The 24/7 Slave Experiment

Last week, Daddy said he wanted to try a “slave training” experiment, and talked about doing that when we are on vacation in a few weeks. This excited me no end, I don’t know why, I have no actual desire to be in a slave arrangement. I like having a stern but loving Daddy, I have never wanted a Master. Because I work and have to switch into my independent-minded self every day, we have kept our D/s confined to sex; I think of myself as a “bedroom submissive.” Although, since we have been having sexual interaction of one kind or another all over the house, morning noon and night, and even blow jobs outside on hiking trails, or in the car … well, our BDSM has wandered far of the bedroom. It would be more accurate to say that I am submissive to him whenever we are together, so why not give an all-in 24/7 experiment a try?

The idea has been working at the back of my mind, profoundly turning me on, and this morning I tell Daddy how much I am longing to begin our experiment.

“Do we really have to wait ‘til we are on vacation?” I ask. “Can we maybe give it a trial run this weekend? Can I pretty please be your slave for a day?”

He grabs my hand, puts it over the bulge in his jeans, and I feel his cock grow harder. I laugh, “I think that means yes.” He says, “Hell, yes.”

We start talking about how it should go: I will get dressed in what he tells me to wear, I will sit at his feet, I will wait for him to tell me when to eat, I will ask him for permission to speak, to shower, use the bathroom. Every minute of my day will be controlled by him.

I am so aroused by this conversation I can barely stand it. It feels as if tomorrow will be a religious holiday, my “worship Daddy for real” day. I have visions of kneeling and serving him and being made to splay open and expose myself. I want him to…

No, I need to stop envisioning or anticipating at all, it is not about my vision, but his. As I feel my pussy throb, I realize it much more exciting to not know, to not plan or think, to just allow him to take me where he wants to take me. My excitement lasts the rest of the day, and I have a hard time falling asleep that night, unable to lie still from the sharpness of anticipation.

I wake just before 4 am and can’t go back to sleep. I would normally get up to journal on my computer until he wakes, but I am a slave today, I can’t rise without permission, so I lie there, waiting and waiting. I feel the urge to flop around emphatically in the hopes of waking him up, and only just barely manage to resist it. Oh, the wait is excruciating.

Daddy finally opened his eyes just after 6 a.m. and thus begins our grand experiment. He pulls me close to him, and then begins giving me very specific instructions on how to touch his cock, how to lick it, how to suck it, one step to the next. At first this thrills me, I love following his commands, but as they became more detailed and elaborate, I become anxious about performing the detail correctly. I feel a trickle of worry. Is this going to be how the day goes, me tripping up on the intricacies of detailed commands?

He tells me he is going to tie me in a breast harness now. He pulls me by the wrist into the living room, and I slip into a peaceful state of surrender as he wraps my titties tightly in rope. Next, he pushes me down to my knees so he can place my training collar around my neck. He tells me I will stay naked all day except for the short skirt he knows helps me to not get too distracted by self-consciousness about my bare belly. He reminds me not speak to him unless he speaks first. He tells me I may only sit at his feet the entire day, not the furniture. His cock gets hard again as he is talking, and so he drags me to the couch, pushes me down and gives a simple one-word command this time: “Open.” I open my legs and he fucks me sweetly while I lay quiet and still and intensely turned on.

When he is satisfied, he rises, and sets me to work on a few chores, making the bed, starting some laundry. Then he tells me I must to go to the store to buy, among other things, an enema kit to prepare my ass for his cock later. I laugh nervously, we had talked about this, me needing to clean myself out, but I am somehow surprised he means to follow through with it. But I don’t say anything, just turn around for him to remove the harness so I can get dressed. He says, “No, babygirl, you’re going to wear the harness to the store, under your clothes.”

I feel a moment of panic, won’t the harness be visible where it criss-crosses at the back of my neck? And this is a cupcake harness I am wearing, it squeezes and enlongates my breasts, makes them jut out in front of me, there is no way to hide that. I will look obscene, I am sure. I go searching my dresser, a little frantic, and I am relieved to find a bulky turtleneck sweater that will hide the rope.

