Posted by: littlegirlyone | March 5, 2007


** This is the beginning of a much longer post about a two hour interaction I had with John on Sunday afternoon, and the subsequent masturbation session I enjoyed. My plan was to write it all in one post, but it’s taken me two days to get this much of it done, so I want to post as much as I have, and will continue the story as I get it written over the next few days. Internets are back in action, so no long delays, I hope!** lg

I left the coffee shop wet. My head was buzzing, my panties were stuck to my pussy, my jeans soaked to the point where I could smell my own desire. There was something so gratifying about our conversation, combined with the public space (no internets at home, remember), that even though it was via IM, I was as turned on and lightheaded as I remember being after meeting him the very first time.

I had originally gone to the coffeeshop down the street yesterday to do my homework. A number of my professors don’t “do” hard syllibi anymore, and so in order to get assignments, internet access is necessary. I slid into a booth, feeling slightly guilty for taking a prime table, but justifying that i would need the space once I got going with my homework. Needless to say, I never so much as cracked a book.

The past month has been a little rough for me. John has been busier than his usual busy self, and every time I’ve seen him online, he has been brusque. I know that it’s not me, and he’s busy, but there is a reason I identify as a little girl, and sometimes that reason is neediness. I crave attention in the worst way, especially from him, and it’s often disappointing not to get any, not to mention frustrating. Like persephone, I’ve noticed this is a theme right now in the sub-blog world (little universe that it is). And while it is validating to feel one doesn’t suffer alone, it is also disheartening: Is it my nature to suffer this kind of attention angst because I enjoy submission so much? With the heaviness of all my neediness, I opened my IM browser, even though I was thinking that he wouldn’t be online, or if he was, wouldn’t have time for me. Was i pleasantly suprised! There was a good morning message, an apology for being so busy, and a very clear desire to see me soon. That alone made my day! I replied, even though I was sure he was already gone (his messages were dated over an hour before) and to my genuine astonishment, got a response!

We chatted for a bit about general life, and then he mentioned that he’d been having this fantasy about buying a house and renting it to me, since I’ve been moving this month. I told him that was funny, I’d had a similar thought. He talked about his idea, having a storage area in the basement, locked, where he would take me when I was home alone. This fantasy started to get me going. “Daddy, I’m getting wet just thinking about this.” To which he replied I was to sit still, breathe, feel my pussy reacting, and read his fantasy. While I won’t post the IM here, I’ll give you my version of his story:

I came home and saw my landlord’s car in the driveway. Immediately my stomach clenched. There is something about him that both incredibly annoys and turns me on. That man is so cocky, arrogant. It drives me crazy, both ways. I remember meeting him when my boyfriend and I first looked at the rental. He was courteous, when Mark was in the room, but at one point, I’d wandered upstairs to look at the Master suite alone, and turned a corner too quickly, nearly running right into him. Something about the way he’d grabbed my arm, only briefly to steady me, but firmly enough that I could feel his strength. Something about the way he’d looked me straight in the eye, chiding me not to run, as though I were a child. Something about the way he smiled, patronizing me while he spoke, and held my arm for a second too long. I knew this man was trouble.

Entering the house, I called out a hello. He was down in the basement, looking through his storage locker. I offered to bring him a beer, and he accepted. Grabbing two, I ventured down the basement staircase, finding the room stuffy, with only a small window open. And to my great surprise, the landlord had his shirt off. He had a strong muscled chest, and his arms were well-defined. I was surprised at how much I enjoyed looking at him shirtless (naked men are not usually arousing to me). But, I was aroused by the sight of his skin, the muscles moving gracefully, the thin sheen of moisture that clung to his shoulders and chest. The breeze coming through the open window was much colder than the warm air of the basement, and the chill it shot across my arms and skin made my hair stand up on end, and my nipples hard. It was that sensation, that slight perking in response to the cold air that reminded me what I was wearing, and what a tramp I looked like. I had come back from the beach, and had little on except a very short skirt and a thin tank top. The bikini top did little to preserve my modesty. I thought about excusing myself to go upstairs and change when i noticed the landlord, staring at my rounded breasts, my small nipples pressing against the cool, damp fabric. He was looking in open admiration, and with something like amusement on his face. This both infuriated me, and made me instantly wet, my pussy throbbing against the thin cool fabric of my bikini bottoms. I blushed, and he looked at me, openly, and not the least bit embarrassed.

“What are you doing walking around like that?” he asked. I lowered my head, mumbling something about the beach and not changing, when i felt his big, strong hand reach forward, grabbing my wrists and pinning them above my head, pressing me against the wall. He looked down at me, amused at my shock, and my ensuing struggle.

“Let me go! what’s the matter with you?” I cried. He continued holding me against the basement wall, my wrists in one hand, his beer in the other. So insolent, and irritating, and at the same time his power and confidence embarrassingly arousing. He repeated his question, slowly, as though I was a child, and hadn’t understood him properly. I replied again that I’d been at the beach. He smiled. Indulgent.

“No,” he said. “You came down here, offered to come down here, dressed like a little slut, didn’t you? You wanted me to look at your round little titties spilling out of your top, and your curvy ass?” I didn’t answer. I flushed. I hated myself for coming downstairs, but couldn’t deny I wanted him to keep holding me, keep pushing me against the wall, keep pushing me. He took a long drink, then set his beer down, never altering the pressure on my wrists. Almost before I knew what he was trying to do, he slid his cold hand, wet with condensation from the bottle, inside my bikini bottoms, down the front, lifting one of his thick fingers up into my obvious wetness. I hated him, I looked to the side, furious that he’d done that, violated and angry with myself for getting wet at all. It seemed to validate his hypothesis, that I was some kind of slut, looking for some kind of attention. I couldn’t bear it.

