back and kissed my head. His warmth and his touch were always soothing to me.

“Come on,” he pressed one final, firm kiss to the top of my forehead, before gently pushing me up and then rising from the bed himself. Once he was standing, he flicked on the nightstand light, and began to rummage through the drawer.

“Let’s go for a walk.”

What? At two A.M.?

“Babe, I-” 

He turned and lifted my chin up towards his and looked into my eyes with no challenge, just the assured gaze of someone in complete and unquestionable control. His large hand firmly, but gently, gripped my delicate jaw. He smiled.

“No talking.”

I bit my lip as he released my chin.

“Hair up.”

I wordlessly scooped the long dirty blonde hair from the nape of my neck and lifted it to my crown. I looked down to see him pull out my collar.

Oh.

As he moved to fasten it around my small neck, I became acutely aware of two sensations: the warmth and softness of his long fingers as they positioned and locked the black collar around my neck, a few inches above my collarbone, tight enough to feel with every swallow, and the flash of wet heat between my thighs. 

I swallowed and felt the comfortable constraint accommodate the bare minimum movement.

He sat back, in front of me, for one second, glancing me over. His eyes were tired but full of love and power. He idly pushed his black hair back with his left hand, cresting over the back of his head, before returning his hands to me in order to clip my leash into place.

He gave me another scanning appraisal and returned to the drawer. I watched him in silent anticipation. 

He knelt before me with knee pads and gloves. Lovingly he dressed me with them. He kissed my gloved hands and the skin just above the pads, at the base of my thigh. Every action communicated a deep compassion and care, showed me how deeply he understood my heart and mind, and how fully he accepted all of it. I felt like I was blooming looking at him.

“Alright,” he said softly, clearing his throat. “Vente conmigo.”

He stood, leash in hand, and turned towards the door frame. Knowing I only had so much slack in the leash, and that it would go quickly, I slid off the bed onto my guarded knees and hands and shuffled after him. He walked slowly so that I could follow, but not without difficulty. When we reached the hallway to the entrance, he slid his shoes on, grabbed his keys, and led me outside.

I had no idea where we were going. I couldn’t ask, since I couldn’t speak. I could only trust.

It comforted me.

Since it was 2 A.M., and we lived in a quieter area, we were the only ones outside. The misty indigo night-morning air carried a refreshing autumnal chill that rose little bumps on my skin and tickled the soles of my feet, which were not walking the earth as they were usually used. 

There we were. Him: tall, handsome, confident, in sweatpants, slip-ons, a slouchy gray T-shirt. Me: not tall, especially not while crawling, leashed, collared, wearing gloves and knee pads, which did not match my short, silky, baby blue nightie, offering nothing but absolutely enthusiastic submission. In the middle of the night, lightly illuminated by sparse street lights, on a quiet sidewalk.

I had to focus on the ground in front of me to make sure I didn’t land on any bugs or rocks, but also his feet so that if he stopped, I wouldn’t crawl right into him. The plain concrete provided a nice escape for my mind as we walked and I used the quiet peace to analyze myself and my feelings.

I felt deeply loved, comforted, and appreciated that he knew what I needed better than I even did, and was willing to take from his own time and energy to give it to me; knowing I was prone to overthinking and restlessness, feeling trapped and overwhelmed, he knew I needed some physical distraction, fresh air, and someone else to take total control. At the same time, I had to combat insecurities that I was a burden or too much to handle. Even still, I felt the confusing combination of embarrassment, fear (excitement?) of being found (what would people think if they saw us?), and arousal. There was no question about who was in control here; it certainly wasn’t me. I was an object, a feature, a pet. 

It was delicious.

I looked up once I found my rhythm, and began to sleuth out our destination. Based on our path and our time, I could assess that we were headed to the park, which was 5 minutes walk from our house, so about a 10 minute crawl. We had been going for a while, and I could feel the strain in my body, which was still not quite used to being on all fours for such long periods of time and movement.