Off to the store I go, with the harness gripping my breasts, my nipples bare against the scratchy sweater. I become caught in tangle of emotion as I walk around the store, profound pleasure at this secret, and fear that everyone I walked past can tell I am trying to cover something. My face burns with embarrassment as I am checking out, and when the cashier drags the enema kit across the scanner, he seems to look at me knowingly. “Doing anything fun this weekend?” he asks. I say, “Oh, you know, the usual.” 

I go home and get back in the skirt and Daddy puts the collar back on me. I have to pee, and start for the bathroom, then remember I have to ask permission. I smirk as I ask, it feels so silly, asking to pee. I’m not crazy about how it makes submission suddenly feel like a game, rather than hot reality. I am thrown off, and when I come out of the bathroom I am thrown off further.

“I want you to dance for me,” he says. He wants me to dance, like this, in short skirt, harness and bulky collar. I don’t want to, and I say, “It’d be easier if we waited ‘til later, and I have a drink or two in me.” He reaches out and pinches my nipple hard. “I didn’t give you permission to speak. Now dance for me.”

So, I turn on music and I dance. I don’t enjoy it really, but I keep telling myself, this isn’t about me. It clearly does something for him, because he gets up and tells me to bend over the kitchen table. Now this I love, the command, the surprise of it. He fucks me from behind, ah heaven. When I rise up, I can see two round breast prints on the table.

He gives me a little push toward the stove, “Daddy’s hungry, fry me up some eggs.” I set about making breakfast, and find it’s not so easy to cook with a bulky collar preventing me from tilting my head down. My submissive longings have never included being collared, that is more his desire than mine, and it’s not doing much for me at this moment. But I don’t mind wearing it either. I think, if he likes it, I bet I’d learn to like a collar, too. At least if it was thinner.

After breakfast, we turn to our normal Saturday morning ritual, watching a few episodes of Gilligan’s Island, a show that makes us laugh unreasonably much, as we learned in our first weeks of dating. I automatically start to sit beside him, but he stops me, points to the floor. I silently sink the ground, and for a few minutes, I enjoy the novelty, and feel a small rush of submissive warmth. But that feeling wears off quickly, sitting on the ground is uncomfortable. I start to feel oddly punished, exiled from my usual place beside him. I conclude that I don’t like the floor-sitting thing, which I plan to tell him when I am allowed to talk. Happily, he gives me another one-word command: “Worship.” I lean over his lap and take his cock into my mouth, tasting myself on him. Oh yes, one-word commands are much better than detailed commands, makes my mind turn off like a switch. I become serene object. I am still nuzzling up to his cock, very turned on, when the episode ends, and he says, “Up you go, time for that enema.”

My arousal is swamped by a cold wave of reluctance. The last time I had an enema I was a child, and it felt traumatic to me then, invasive and strange. It is only a desire to avoid being embarrassed by messiness during anal that makes me willing to face the discomfort. I struggle to my feet and ask permission to speak. “I’ve never done this before, I don’t know what it will be like or how long it will take, but I’ll let you know when I’m done.”  

He says, “No, babygirl, I’m going to give you the enema.” I am confounded by this. Somehow this hadn’t crossed my mind. How could he want to do that? How could that not be a repellent idea to him? But I don’t try to talk him out of it, it is a given in my mind that he has the right to do that if that’s what he wants to do.

I watch him open the box with two bottles of enema solution, then scurry off to our bed. I curl up on my side and present him my bare bottom. Daddy kneels behind me, and I brace myself for the icky gross factor of water being forced into my bowels. I am sure it will be unpleasant for both of us. But as he slides the nozzle into my ass and squeezes the bottle, and I feel the cool water filling me, I am amazed to discover that it doesn’t feel gross at all. In fact, it feels like the most soothing penetration, pleasant even, liquid energy slowly filling me. And having him do it to me, this most intimate service, is somehow achingly sweet to me. Another barrier between us is being washed away. He tells me I need to hold it for five minutes, and he lies with me, idly touching my titties, still squeezed by the rope. I feel so full, so cradled in his tender care of me, I have tears in my eyes. What a surprise.

