#wyvern.writes

Daddy didn't have to say anything to me. I know what's expected of me when we are in public together, and I've never gotten it wrong before. But they wanted to tell me. They wanted me to know they'd be watching me.

I'm sitting, scrolling my social media feed. I see an event coming up, a leatherdyke play party in a month, and save the flyer to show Daddy when they arrive. I see photos from friends last night, out celebrating at a drag king show. Pup players are at a bar, drinking and howling with one another in skimpy leather harnesses. There's a kinky crafting event, and an afternoon munch for butches and studs at a local park catches my eye. Just as I start clicking through stories, a message pops up.

Next to you.

My glance through tinted windows brings the full few of my butch Daddy into view. Tall, close shorn hair and a wry smile on their lips, all dressed in a pin-strip button up and dark blue sports coat. When they hear the click of my door unlock, they open it for me, and offer me their hand as I step up to my feet. They bend down, kiss me, and run a hand through my hair, careful to put every stray strand back into place when they're done. It's tender, and makes me feel small and cared for all at once.

“Ready?” They ask, a quick glance into the front of my car. I nod, but they pause, eyeing my cane that's laid out in the passenger seat. They nudge me.

My knee is bothering me today, a low dull pain that ends in a click with each step. But I weigh the price of it, a mobility aid in an unfamiliar diner where we're likely to be stared at anyway, and decide against drawing more attention to us. I shake my head. They close the car door behind me.

I lean on Daddy as we make the brief walk across the parking lot. I open the door for them, as expected of me, and they step inside. 

The inside is all wood-paneled walls and plastic-sheeted booths, with the scent of coffee long since seeped into the floorboards. Some people sit at booths in groups, others alone or in pairs at the counter. A few droopy-eyed faces turn, but as I feel their gazes heat my face, they turn back around to stare at the reflections in the burned black coffee. 

When I follow them inside, Daddy grabs my wrist firmly. A glance down at me before signalling to the hostess that, yes, only two of us today, lets me know they're pleased with what they find. Beneath my long-sleeve flannel is the solid, comforting gift of leather cuffs, buckled tight and locked with a key we each keep on our carabineers. They thumb the o-ring briefly through my cotton fabric before the hostess returns, menus in hand, and lead us to a small booth in the far side of the restaurant. 

We're practically alone over here, but the host smiles as she seats us and I catch a glimpse of a gap-toothed smile between her lips. I'm strictly a Daddy's boy butch, but I can appreciate her cute smile and charm. I know Daddy does too with the way their lips crinkle in a smile as they thank her.  

Before she leaves, Daddy orders us both coffee, and it arrives timely in an off-white ceramic mug. While they look over the menu, I prepare their coffee the way they like it, with enough cream to turn the near-black liquid the color of beach sand. I push it in front of them. They sip, and make a pleased hum.

“Good boy, it's perfect,” they say, firm and even. 

“Thank you, Daddy,” I respond in turn, voice a little softer as a flush of pink threatens to rise to my lips. We say it all the time over messages and in our homes, but each time I call them that in public, I feel myself get shy all over again. They swear it's cute–”it's adorable to watch yourself push yourself just for me”--but I'm still struggling to say it with the same confidence they use for me. I like being their boy, and I like that they're my Daddy, and I like the heated pool of embarrassment and comfort that comes from each time I reaffirm it in the words I say and the acts I do for them. In turn, they look out for me, care for me, hold me close and make me feel like a small and cherished thing, adored in their strong, firm, and capable hands. 

I feel their boot tap against my own underneath the table. 

“What are you thinking about, cutie?” They ask. They take another sip of coffee, and I can feel the toe of their boot brush against my ankle again.

Daddy doesn't like it when I lie, but it's embarrassing to tell them I was just thinking about them. I fumble my words, and feel their boot pressing open my left leg. They make an amused sound, an almost laugh, before they stop and give me a chance to speak.

“Well?” They prompt again, a little firmer.

“Just you, Daddy.”

Their posture immediately softens, light and airy. “Just me? What were you thinking about me?”

If my face wasn't red before, it is now. “Just how sweet you are.” Their silence is a soft pressure to continue, and I do: “and how caring you are, and gentle, and kind.”

“Its easy to be sweet when I have such a good, obedient boy,” they respond, laying their entire left leg on my knee. 