“Look at me.” he commanded, pulling his hands blessedly free. as I resisted, he raised his hand, struck me hard across the cheek. It stung, and yet, it made my knees weak with desire. I knew what i wanted, now. I wanted his hand back in my pussy. I wanted his cock. . .

It was about this point in the story that I pleaded, “Daddy this is making me wet.” I was literally squirming in my seat, and although there was no one to see me, I felt incredibly embarrassed and aroused by this. He replied: DO NOT MOVE. do you understand me? don’t you fucking move, control yourself in public. DO NOT MOVE. sit still, feel your pussy growing wetter, and breathe. When we’re done chatting, you can go home and fuck yourself. BUT DO NOT MOVE RIGHT NOW.

I replied, “yes, Daddy.” And sat back, reading and breathing. Feeling my pussy pressing against the middle of my jeans. Enjoying the relaxing sensation of receiving his creative attention as he continued . . .

I decided to answer the question, then. ” I like to get attention for the way I look, sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” he smiled. “And why do you like the attention? Do you like to get fucked like a little slut?”

“No!” I blushed. “I just like to tease people, especially men. I just enjoy flaunting myself a little, and knowing they can’t have me.”

“Why would you do that? Why would you offer something no one can have?” I couldn’t answer. I don’t know if that’s because I didn’t know why, or I didn’t want to admit it. “Well, today’s your lucky day, slut.” He said, with a gleam in his eye, that smile coming back to the corners of his mouth. “You are going to give it all to me.” And with that, his hand dropped down my skirt again, pressing his thick fingers into my creamy pussy, pressing the insides of my pink hole, making me shiver with desire. He turned my face to the wall, kicked my legs apart and pressed me, face first, against the cold, dirty wall. His free hand slid down my ass, petting me, rubbing in circles, and then he grabbed my skirt and yanked it to the floor. I heard a small metallic click as his pocketknife opened.

“Don’t move.” I leaned against the wall, feeling the small, cold blade running across my spine, as he cut my tank top straight up the back, and then two quick swipes as he removed the thin straps. His hand pressed against my ass again, moving forward, cupping my pussy from behind as he leaned down and said softly in my ear, “I want you to suck my cock, slut, and I want you to think about how sucking my cock makes you feel.”

I practically sank to my knees. His cock was out, hard and waiting in my face. I grabbed his throbbing shaft in one hand, and licked my lips, wrapping the base with my hand as I wrapped the head with my tongue. I worked my way down towards my hand slowly, pushing his cock farther back, bit by bit. It was just hard to get it all in there without gagging. Seeing my dilemma, he grabbed my hair firmly and pushed, all the way to the back of my throat and past my gag relax. I panicked for a brief moment, unable to breathe or move my head. Then I heard his voice, calmly. “Look at me.” I looked up, and my throat relaxed some, seeing the pleasure in his smile. “Good girl,” He said as my throat enveloped him and I grew calm. “Good little slutty throat fucking girl. Good little cocksucking girl. Good little girl.” The words, combined with his patronizing tone made my pussy throb with desire. I could feel my pulse in my clit, steady, tantalizing, as I swallowed his cock all the way into me, thinking only about what a slut I was for enjoying my own degradation and submission, and adoring this man for allowing me to kneel at his feet with his cock in my throat.

Without warning, he withdrew, ordering me to stand.


  1. VERY hot. i am SO glad to read someone who likes the same things that i do– lots of people like being submissive but i haven’t read anyone else who goes nuts over being patronized. πŸ™‚ looking forward to you putting up the rest of this!! get your ‘internets’ soon!! πŸ™‚

  2. First of all great story. I sometimes to talk my Daddy in between classes at the library and know the excitment/turn on/embarassement of getting wet in a public place just for an Instant Message. But I wanted to ask you what do you do when your Daddy is out of reach. Because I know how hard it is for me when I can’t talk to my Daddy. Most of the time he lets me know if he isn’t going to be able to talk or his wife will send me a message. But on the days that I don’t know I feel like I’m going nuts, I find myself reading old emails,chats logs, and even listening to a saved vociemail from him just to get a piece of him. Sometimes I feel like Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction and I hate that because it makes me feel less like a little girl.

  3. ****first of all, ignore that top comment! something happened to it, and it’s all messed up, gramatically.****ms. whimsy,i have a hard time with the distance and separation with my Daddy. i’m afraid i don’t have any secret advice to cure the loneliness of it, either. sometimes it’s worse when i do see him, or interact with him, than it was before. i get the glow of his attention, and it makes it harder for ime when it fades.if it makes you feel better, i catalogue my interactions with my Daddy, just for the purpose of being able to re-read what he’s said to me. even little things, like that i’m a good girl, or that he’s proud of me. even those make me feel better sometimes, when i’m missing him and feeling depraved.i don’t think this is advice, just maybe a small comfort, to know your feelings are shared, and that you are not alone. that was the reason i started this blog to begin with. because after reading persephone’s for so long, i felt a real kinship with some of her angst, and wanted a place to express my reactions, as well as my own angst.the only other thing is, try to keep busy. try to throw yourself into your schoolwork (this only works sometimes for me b/c i am such a procrastinator, and i really just want to write/talk/think about sex all day).anyway, sorry it took me so long to get back to your question, and please, keep commenting – i swear you and meg are my inspiration to write!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s


%d bloggers like this: