Six Months from “Never”
There’s a saying in the kinkverse that you’re only ever six months from “never”.
They say that what might start out as a "hard no" will eventually become something you try, and from there, you’re basically done for. Of course, this seldom applies to hard limits, which are what they are for good reason, but the squicky horrible things that make you squirm? Yeah, they’re pretty much out to get you. Believe me.
I say this, because there was a time when I was dead set convinced that I wouldn’t be calling someone Daddy any time soon. Or ever. It’s not that I hate the notion - I like what a Daddy stands for. But the idea of actually using the term? How silly I’d sound saying it in my pompous English accent, having never had to say it to an actual father?
Preposterous.
Of course, when I said that, I wanted the ruthless authoritarian figure, capable of outright destroying me mentally, physically... yet controlled enough to make it hurt only when it had to. I was transfixed by the darkness and danger in that figurehead, that guidance and force and the switch between malevolence and affection. I needed that.
I did not need a Daddy.
But I’m a woman of glaring contradictions. Naturally, I needed the warmth to that chill, and the chill to that warmth. All the pendulums swinging; always a balance of imbalance. I wanted affection as I was being berated. I needed fun and games as my brain was taxed to its limit. I needed one hand to soothe me whilst the other choked me.
I can’t say that I was ever looking for, or expecting to find, anything of that ilk in the real world.
But then, there was him.
Doing nothing out of the ordinary but existing, and yet somehow dangling the end of the string to a kitten, and I took the bait.
And taking that bait led to an about turn on all of the above.
It was a revelation, that’s for sure.
When the dynamic first began, I toyed with the idea of ‘Sir’. I even tried using it once or twice, but that was ridiculous. I wanted to acknowledge that I respected him and such, but it felt… not quite right. I guess I’m just really not that subby type who adds Sir onto everything...or anything.
Fast forward (less than) six months.
I was lying in bed with a hand between my thighs, tossing around thoughts of his personality traits that I like, the way he speaks, the things he says, the way I feel about him and toward him.
I thought about how I wanted our D/s dynamic to work in a way that wouldn't make it difficult for one of us, about how naturally he fulfilled the role of nurturing, soft, affectionate, ever-so-slightly sadistic chastising tease. How I loved feeling his arms wrapped around me, and the way he would touch me inappropriately when he was supposed to be "snuggling".
I was edging myself toward a slow, delicious orgasm, and the thought popped into my head:
Daddy.
It wasn't slow anymore.
It was thoughts of Daddy using his girl, of Daddy filling her, of Daddy this and Daddy that, and the fact that he was actually a father just adding to that idea that he knew what he’s doing because he really is a Daddy.
I was over the edge before I could catch the wild thought. I felt his weight on me, felt him inside me as he growled those things in that voice. I was clenching one fist and slipping the fingers of my other hand deeper into the god-awful embarrassing mess I was making. My back arched, as I pulled in air like I hadn't taken a breath in forever, and that climax just wouldn't stop as those thoughts kept circling.
Imagining him whispering “Cum for Daddy.” Fuck.
So, I squirmed through confessing the idea to him the next morning - and I’m starting to think that things need addressing.
Obviously I’ve changed my mind. Clearly I want this, right? Only a little part of what was getting me off was the shame and indignation of it. By the time I got to his that night, I was a total mess.
I was nervous about bringing it up, despite the idea seemingly doing it for him to a degree. Eventually, I mentioned it to him. I explained that I wanted to say it, but him being ‘nilla and new to all this and me being crazy and shit, I thought it would weird him out.
He leaned in, his breath catching my ear and neck, and that accent just purring out of him:
”Try me.”
Fuck. Me. Sideways.
Now, don’t get me wrong. The irony here is not lost on me; I’m having to eat an entire serving of humble pie - but you know what? I’m not sure how much I care about that.
I like how I feel when I say it to him. I like seeing it pop up on my phone, or in the car. I like every single trait he possesses that fits that role. I like the idea of what’s to come. I like the idea of following a path I’d always thought wasn’t mine to travel down.
So I guess this is me saying that yes, I do call someone Daddy.
Six months after “never”.
And I like it.
About the Author: DiavalDiablo is a mental auralist with a love of sharp things, including wit, and is considered an "antisocial butterfly".