“Thank you, Daddy,” I try a little louder this time, more of a stage whisper than a mumble under my breath. 

The waitress comes by, and Daddy orders breakfast for us both. We've had breakfast together enough times that they know my typical order, but they also told me to decide before we arrived so I didn't have to think about it and could focus on enjoying myself. Truth to be told, it is impossible to focus on the menu. I’m watching the curve of their lips twitch and the tendons flex in their hands as they drink their coffee. It doesn’t help, either, that the heel of their boot has migrated from the top of my thigh to between them. 

They press into me, and I feel my breath catch.

“Shhh,” Daddy coos. “Do you want everyone to know how wet you are already?”

I shake my head no, swallowing to stop the whine building in my throat.

“That's my good boy.” They press the toe of their boot right on my crotch, and I squirm in my seat. Caught between wanting nothing more than to grind and lose myself on their boot, and the fluttery embarrassment that a few taps against my wet cunt is enough to make me this desperate, I stay silent, fists balled at my sides. For once, I’m glad I am wearing jeans instead of something more revealing: at least in these, I won’t leave a spot on the fabric. 

I can't take much more of Daddy's teasing by the time the food is dropped off. Mercifully, they put their boots back on the floor, and then start divvying up their food with me to share. Their eggs stay put–Daddy knows I don’t care for them–but they place a slice of bacon, a sausage patty, and some of their potatoes on my own plate. Then, they start cutting into their over-easy eggs. The yolks burst open, soaking their diced potatoes and the edges of their sourdough toast. With a few steadying breaths, I finally pick up my own silverware and begin the process of buttering my pancakes, making sure to layer between each individual one and letting the residual warmth of the griddle melt it through. Once it looks good, I cut up a quarter and place it on Daddy’s plate, and a soft smile is my reward. 

The food is delicious. Simple, but well-seasoned diner fair that affirms why it remains a favorite with its locals, despite the changing times. As we eat, we talk of mundane, easy-going things. Check-ins about work, meal planning ideas for later in the day, even the latest art project we’re each working on. Daddy has plans to put together a gallery show, and they’re finally finished with their last piece. The next step is meeting with venues and planning when it will take place. The logistics of it all will take a while at least, but I know that once Daddy has it secured, I’ll be there to help them plan, design, and set up their work. I on the other hand have smaller projects I’m working on: a few poetry zines, polishing up a fiction journal entry, and then a few patches to design and print for the next craft market. I can feel the excitement bubble up in my voice when I explain the symbolism I used in a few of my favorite poems, and when I look across the table at Daddy, I see pure adoration. It makes my face heat up and my voice pitch just a little bit higher.

I feel their boot press against my calf again, a lazy circling motion that on its own, could be mistaken for a nervous gesture. But I look at Daddy, and see them reach for their wallet and place enough cash on the table to cover the meal and the tip. I know that intensity in their eyes, and realize it's time to go. 

Daddy lets me lead this time, their hand gripping loosely but firmly at my waist, with a slight pressure to push me forward. We snake our way back through the tables to the front of the restaurant, and through the entrance doors. Now, Daddy walks beside me, holding me close as we walk back to their car. I hadn’t noticed it when we first parked, but their car is parked nearest the wall of the neighboring building. Between the car and the wall, it was perfectly hidden from both the street and the restaurant. 

Daddy, of course, planned that. As soon as we are out of view, the hand so reassuringly at my waist presses me against their car. Not hard–I don’t fight back–but confident, sturdy, and firm. Their weight against my back makes my breath quicken.

Their breath is in my ear when they say, “I’ve been wanting to do this all breakfast, you know.” I feel their teeth, light as possible, press into the back of my neck, and just as I mentally prepare myself for the sharp pain of pleasure, their hand reaches below the waistband of my jeans right into my soaked underwear. 

“Good boy. Very, very good boy,” their breath is wispy, fleeting, before their hand moves to my thighs and ass. “I knew you would be dressed well for me.” 

Daddy isn’t strict on a lot of things, but they love my mesh boxers. Silky, soft, and leaving little to the imagination, they’re one of Daddy’s most consistent requirements for me to wear. I’m their boy, and their words of praise always make me swoon. I wear them every time. 