When we arrived, he sat on a bench. Following his lead, I put my hands on the bench and began to move to sit next to him.

“No. Baja.”

I immediately shot back down to all fours and looked up at him with wide eyes. He was so direct. 

“Buena perra. Siéntate.”

I promptly sat sat back on my heels. I blinked at him incredulously. My thighs were warm and wet, and my cheeks were flushed with effort and embarrassment. How did we get here, to be like this? Why did I like this? Why did I like being treated like a puppy? Why did I allow it?

Not realizing it, I began to, sort of, wiggle, or shake, in a very anxious way. Sensing this before I did, he patted his right thigh. 

“Vente aquí.”

I rose back onto all fours so that I could arrive at his right side, resting my chin gingerly on the spot he had patted. He began to gently scratch and rub at those weirdly erogenous zones behind my ears and near my temples and I couldn’t help but pathetically nuzzle at his leg and hand for more, automatically salivating. I was so embarrassed at my reaction. I was a woman, not a dog. Not some puppy. But here I was, in bondage and lingerie, having crawled from our apartment to this park behind him, and now nuzzling at his lap and almost purring because of simple affectionate touches. With absolutely soaked panties.

I must have started to wiggle my hips in that tell-tale way, because I heard him laugh.

“Oh? Really, now?”

Horrified by his discovery and by the extent of my arousal, I tried to scoot away. Deviously, he began to rub and stratch at that special spot just behind my ear at the base of my skull. I wiggled in an attempt to distract myself but felt the drool bead at the corner of my mouth. I quickly reached a hand up to wipe it. I made eye contact just as I did and felt a new wave of shame sweep me under when I saw how intently he was watching me, amused.

“Look at you,” he said in a mischevious tone, not letting up. “You know why Daddy treats you like a dog when you get restless? Because you make such a good bitch. You move like you’re in heat. Drenched. You always have a bone on your mind, don’t you? Or in your mouth, huh? Look where you are,” his laughter rumbled out like warm honey.

I obeyed. I tried to see myself like someone, a passerby, might. I was frantically wiggling my hips, which were exposed once my nightie rode up around my waist, white cotton panties soaked to the point of being translucent. My knees, and really my whole body, was twitchy and shaking and shiny with a thin film of mist and sweat. My nipples were fighting through my nightie, both due to the chill and how desperately horny I was. My face was a red picture of thinly veiled arousal; mouth open, wet, panting, eyebrows troubled, hair messy. Beyond me, I could see Daddy, holding my leash and driving me crazy with his absolute control, his touch so addictive that I was moaning and writhing just from his hands on my head. I was in public. In a park. 

“Acting like a dog,” he whispered, hot and heavy. “You don’t deserve to be treated like a woman, since you can’t conduct yourself like one.”

His strong hand tugged my leash upward so I had no choice but to look at him. 

“Isn’t that right?”

He tugged again and I gasped.

“I bet you’re soaking wet.”

I whined. Actually whined. Completely unintentionally.

He laughed and I squeezed my thighs together.

He was right; I was his bitch.

“Beg.”

What? I wasn’t allowed to speak. What did he want?

Oh.

I swallowed some of the saliva that my overactive mouth had produced and moved, with what little slack I had, to between his parted legs. I moved backward slightly so that I was on the balls of my feet, heels lifted, legs spread, with my butt hovering just above my heels. Shaking slightly, I lifted my hands from the ground to hold them by my chest like paws.

I took a breath, used my big puppy eyes to look at him, and stuck my tongue out so I could pant like a proper bitch in heat.

I was out of my mind. In a public park. So ready to please, to humiliate myself, for his attention and approval.

It was so fucking hot.

He thought so too, from the way he was biting his lip and looking at me who wanted to please him so badly, and from the way his pants struggled to accomodate him.

