#dad dom

She keeps wondering out loud where her clothes are, asking for them back. I tell her I have them right here- a neatly folded pile of new and nicely made clothes with tags. I had burned her ill fitting jeans and the nice but ugly polo shirt she had worn on our date.

“Those aren’t mine.” She says tearfully as I help her dress. Her hair is still fairly short. That will be fixed with a few months here in my basement. She weakly struggles as I strip her, she’s pleading at me not to look at her. I don’t, but I already take gentle note of how fragile and thin and frail she is. I click my tongue in disapproval.

“Your chest is horribly flat.” I say, with obvious disappointment, pulling a blouse over her shoulders. A modest plaid skirt follows. “Your skin looks like it’d bruise if I breathed on it. That’ll need to be fixed.”

She asks me what the hell I’m talking about. And she realizes suddenly what I’m doing. She’s heard about those horrible transsexual groomers on the morning radio, the nightly news. The stupid girl finally puts two and two together. The strange and gangly tomboy from her tinder date didn’t quite look the part of someone who could drug and kidnap her.

I had seemed too weak then, over coffee. I’d made sure of it, my hoodie pulled up over my bright blue hair. Little pins of my favorite cartoons on my bag. I didn’t look like the type who could drag a six foot woman into the bed of my truck.

She’s crying profusely, and trying to hide it. I grab her by the hair and slap her across the face, as hard as I can. She cries harder and tries to pull away so I won’t see. I won’t let her. I make her look up at me with that pretty face full of tears.

“Let it all out darling.” I tell her, “You don’t get to hide that face. Cry for me.”

Her pretty eyelashes shine with little tears. She’ll grow to fit the nice clothes I bought her. I have chili simmering on the stove upstairs. I have my strap sitting cleaned and prepped on my bed to bring down soon, so she can practice servicing with her mouth. She’ll eat and then we’ll get to work.

“What was my name?” I ask her softly, “On our date?”

She replies tearfully with a girl’s name that isn’t mine.

A Quiet Saturday Chore Day

Sunlight filters in through the living room window, catching motes of dust in its warm beam. It’s a lazy Saturday morning, and you’ve both agreed to tackle a list of chores—bills need to be sorted, counters need wiping, and the laundry’s piled up in the basket.

“Alright, Son,” you say, tapping the paper list. You’re sporting a comfortable T-shirt, worn jeans, and an easy smile on your face. “Since we’re home, it’s time for us to get serious about tidying up.” Despite the gentle command in your voice, there’s a playful glint in your eyes. You know you both enjoy these moments—being in charge, guiding him, and he, slipping into that role of listening, following, and occasionally teasing.

He grins, brushing aside a loose strand of hair. “Sure thing, Dad. Just don’t blame me if I get distracted.” His voice carries that soft hint of mischief—an unspoken agreement between you two. The name “Dad” echoes in the space like a deliberate endearment, adding a quiet charge to the air.

You start with the dishes. The rhythmic sound of running water and clinking plates fills the kitchen. He stands at the counter next to you, rinsing and drying. Occasionally, his hip bumps against yours, a wordless flirtation. You catch his gaze and raise an eyebrow in a teasing admonition. “Better watch it, Son,” you warn, but there’s more warmth than scolding in your tone. He just smirks, handing you a dripping plate.

Folding Laundry

Once the dishes are done, you both move to the living room, laundry basket in tow. You settle onto the couch, letting him kneel on the rug, sorting through shirts and socks. Folding each item carefully, he sets them aside in neat piles. Every so often, you reach over to brush your fingers along his arm or straighten his posture with a guiding hand on his back. Each touch is innocent enough—at least on the surface. But the tension between you is undeniable.

Before long, you find yourself lingering, pressing your palm to the nape of his neck. He inhales softly, leaning into it. “Dad?” he murmurs, voice hushed, turning just enough to meet your eyes.

The Soft Shift

The quiet moment stretches. The chores are still there—half-folded clothes, unswept floors—but neither of you seems to care. You slide off the couch, kneeling behind him on the rug. “Yes, Son?” you ask, resting your hands on his shoulders. The warmth of your body presses to his back, the closeness wrapping him in a sense of safety and anticipation.

He closes his eyes, voice almost a whisper. “I love when you’re in charge… It makes me feel so taken care of.” There’s a vulnerability in his admission, and you feel that spike of protective instinct—of pride in knowing he trusts you enough to confess it.

Your hands drift down to circle his waist, drawing him closer. Slowly, you shift your mouth nearer to his ear, lowering your voice. “Then let me take care of you.” The words are both a promise and a temptation. You place a soft, lingering kiss on the side of his neck—just enough to coax a shaky exhale from his lips.

Gentle Connection

He melts under the sensation, leaning further back until his spine is pressed to your chest. You slip a hand beneath his shirt, caressing the warmth of his skin. Your breathing steadies, calm but charged. There’s no rush, no overt demand—just a gradual deepening of the moment.

Your other hand traces slow circles on his thigh through his jeans, deliberate in its pace. You feel every subtle shift in his muscles, every catch of his breath as he responds. “It’s okay,” you whisper, letting him know you’re there, fully present, guiding but never pushing.