The whine that has been building in my throat finally spills out when I feel them press their hips against me, the tell-tale bulge of their strap grinding into my ass. I hadn’t even noticed, with it tucked so neatly into their waistband of their slacks, that they had spent this entire breakfast hard packing. Their hand, pressed against my back and holding me in place, hooks around the leather of the cuff on my left hand, and pulls it upwards above my hand. They nudge me, and my right hand joins. From where my face is, pressed against their car door, I can’t see but I can feel the stiff cotton of my sleeves dip and put my leather restraints on full display. 

“Do I need to clip them together, or will you be able to keep them there for me?” they hiss at me through closed teeth, and I shudder and whine. I want to whisper that I’ll be good, I’ll always be good, but before I can form the words on my desperate lips, I hear the jingle of their keys as they pull the carabineer from their belt and clip my wrists together in one fluid motion. “There,” they murmur, letting go of my hands to feel the freshly-shaven back of my head. “You look adorable, boy.” 

In my daily life, I hate that word. I’ve spent so long trying to wear my masculinity on my sleeve. My short, stocky frame, hairy legs, and face with a hint of stubble if I forget to shave, leaves little room for compliments like cute and adorable from the general public. I wear my cuffs, leather, and chains as a source of pride and armor, and get in return labels of tough, cold, and from the most dear, dyke. Intricate tattoos peer out from beneath button-ups (for work) and band t-shirts (for pleasure), but it's here, pressed against the car and in the capable hands of another butch do I feel finally allowed to take that compliment. 

“Thank you Daddy,” I say, with as much force as my breathless desperation will muster. They kiss the back of my neck and I swoon. Then, I hear the zipper from their pants and feel the sure grip of my pants being unbuckled. When they slide down my pants to my ankles, just above my boots, I feel the warm morning air breeze on my wet boxers. 

“You won't need much warm-up, will you boy?” They coo in my ear, “So eager to take my dick, aren't you?”

“Please Daddy,” I whisper, drawing out each word into a high pitched whine. “Please, please, please fuck me with your cock.” 

“My boy is so impatient,” they click their tongue, but as I whine more, I feel them tug my beautifully soaked boxers down to my ankles. With two taps to the back of my knees, they are fully off, and I'm resting, ass bare, against the side of their car in the middle of a parking lot. The feeling of how exposed I am turns my skin warm, and I squirm, trying to close my legs to preserve some semblance of modesty in such an incredibly compromising position. I'm stopped by Daddy's legs pressed against my own, forcing them open despite my soft whimpers of protest.

“My beautiful boy, trying to hide himself?” They shake their head. “That just won't do.” 

“Everyone can see,” I manage in a breathy whisper. “I don't want to get caught.” Before my brain spirals into the logistics of a worst-case scenario, I feel Daddy's hands on my shoulder. Their voice is soft, different, not the hoarse sound of feral desire but a tiny drop of reassurance in the act of the scene. 

“I already scoped this place out, we're okay. I've got you. Color?”

I feel the pool of anxiety in my gut begin to drain, but not enough to shake the burning embarrassment that comes with being fully on display like this, in front of Daddy. “G-green,” I stutter. I trust Daddy, I trust that they will have my back and protect me, and I also trust that no matter what happens, we’ll figure it out together. 

 No sooner than I’ve given my okay do I feel Daddy’s cock slide between my legs, and my gasp of surprise turns into a moan as I feel their head tease my entrance. One of Daddy’s hands presses against my back, and the other hand guides it into me, and my voice chokes out a noise as I take it to the base. 

Fuck, its Daddy’s big cock. I feel so full, tight and stuffed full of them, and squeeze my eyes shut against the sheer size of it in me. True, I didn’t need any extra lube, but I breathe heavily as I feel my body adjust to the size of it. As my brain comes back into focus, I can hear Daddy’s whisper of soft praises in my ear, so sweet and kind as they compliment just how much I can fit inside me. They kiss the back of my neck and taste the beads of sweat that have begun to gather, all from sheer arousal. 

“I think you’re ready, darling boy,” they finally say, when my body stops shuddering against their voice. I nod slowly, the effort of a please dying on my lips as I feel their hips grind into me, slowly pull out, and then slam back into me. The noise I make is a garbled mess, and I can feel tears like pin-pricks at the edges of my eyes begin to roll down my cheeks. I sniffle, and that sets Daddy off–in another moment they are pressing me against the car, hard, growling into my ears: “I’m going to fucking wreck you, boy.” 

“Please, please, please.”

“That’s cute,” They say as they grip my hair and pull it to look me in the eye. “You’re precious like this. So cute and pliable under my hands, my beautiful boy. What do you say to that?” When I don’t respond immediately, they thumb away the tears on my face and prompt me again. “I asked a question. What do you have to say to me?” 

“Thank you Daddy,” Their grip on my hair tightens and I can feel the hair tingle on my scalp. It sends a buzz through my entire body. The sharp grip of pain, the fullness, the helplessness of my cuffs, the suffocating closeness of my Daddy, their sweat, and the sweet musk of their cologne. Its heaven, pain and pleasure wrapped into one. And then, they kiss me. I can taste breakfast on their tongue, and the sweetness of their coffee made by hand. Their lips, despite the roughness of their grip, are soft, pulling and teasing my mouth open while they rock their strap into me. I whine when they pull away, and a string of my cum drips from the edge of their strap. The emptiness feels wrong, a hollowness after being filled to the brim moments before, and in a cumdrunk lapse of judgement I turn around and step towards them. 

Their push back against the car is firm, but not rough. One disappointed look is enough to immediately make me drop my gaze. They clear their throat, and I sink lower, kneeling bare skin on bits of broken, rubbery asphalt. They meet me there, running their hand gently through my hair as I rest my head on their thigh, dripping strap right at eye level.  With a few motions, they unclip my wrists. They give me a moment to rotate my wrists, easing out the tension, before I lay my palms down on the pavement for balance and support. Then, Daddy pulls my head back and lines up my mouth with their strap. 

“Open.” Not a question, an order, and one I want to obey but there’s a rumbling of panic rising in my stomach. Their strap is huge, and I barely was able to take it inside me, much less in my mouth. I want to protest, and say it's too much, but I also want to be good for Daddy, especially after my misstep. I want to prove that I can do everything they ask for. Conflicting thoughts rattle in my brain, and Daddy shakes my head in their hands. “Don’t overthink it. Open.” I can feel their eyes on me, carefully watching my posture and reading for any sign of discomfort. Before they can ask, I feel the anxiety ease in me, and my desire to do this outweighs any previous hesitation. I’m willing. 

Truthfully, Daddy’s strap is too big to fit much beyond its head in my mouth. But my tongue does the work, cleaning off the still glistening cum from its surface. Daddy groans as they watch me work my tongue around the head, then follow the molded veins and gently stroke the bottom of the shaft. When it's covered in more saliva than cum, I lean forward and cup the balls, holding them as I bob my head up and down, as deep as I can take it before I choke and gasp for air. The third time I choke, Daddy pulls their strap from my mouth and tilts my chin up to look at them. My saliva spills over my lips and onto their hands, and they smile. 

“You’re so good for me, boy,” their voice is a soft, gentle purr, no trace of their disappointment from before. “So handsome, obedient, well-behaved.” They continue, pulling out their hunter green handkerchief to wipe my chin. “And sweet, and creative, and always so generous and kind.” 

“Daddy–” I can feel a protest about to emerge, their kindness both wanted and altogether too much. I look up and lean my head into their touch. They pat my cheek lightly, then put out their hands to help me up.

I’m wobbly, back on my feet, and Daddy brushes away the chunks of the parking lot pressed into my angry red skin. My mesh underwear, balled up and in their pocket, is a hopeless case, so they help me pull my jeans back up and buckle them at my waist. My jeans are damp between the thighs, that’s unavoidable, but the dark denim material is enough to hide the evidence of our morning. Once I’m presentable again, I see that Daddy has tucked their strap back into their pants. They seem as collected as ever, minus the beads of sweat on their forehead. 

“Did you enjoy breakfast?” They ask me as I loop my arm through theirs. Although being on the asphalt was hot and very much wanted, part of me is regretting not wearing my knee braces this morning. They would’ve at least softened the blow when I knelt down to clean their strap. I kiss their cheek as a reply, and I see a flush of pink on their skin. They walk me a few paces back to my car, and open the door for me. 

As I sit down, watching their eyes track over me with pure adoration and need, I can’t help myself. I say, “So, where would you like to go for lunch?”