“Buena perra,” he said and smiled. “Come make your pretty mouth useful,” he cooed as he elevated his hips a second to slide them down to the knee.

I crawled forward and got to work. No hands, because I hadn’t been given those privileges, and also because the gloves wouldn’t have felt good. I was all mouth. Licking, suckling, kissing my way from top to bottom and all around. I lived for the noises he made, slightly restrained, controlled.

When I had managed to distribute a suitable layer of shiny saliva all over him, I rose slightly to take him in my mouth. I sunk down as far as I could, and noticed once again that I was wiggling my hips in that tell-tale way I always did. 

I relaxed my throat and tried to push a little further. Once I had as much down as I could, I decided to try something new.

I began to hum, lightly, while alternately sucking and making swallowing movements.

“Fuck,” he exhaled and only gave me a few more seconds before he had his hands tangled in my mane, pulling and pushing, skull-fucking me.

I focused on three things: breathing through my nose, keeping my teeth back, and keeping my throat relaxed as I sucked hard. It was dizzying. He was shaking my brain, I’m pretty sure. Oxygen-deprived, absolutely soaked, and euphoric, I was a wiggling mess.

Right before I felt like I was going to pass out, he withdrew, leaving my mouth feeling remarkably empty as I watched the thick string of shiny spit that connected us.

“Get ready for your treat. Lengua,” Daddy commanded.

Obediently, kneeling, I locked eyes with him in that way I knew he loved, and stuck my long tongue out. His hands moved up and down his cock, faster, harder, as he looked at me. We were both panting and my world was spinny as oxygen rushed back into it. 

I loved watching him. He was so beautiful. Exciting.

He twitched and shook for a second and then erupted onto my cheek, tongue, lips, nose, in hot spurts. Some dripped from my chin to my nightie or the ground, but most either stuck to me or landed in my mouth.

His hand was shaking. I smiled at him.

After he caught his breath, he smiled back. Ruffled my hair.

“Good cumslut. Daddy’s proud of you. Are you happy now?”

I couldn’t speak, since he hadn’t given permission. Covered in cum, I smiled and nodded enthusiastically.

He adorned a fake-confused look. “Huh? I can’t hear you. Habla.”

This was a test.

I felt near orgasmic shame rise up in me as I looked at him and happily barked.

He smiled with love in his eyes.

“Buena, buena perra. So proud. Are you ready to go home?”

Not scared anymore, I barked again in the affirmative.

We begun on the way home as we had came. I wasn’t allowed to clean my face until we got the apartment and he unlocked my collar, after which he tended to me with a warm, wet, lavender-smelling washcloth. 

“Daddy, hurt me,” I begged when you were going down on me. 

You paused.

“What?” Your voice was quiet and restrained, like you were tempted but uneasy. Your wolf eyes shone with dark 

“Hurt me, Daddy,” I said again, holding your gaze. 

I love the way you look when you finally give in, when that last barrier between you and your primal instinct breaks. Your skin gets warmer, your breath is rougher, and all of your hard edges rush against me.

I love when you hurt me because I love how you love it.

You lavish me with chaotic energy as you take every opportunity you can to mark me. Your fingertips press purple kisses into my hips, thighs, and neck. Your teeth catch and dig. Your nails carve poems. Your hands push me both down below intoxicating waters and high above cotton-candy clouds. Every inch of you pulses and trips over itself to ravage me.

I love when you hurt me because I can feel you, unfiltered.

After, my head floats on a sea of deliciously painful euphoric waves, and slowly reconnects to my heavy body. I remember laying on my back, how flush I was to the bed. It felt so good to just lie and breathe and feel your chaotic energy imprinted into me. I was so warm, like I had been lying in the sun. I smiled and thought of nothing, felt everything.

I love when you hurt me because I feel loved.

In the morning, when I can barely walk because every movement tugs at a grumpy tight muscle, when wearing pants isn’t an option, when I lift my shirt up and look in the mirror and see your mouth your hands your nails you on me, I am most beautiful. When I am a canvas of watercolor roses, sunflowers and violets, I feel safe. I am not worried; I am yours. My eyes and my skin remind me of my place, of my blessings, of my Daddy.

I love when you hurt me because I feel cherished. 

Then I have to leave, hundreds of miles away, missing your touch and your kiss and your healing presence. On the plane, all I have of the physical you is memories and marks.

After a lazy morning full of lovingly haphazard breakfast construction, singing to Frank Sinatra, and sleepy cuddling, the time to leave finally came. We had planned everything so that when we left, it was the latest we possibly could without being late, so that we could maximize our intimate morning time.

“Time to go,” daddy sighed, casual but still authoritative, as he slid out of bed and pulled his shirt back over his shoulders. He stood and located his jacket. Fully dressed (aside from shoes), but still splayed out on the bed, I barely lifted my head from the pillow. I frowned at his absence as I watched him dress.

“What if I threw a temper tantrum right now?” I said with laughter in my voice, smiling. It was a cute thought. Sure, I didn’t want to go, and I wished we could stay, but I was a grown woman.

“I would punish you,” he said with a more serious smile, but still playful, adjusting his watch and moving across the room.

Something about his response intrigued me. Sure, I was a grown woman, but I couldn’t ever shrug my impish girlishness.

I quirked an eyebrow and observed him, dutifully preparing for our supposed departure.

I decided then and there that I was going to do it.

“Really?” I asked, mischief and curiosity lacing my words. My pulse accelerated in anticipation and wonder.

“Yes, really,” He said without hesitation as he walked through the doorway to the kitchen and began checking something in his wallet. Maybe money to tip the taxi driver. Who we wouldn’t be seeing if I had my way.

I scooted off the bed and followed behind him into the kitchen before hoisting myself up on the counter behind him. I looked at the back of his neck, his proud shoulders, the slope of his back.

“We’ll see then,” I sang with nervous energy and a smile on my face as I swung my feet.

He turned around with a soft smile and an adorably quirked brow. “What do you mean?” He glided forward to put his hands on my waist and kiss my forehead. “We don’t have time for this, honey,” he squeezed my hip and then turned to grab the keys and his cellphone. His eyes scanned a text.

“I have all the time in the world,” I sung. My heart was in my ears but that intoxicating feeling of disobedience, of pushing the boundaries, of risk for the sake of risk, motivated me beyond my fear. I continued to swing my feet and wiggle as if to an imaginary tune.

He looked up from his text with a sweet, understanding smile. “Babe, come on,” he said in a politely pleading tone, gesturing toward my tennis shoes a few feet away, as he began to open the door.

I took a breath.

Here goes.

“No.”

The door abruptly shut and his smile had vanished without a trace. His eyes appraised me. They were so intense I knew I was in for something. “I’m not asking.”

I swallowed dry air. I stared at him. He stared back.

Moving with roughness and yet control, he grabbed my shoes from the floor, lifted the tongue, and motioned for me to lift my leg to slide them on. I remained immobile. I could see the energy building in him. It reminded me of a strong volcano.

He never broke eye contact. Neither did I.

“I’m not asking,” Daddy said in a low voice, raising his eyebrow.

I didn’t move a muscle. I had to keep my resolve. I committed to this and now I had to own up to it.

And it was exciting.

Almost fuming, but intrigued and in control, always in control, he crouched down, grabbed my leg and hoisted it up to begin to force the shoe onto my foot. I didn’t make it easy; I wiggled and squirmed and contorted my foot in any way I could to avoid the shoe until I could kick it from his hand and tuck my knees up to my chest on the counter.

He was breathing in heavy, measured breaths.

“No,” I said firmly. “I’m not going.”

His eyes locked onto mine and my heart almost escaped me with the look in his eye. My body responded in conflicting ways.

