(This story is about a daddy dom and his sub. This is a style of DS that deals with a need for a father-figure who is both strict and nurturing, who gives unconditional love, as well as strict discipline. It is NOT about ageplay, but about needs for security and control. I would like to make it very clear that both the characters in this scene are of legal age, and that their roleplay in the scene deals with emotion and authority, NOT age.)
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I enjoy the solitary silence of the old farmhouse, with the business of the day behind me. I sit at my desk, reading over a new chapter, my red pen in hand. The woman in blue scrubs is still yammering on the phone when she walks into the house. She puts a carton of milk in the fridge and peeks in the oven to see what smells good. Anyone else who knew us would think she is the love of my life, but this forty-year-old woman with her hair in a bun is almost a stranger to me. I pay her no mind as she heads upstairs.
I hear her going into her bathroom, starting the shower, and I make notes for a new draft. Every day we come home, from our separate working lives, and it takes time for us to shed the skin we wear for the world and become who we are for each other. We call that time the airlock. When she is ready, when the world's nurse has become my sweet, the one I love, she will let me know. Until then, I have my novel.
Roaring guitars, brutal drums and a thundering bass shred my peace. It has been over an hour. It must have been a terrible day for her to take so long, to want this game. She knows I love my quiet, and I breathe slow, waiting out the first, hot wave of anger. The first song is almost over before I start up the creaky stairs and see her door ajar.
This is the girl I love, spread across the pink bedspread on her belly, propped up on her elbows, reading a magazine in the middle of this musical hurricane. I can see her silky red panties under her porn-short miniskirt, and her dark, auburn hair is hanging in a high ponytail. It isn't something we have a name for, like the airlock, but the scene she has created tells me exactly what she needs.
"Turn it down." I have to raise my voice to be heard.
Her ass flexes for a moment, and she turns the page. I am across the room in a heartbeat. I grab her by the ponytail, forcing her to face me. She is wearing far too much makeup, so her face seems nothing but big brown eyes and red pouting lips. She glares and tries to pull the magazine between us. I snatch it and fling it across the room, bringing my hand back from the throw to slap her cheek, leaving a red print that fades to pink. She cannot entirely stifle her gasp of pleasure.
"Daddy said turn it down!" I bark at her, and she reaches out quickly, her fingers on the volume dial, turning the screaming music down to a whisper. "Daddy" is our code for this game. She will act insolent and bratty, and I will rage at her and punish her, but unless we say Daddy, it's just theater.
"What the hell were you thinking?" I snarl the words, my eyes blazing with fury. "You know I need quiet when I'm working." She glowers at me, eyes hot with defiance as I twist my hand, pulling her hair tighter, forcing her to sit up. She crosses her arms under her chest, lifting her ripe breasts up so they all but spill out of the tight blouse she has mostly unbuttoned.
"You don't understand!" she accuses, her voice changing subtly from defiance to complaint. She is breathing hard, and I know she is as excited as I am.
"I understand that you're disturbing my work by playing that noise and that you look like a whore." I let my eyes drop to her lush breasts, glimpsing the rosy edge of a nipple under her blouse. Her tummy is bare from the navel to the little strip of cloth that barely passes as a skirt, and I can still see her silky panties between her beautiful, thick thighs.
"I do not look like a whore!" she wails, her face a tragic mask under the heavy make up. She pulls away, her luscious body wriggling as she tries to escape. I slap her again, catching her wrist and freeing her hair. I pull her arm behind her, twisting and pressing her soft body against me. She feels how hard I am, but the only sign she gives is a momentary flutter of her eyelids.
"Why are you blasting that garbage?" I snap.
"You're so mean! I hate you!" she howls, squirming in my grip, rubbing herself against my hard cock so I can hardly control myself.
"Tell Daddy the truth. Why are you blasting that garbage?"
Her chin trembles as she glowers up at me, but her voice is softer. "I wanted to make you mad, Daddy."
I growl. "You want Daddy to punish you, is that it?"
She blushes and lowers her head. After a moment, she mumbles "No, I don't want you to punish me.... I just didn't want to wait til you finished your work to see me."
I stare at her a moment, teeth clenched. My blood is up and I am burning with lust, but I have to control myself. Just as she thought before she spoke, I have to think now. She did not say Daddy. She wants to be punished. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. How to punish a bratty attention whore?
"It's hard to wait, isn't it? It's hard to be good when Daddy's working."
I stroke her cheek. She looks up at me, her eyes wide, teary. Later on, perhaps I will learn what has upset her, but for now, what matters is our game. She nods her head
"Tell Daddy why you're dressed like a whore."
She blushes, a deep crimson, and lowers her eyes. "I wanted you to fuck me, Daddy."
