Say “yes, Daddy.”
He doesn’t just touch me.
He owns me.
Not in the way the world fears
in the way I begged for
long before I had the words to ask.
I wasn’t made for soft love.
I was made for submission.
To kneel,
to obey,
to be unraveled by the only man who knew
that my need to be tamed
wasn’t weakness
it was worship.
He says “Strip.”
And I fold like prayer.
Like shame never happened.
Like every bad touch from every wrong man
led me here,
to this:
his belt,
his growl,
his patience.
He doesn’t hurt me.
He holds me through the pain
I ask for.
He calls me good girl
and I melt.
Calls me whore
and I rise.
Calls me princess
and I cry
because no one ever called me precious
and meant it.
Not like he does.
He ties my hands.
Tells me not to move.
Watches me squirm
as the ache blooms between my thighs
like punishment and reward had a baby
and named it Daddy’s favorite.
The way he orders me
isn’t cruelty,
it’s choreography.
It’s grace in leather and grip,
a symphony of spit,
slaps,
and surrender.
I don’t want gentle.
I want to be wrecked.
I want to hear my name through clenched teeth
as he takes what’s already his.
He says,
“You’re mine.”
and I whimper
“yes, Daddy,”
like it’s my fucking religion.
He leaves bruises
that bloom like roses
on my throat,
my hips,
my inner thighs,
little reminders that I belong.
That I’m not invisible anymore.
That someone sees me
in every shade of raw.
When I bite the sheets
and scream,
it’s not pain,
it’s permission.
It’s the release of a lifetime of silence
in the shape of his handprints.
And when I safe word,
he stops.
Immediately.
Cups my face.
Kisses my forehead.
Wraps me in towels
and tells me I’m brave.
Because this man,
this “monster” to anyone who doesn’t get us,
is the only one who ever made me feel
safe enough to break.
He built rules for my chaos.
He gave me structure
when the world was just falling.
Let me fall apart
inside his arms,
his ropes,
his voice.
They think submission is weakness.
But baby,
it takes power to kneel.
Takes strength to say
“use me.”
Takes fucking guts to beg
and trust you won’t be broken
the wrong way.
When he calls me his filthy little girl,
I smile. Because I am.
And I’ve never felt more whole.
“Who do you belong to?”
he asks,
his hand wrapped in my hair
like he’s holding the last piece of me.
“You, Daddy,”
I whisper,
dripping,
shaking,
reborn.
Beautifully written ❤️