After a moment, he suddenly stood up, and my every nerve, standing on end, jumped. I automatically yelped, without stimuli, but then yelped with cause when he took a handful of my hair and yanked my head upward to look at him. He pinned my other wrist to the counter. I gasped and struggled to keep regular breathing. Adrenaline pulsed through me.

“You think this is cute? What the fuck do you think this is?”

Boldly, I struggled. I was no match, but the goal wasn’t to win… it was to challenge him. Test him.

He quickly showed me he wasn’t going to tolerate it when his hand moved from my wrist to firmly around my neck.

“I’m in control. Always,” he growled. “You’re mine and you will do what I tell you to do, whenever I fucking tell you to.”

My throat was dry. I tried to swallow some saliva but found my mouth charred as well. I could feel his breath on me. I could feel my throat pulsing against his palm. Tight.

“Look where we are now. Do you think you’re in control here?”

I gasped. Hesitated. Couldn’t help but crave him to move closer, to touch me. I wondered if he could hear my heart pounding.

He yanked on my hair. “Answer me.” His voice was as rough as his movements.

I shook my head as much as I could with his fingers tangled in my mane. I continued to struggle in vain.

“Do you think that you did was smart?” His tone was now more disciplinarian than angry.

I shook my head again.

I became aware of how wet the thin layer of cotton between me and the cool counter had become.

“Do you think you’re smart?” He spoke like he could see right through me.

Looking into his eyes, and noticing the futility of my actions, his total control of me, I felt embarrassed. I shook my head once again as tears bubbled up.

“Good girl,” he whispered tenderly. He released my hair and my neck, caressing the skin where he had just bound me. His movements were soft and sweet. I gasped and tried to settle into a regular breathing pattern.

His strong, delicately-moving fingertips traced my cheekbone as he began to speak in a hypnotically relaxing tone. “Of course, you’re not smart. That’s why daddy has to think for you… remind you who’s in charge,” he kissed my other cheek. “You’re too little, too dumb to know what’s best for you.

“Now, are we done with this?”

I couldn’t hold back the tears after such catharsis. It felt like a dam had burst. I threw my arms over his shoulders and clung to him. “Yes, daddy,” I mumbled into his shoulder with little sniffles. “I’m sorry.”

He pulled me by my waist and scooped me up so I could wrap my legs around his waist. One hand gently pet my head and the other arm held me up.  His voice was soft and soothing as he spoke to me. “No worries, babydoll… You’re still learning. I know you’re just testing the limits right now. Daddy will teach you everything you need to know. Just listen do what he says, okay?”

I nodded, sniffled pitifully, and squeezed his shoulders.

He held me for a few more moments, humming softly. All tension evaporated from my body and I felt like a sleepy, little ragdoll. He gently set me back down on the counter.

I looked up at him once he backed up enough for me to meet his eyes. I was trapped in his gaze, and fine with it. He gently nudged my inner thigh and my legs spread for his creeping fingers, which just barely grazed the warm, wet front of my panties.

He smiled at me. Victoriously? Knowingly? Always in control. My face flushed. I squirmed and tried not to pout when his hand retreated.

“Let’s get going, princess.”

Daddy helped me put my shoes on (I didn’t kick this time) and held my hand as we left for the taxi.

Right as I made eye contact with the driver and smiled, Daddy leaned over and whispered in my ear:

“…And don’t make a mess in the taxi.”

Daddy: you have no idea what I want to do to you right now.

Me: oh yeah?

Daddy: yeah.

Daddy: if I was there right now... I'd flip you over.

Daddy: shove your face into the pillow.

Daddy: keep one hand on your neck.

Daddy: use the other hand to go up your leg... your inner thigh.

Daddy: caress you.

Daddy: grab your cute butt.

Daddy: kiss your neck.

Daddy: bite you.

Inspired by a 7 A.M. fantasy about a special someone when I woke up this morning.

🌴🌴🌴