Taboo Story: Calling Him Daddy

The Confession I Had Been Holding Back

I am Tessa, twenty-nine, and I had wanted to say it for weeks before I finally did. Walter is fifty-four, steady, confident, and completely unbothered by what other people think, and every time he took charge of a room I felt my body go soft and hot at the same time. We were adults, equals in our lives outside his apartment, but in bed I wanted something different. I wanted to give him the control and hear what it sounded like when I finally called him Daddy, not as a joke and not as a game, but as a confession of exactly what turned me on.

I told him over dinner at his apartment, my voice low, my hands shaking around my glass, because I knew once I said it I could not take it back. I said I wanted him to take complete, slow control of me, to tell me where to stand, when to kneel, and when I was allowed to come. Walter did not laugh, and he did not rush me. He looked at me for a long moment, then told me to clear the plates, pour us both another drink, and come back to him. That was the moment I understood this was really happening, and I was already wet before I stood up.

Slow Control In His Apartment

He sat in his armchair and told me to kneel in front of him, not hurried, not rough, just certain. I knelt on the rug in his living room, my dress riding up, my knees pressed together, and he ran his hand through my hair while he talked to me in that calm, older voice that made my thighs press together. He told me a good woman listens, a good woman waits, and a good woman asks properly, and every instruction landed like a touch. When he finally told me to unbutton his shirt, then his trousers, I did it slowly, the way he wanted, because rushing would have disappointed him.

When I took him in my mouth, he kept one hand in my hair and the other on my cheek, guiding my pace, telling me slower, deeper, just like that, and I obeyed every word. He did not let me rush toward my own pleasure. He made me focus on his, on the sounds he made, on the way his body tensed under my hands, and that focus made me ache in a way I had never felt before. When he pulled me up and kissed me, hard and possessive, I whispered it again, Daddy, against his mouth, and he smiled like he had been waiting to hear it all along.

What Daddy Wanted Next

He stood me up, turned me toward his bedroom, and told me to undress for him and lie back on his bed. I did, slowly, watching his eyes move over me, feeling powerful and surrendered at the same time, because this was my choice and my confession made real. He joined me on the bed, spread my legs with firm hands, and kissed his way down my body until his mouth was on me, slow and thorough, not stopping when I arched and begged, only looking up once to tell me to be still and take it. I came hard against his mouth, crying out his name, and he held me through it without letting up.

Owned, Slowly, Until Morning

After that he took me properly, deep and unhurried, his weight over me, his voice in my ear telling me exactly how he wanted me, and I gave him everything he asked for. He moved in long, deliberate strokes, pausing when I got too close, starting again when he decided I had waited long enough, and by the time he let me come a second time I was shaking, clinging to him, whispering Daddy over and over because it was the only word that fit what I felt. He came inside me with a groan, held me close, and told me I had done beautifully, and I believed him completely.

Later, in the dark, he woke me with his hand on my hip and his mouth on my neck, and I turned to him without a word, already ready, already his. We went again, slower this time, almost lazy, his hands possessive on my waist and breasts, my legs wrapped around him, and I fell asleep with his arm heavy across me, feeling safe and thoroughly used in the best possible way. In the morning he made coffee, kissed my forehead, and told me I could call him Daddy whenever I wanted, as long as I meant it, and I knew I would mean it every single time.