I head to the toilet, squeeze the water out, nothing traumatic about it after all. I wonder, will it feel so sweet every time? I grab the other bottle and ask, “Do you want to do it again? To be sure I’m clean?” We repeat the process, and it feel even sweeter this time as he fills me up. As we lie together again, I say, “Even my insides belong to you to do as you please. It really feels like you own me, doesn’t it?” In answer, he says, “Worship,” and I suck on his cock again as the water energy dances in my belly. He is steel hard and tells me how much the controlling me turns him on, how much the intimacy turns him on. Oh, we are kinky people all right. Yet it somehow doesn’t feel like a kink at all, it just feels sweet and peaceful and loving.

He takes my harness off so we can get in the shower together. There is a new authority and assertiveness in how he handles me. He moves my body around as he washes me, grabbing me firmly, holding me by the neck, clamping onto my nipples as he rinses my hair. I love being manhandled like this, and the combination of roughness and tenderness at the same time reduces me to submissive mush. I feel lucky, so lucky.

We head outside for a walk, it is a beautiful sunny day, and we are both giddy. He says he is digging this day of total domination and control. “I feel like I’m getting away with something,” he says, “and I keep waiting for you to figure it out and put a stop to it.” I laugh so hard I actually double over. I tell him I am sure it is me who is getting the sweeter end of the deal.

After the walk, it’s back in the little skirt and collar. I make lunch and sit awkwardly on the floor at his feet while we eat. I dislike the floor-sitting even less than I had earlier. And when I again ask for permission to pee, I have to suppress the desire to roll my eyes. I know the idea is to reinforce that my body, and all its function, belong to him, but it feels like a ridiculous exercise to me in a way other D/s rules don’t. I can’t imagine he would he ever tell me no, I cannot pee. So why ask if he will never tell me no? Then again, maybe he could tell me no, and make me hold it until I am squirming in discomfort, maybe then it would at least have a purpose. I have a brief thought that maybe it would be an interesting experiment in submission to be made to hold it while he sexually stimulates me. But mostly, I am thinking if these are the things a slave has to do, then a slave I will never be.

But I do like being told to do other things, unexpected things, like lie still while he makes a sketch of my breasts, now decorated with nipple clamps. As I lie reclined on the couch, soaking in the sweet pain, I feel like Kate Winslet in Titanic, being drawn by my lover. It is highly erotic, seeing the intensity on my Daddy’s face as he looks from my titties to the page, back and forth. I marvel at the finished drawing, the way he has made my body look beautiful. Is this how he sees me?

He takes off the clamps, and as I lie there, rubbing the tingling soreness from my nipples, I see him gathering up clothespins and plug and rope and gag. Here it comes, I think, the torture session, the main event of the day. I scootch back into the corner of the couch, hug my knees to my chest, feeling my nerves stretch tight. He notices and brings me a glass tinkling with ice and whiskey. Thank God. He pulls me up and leads me into the bedroom. “Trust me, he says, “We’ll go slow.” I trust him, I do.

He turns on music, then ties me another breast harness, giving the alcohol time to do its job, before telling me to lie down on the bed. He takes another length of rope, ties it around one leg, just below my knee. He attaches it to the leg of bed and brings it up to tie around my wrist before securing the end to top bedpost. He does the other side just the same and when he’s finished, I am bound and held wide open, unable to close my legs or move my arms at all. The music is good, my buzz is good, I feel myself letting go, surrendering to his will.

He starts with clothespins on my pussy lips, a recent addition to our pain play repertoire. They feel more intense than usual, but when I settle into that sensation, oh fuck, it is perfection. A pain trance begins stealing up on me. Oh yes, I am dropping into the most wonderful submissive space, completely in the moment, thrumming with hot pleasure. He picks up a riding crop and smacks the inside of my thighs. It feels like fiery kisses of extra sensation, and I feel myself edging closer to a high-flying ecstatic state. Suddenly, I feel a cold glass plug pushing into my ass, and my mind stumbles a bit, the plug is so hard, so big, so uncomfortable. But it is also good to be filled, my mind catches up, starts yielding to it. Then he is taking the clothespins off, I am not expecting that, usually he leaves them on longer, lets me float in that gorgeous feeling. But there they go, that layer of sensation disappearing — going, going, gone. The ecstatic feeling of pleasure/pain starts moving away instead of moving closer. Then comes a bigger plug, shoving into my pussy, a nice surprise at first, but then he hits a switch and it starts vibrating. Oh shit, I can feel one hard plug banging against the other through the thin wall of flesh between ass and pussy, and it fucking HURTS. My body bucks in revolt, my pleasure drains away. I hear myself pleading, “Can you take that out? Please, Daddy, it hurts so much!”

