Daddy Dom Phone Sex Confession

A friend gave me the number weeks before I ever worked up the nerve to use it. She'd told me, half-laughing over brunch, that there was a line you could call where a real daddy dom would take charge of you for an hour, rules, obedience, the whole thing, and that it had completely rearranged her understanding of what turned her on. I saved the number in my phone under a boring fake name and stared at it every few days like it might bite me.

I'd never tried daddy dom phone sex before. The idea of it made my stomach flip in a way I didn't entirely understand, giving a stranger that much power over me, over the phone, where he couldn't even see me. It felt dangerous and safe at the same time, and I thought about it constantly.

Last Friday night, home alone with a glass of wine and nothing to do, I finally dialed.

The man who answered had the kind of voice that rearranges your insides, deep, unhurried, completely certain of itself. He asked what I was looking for tonight, and I heard myself whisper that I'd never done this before, that what I really wanted was for someone to just tell me what to do. There was a low sound of approval, and then he laid down the first rule of the night: honesty. I was to tell him the absolute truth about everything he asked me, no matter how embarrassing.

My face was already burning and he hadn't even started.

He asked what I was wearing. An oversized t-shirt and panties, I admitted, feeling ridiculous and exposed saying it out loud. He asked what I'd been thinking about when I decided to call. I told him the truth, that I'd been thinking about being told what to do, about not having to decide anything, about a man's voice in my ear making every choice for me. He made a soft approving sound that went straight through me.

Then came rule two: I was to stand up, and take everything off, one piece at a time, slowly, describing each piece as it came off. I stood in the middle of my bedroom with my phone on speaker, my hands shaking, and narrated myself out of my clothes. The shirt first, over my head. Then the panties, sliding down my legs. He told me to fold them neatly and set them aside, because good girls keep things tidy even when they're being bad.

I was naked in my own bedroom, folding my underwear for a stranger on the phone, and I'd never been so turned on in my life.

Rule three: kneel on the floor, phone on speaker beside me, hands clasped behind my back. No touching myself. Not yet. Maybe not at all. That was up to him.

I sank onto my rug and laced my fingers behind me, and his voice dropped lower, slower, wrapping around me. He started describing, in excruciating detail, exactly what he would be doing to me if he were in the room, where his hands would go first, how he'd take his time, what he'd make me do with my mouth. I had to stay perfectly still through all of it. Still and kneeling and aching, with my own hands locked behind my back where they couldn't help me.

I started breathing too fast, and he noticed, of course he noticed, and told me to slow my breathing down and ask permission before I let it speed up again. So I did. I sat there on my bedroom floor and asked a stranger's permission to breathe faster, and when he granted it I nearly cried with relief.

That was when he finally let me touch myself, but only exactly the way he described. Two fingers. Slow circles. Only as slow as he counted. He counted out loud, steady as a metronome, and I followed his count like my whole body depended on it. Every time I started to rush, he stopped counting, and I had to freeze until he started again.

Twice he brought me right to the edge and told me to take my hand away. Twice I obeyed, whimpering, and thanked him for the denial because he'd told me good girls say thank you. My thighs were trembling. There were tears on my face. I had never wanted anything the way I wanted his permission.

The third time, he counted down from ten. He told me that when he reached one, I was allowed to finish, and not one second before. He counted so slowly I thought I might die. Nine. Eight. My whole body was shaking. Seven. Six. I was making sounds I'd never made before. Five. Four. Three. Two.

One.

I came so hard I tipped sideways onto the rug and had to bite my own wrist to stay quiet, because my walls are thin and my neighbors don't need to know what I get up to on Friday nights. Wave after wave of it, his voice in my ear the whole time, telling me what a good girl I was, telling me I'd earned it.

Afterward, his voice went gentler. He asked if I was all right, and I laughed, actually laughed, because I was more than all right, I was floating. He told me I'd done beautifully for a first-timer. And then he gave me my rule for tomorrow.

All day Saturday: a skirt, nothing underneath, and every single time I thought of him, I was to press my thighs together and count to ten before letting go. Then call him back tomorrow night, same time, and tell him exactly how many times I'd thought of him.

It's Saturday afternoon now. I'm wearing the skirt. There's nothing underneath it. I've lost count of how many times I've pressed my thighs together, and it's only four o'clock, and I keep checking the clock like a kid on Christmas Eve. I have no idea what he's going to ask me to do tonight, what new rule, what new test, and that not knowing, that delicious helpless not-knowing, is the hottest thing I've ever felt in my life.