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Like right now, when I know I have work to do, but all I want to do is walk upstairs, say “fuck discretion,” and sit on Gym Daddy’s lap like he teasingly offered.
“What? I was only following your orders,” I say aloud in a sultry tone, as if practicing how I’d voice it to him when he’d look at me with a face that said What the fuck are you doing?
But then I remember it’s been several hours I’ve been writing in the café—all those words lost—and he’s surely left by now. I shake my head, trying to get back on track. I pull out my laptop and get comfortable in the lounge chair.
WillDive4Plants:
I have to write.
But all my mental disorders laugh directly in my face after I send the message, choosing to complete one full loop of my intrusive, repetitive thoughts about the three men I’ve been thinking about constantly.
Dream Daddy.
What would it be like to sit on Dream Daddy’s lap?
Oh, I shall tell you, because it’s been one of my most-repeated fantasies while I’ve Hitachi’d myself to sleep ever since I’ve been single.
Dream Daddy, aka Sir Jeremy at Club Alias, is infamous. Known at the club as the Pleasure Dom who sets records for how many times he can make a submissive orgasm. I’ve never been with a Pleasure Dom, but they sure are fun to write. Especially when I switch to their point of view and get to pretend like I have any clue what a person who gets off on making another person come as many times as physically possible could possibly be thinking.
It's dreamily entertaining to romanticize though.
But as frequently as Sir Jeremy is called forth from my spank bank when I need a spectacular image to send me over the edge, in reality, it’s not the orgasms I’d pay money to experience.
Get this: You know how I literally just got through thinking about how I’m not a cuddler and hate feeling like I’m smothered—which is its own little quirk in itself, because I’m pretty into erotic asphyxiation?
Ya ready?
It’s not the guaranteed ticket on a rocket straight to subspace that makes Dream Daddy so fucking… well, dreamy.
It’s his aftercare.
Yeah.
Right?
WTF?
I can imagine telling him, “I don’t like cuddling, but if you don’t snuggle me right now, I’m gonna be big sad, Sir.”
He makes even the thickest, curviest, the most Amazonian women look like little fragile puppets when he finally decides they’ve taken enough of his forced pleasure, picks up their ragdoll body, and carries them over to the overstuffed leather recliner to envelop them with all those black-fabric covered muscles. So when I picture myself in their place, 5’6” and 125 lbs., my weight pretty much evenly distributed, which means I’m not very curvy aside from my silicone boobs, it looks like one unintentional flex of his bicep could crush my entire ribcage.
But instead of all that power in one body scaring the shit out of me, it makes me want to tuck into myself meekly, tiptoe up to him, tilt my head back to look up at him with anime-wide eyes that glitter with begging words that don’t need to be said aloud, and give myself over to him. Mind, body, and fucking soul.
Just take me, Dream Daddy. I’m yours to use as you see fit, as long as you cuddle me when you’re through.
Jesus fuck, I’m pathetic.
I shake my head once more, this time forcing myself to type out my intentions so maybe I can get some fucking work done.
WillDive4Plants:
My brain can't math right now, but whatever 50K minus 37,049 is, that's what I have to write today or I am royally fucked. And not the fun kind where I'm called princess. So, for my own self-motivation, I'm going to pretend you're my Dom who’s just like the one my friend is married to and have given me a word count assignment, in which there would be consequences ON TOP of losing all my PREORDERS!!!
*Breathes heavily
OK. Now that I've panicked and freaked out… I apologize for the shouty caps ??
The joys of being a creative type. K Bye.
I set my notifications to Do Not Disturb and do something my therapist, Doc, has told me repeatedly not to use as a form of motivation.
I tell myself I can’t check my phone until I have two thousand words written, and if I do, then something terrible will happen.
Doing this on purpose when I have a disorder that forces these awful thoughts on me anyway, and then puts them on replay, basically undoes any progress I’ve made in therapy to make it stop happening so frequently.
But I’m desperate, and I can work on fixing my permanently broken brain after I meet my deadline.
When I check my phone exactly 2,133 words later, I have a message waiting for me from Gym Daddy.