He pulls both plugs out, I am empty, and my body is now solidly back to earth after its brief flight. But I only have a moment to feel disappointed because now his fingers go into my pussy and my ass, his warm knowing fingers. As he pounds them into me, I don’t go back to that otherworldly mental state, I stay grounded in earthy pleasure, deep and intense, until an orgasm takes me over and I am left gasping. Then he mounts me my splayed open body and fucks me hard and hot and urgent until he comes inside me with a fierce growl.

I am floating, happy and content as he catches his breath. But as he starts to unwind the ropes, a thought strikes, my eyes fly open and I yell, “I thought you were going to fuck me in the ass!  Those enemas, all that preparation!” He laughs, says he knows what to do. He grabs the big plug again, pushes it into my ass, and turns on the vibration again. I don’t like it, the vibration just irritates my sore spots, who on earth thinks a vibrator in the ass is pleasant? I beg for his fingers instead, and he indulges me, even though I can feel the hole getting more sore, and tightening up against more stimulation. Still, I crave that penetration so profoundly, I grind down on his fingers, yielding to them, loving the bursts of good pain, and dizzy from my own gulping breaths.

As his fingers slip out of me, he wonders aloud if he’s ever seen me that turned on before. I say, “You have no idea.” And almost without conscious thought, I lean over to open my nightstand drawer and grab my vibrator, then press it between my legs. He laughs, “What are you doing? You didn’t ask permission.” But I cannot seem to stop myself, I feel possessed, shamelessly masturbating right there beside him, until I come yet again.

I cover my face with my hands, embarrassed now. I think he will scold me, but he doesn’t. He just says, “You’re so beautiful.” I look over at him, and he is holding his cock, it’s already getting hard again, and are those tears in his eyes? Yes, they are tears, he is looking at me so full of emotion. “Worship,” he says again in raspy voice, and as I scoot down to take him into my mouth once more, I can see the knotted tangle of covers at the bottom of the bed, I can see all the rope and toys strewn all over, I can see the clock telling me it is only 4 pm. We have been having nearly non-stop sexual interaction for 10 hours now, and I feel such a burst of joy and gratitude that life is allowing us this experience together, this unquenchable passion for each other. 

Later, as we lie in bed, pressing ourselves together before we fall asleep, we talk about the experience, and agree that the Master/slave dynamic, while interesting, is not the dynamic for us. Sure, it’s a hot fantasy to have total power, he says, but about 90 minutes in, he ran out of things that he cared about to tell me to do, and the micromanagement of me felt burdensome. He also says that while it was fun to have me on the floor, he missed having me sit beside him. I hug him and say, oh thank God, I didn’t like the floor, feeling distant from you. I add that I especially didn’t like being unable to speak my thoughts and feelings without permission. “I don’t want to feel like a non-person,” I say. “I want to feel like your special person, your special girl.”

We also agree that we might want to head toward a more 24/7 Daddy/daughter dynamic outside of the bedroom. I tell him how much I love commands, one-word commands for sexual things, but also commands for things beyond the sexual. “You saying ‘Run and get Daddy another cup of coffee’ sounds sweet to me,” I tell him. “Daddies have their daughters fetch for them all the time, right?” I also tell him I’d love to put D/s more overtly into our everyday life, whether it’s wearing a collar when I cook or a harness under my clothes when I go to the store.

He smiles. “How about I put a plug in your ass when we go out to eat?” I squirm in delight at this scandalous idea.

The slave training experiment, with its intriguing mix of hits and misses, has made us even more excited for our upcoming vacation. We have been reminded of the value of experimenting, trying different things to find what resonates, find what helps us move deeper into D/s. This, we agree, is who we want to be; this is the way we want to live. This, he adds, is what feels right.

I press myself tighter to him, and I can feel his lips gentle against my brow as I start drift off to sleep. Yes, Daddy, so right.

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