Daddy – I’m waiting for your command
bdsm, dad, daughter

He read her message, the words glowing on his screen like fireflies in the night. “Come home soon, Daddy. I’m all alone. Mom went to meet her friend and will be back by evening or after dinner.” Along with a picture of her with a T-shirt raised on the inch, showing her waist. She’d written a delicate blend of romance and playfulness. His heart skipped a beat, and he imagined her standing by the window, waiting for him. She texted him as soon as her mom stepped out of the home. She had study holidays, but she always loved to be in control. That’s how she knew Daddy, who cared for her, loved her, and commanded her. The last time she skipped classes, he picked her up. They went to a resort. He licked her pussy made her cum thrice, and fucked her mouth ruthlessly. They cuddled on the bed like husband and wife. They loved this taboo. Later, he dropped her back, where he picked up. Since then, every night, she used to send him videos of her fingering. He also never failed to give her tasks. But he was still at work, surrounded by the hum of fluorescent lights and the click-clack of keyboards. He couldn’t just leave, not yet. So he typed back, his fingers dancing across the keys, “Ah, my dear, you’ve set my heart racing. Daddy’s on fire. But duty calls, and I’m tethered to this desk. Fear not, though—I’m there with you in spirit, tracing the path from office to home.” He pictured her smile and the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed. “Tease,” she replied, and he could almost hear the playful lilt in her voice. “Well, then, send me a mental postcard. Describe the journey—the streets, the scent of rain, the anticipation.” And so he did. He wove a tapestry of words, painting the route from cubicle to doorstep. The rain-kissed pavement, the neon glow of street signs, the rustle of leaves in the wind—all of it became a shared secret between them. He described the warmth of their home, the softness of the couch where they’d curl up together, and the promise of stolen kisses. As the clock ticked, he felt the minutes like taffy. But he revelled in the ache, knowing that soon he’d cross the threshold and find her waiting. For now, though, he typed, “Almost there, my love. Keep the kettle warm. And remember, distance is but a whisper when hearts are entwined.” And so, in the quiet of that office, he held her close, bridging the gap with words and longing. The screen blurred, and for a moment, he was home—wherever she was. His phone buzzed, and a new message lit up the screen. It was a picture from her, a playful tease to stoke the fires of his longing. He stole a glance, his heart pounding at the sight of her curves. A soft smile played on his lips, a secret shared between them across the miles. But he was on the road now, the city lights streaking past in a blur. His hands were on the wheel, but his thoughts were with her, painting a vivid picture of their reunion. He could almost feel the warmth of her embrace and the softness of her skin against his. He wanted to tell her, to reveal the surprise that awaited her. But he decided to keep it a secret, to let the anticipation build. After all, the sweetest moments are often those that are unexpected. So he focused on the road, on the journey that was leading him back to her. And with each passing mile, his heart echoed a single thought: “Soon, my love. Soon.” She had missed him—the way his laughter filled the room. Commands, the comforting weight of his tight hugs. His tightened grip on her ass, the smell of his aftershave lingering on her memories. She thought he wouldn’t be home for an hour. His thoughts made her put her hand inside her pants, and she was slowly imagining his manly words and rubbing her pussy. It was getting wetter. And then it happened. Her phone buzzed, and she pulled it out of her pocket. The screen illuminated, revealing a single image: the street outside her window. It was an ordinary view—the same trees, the same parked cars—but it held extraordinary significance. Because it was his view, the one he had captured just moments ago. The message was simple, “Get dressed soon.” She blinked, her mind struggling to process the reality. Was this a dream? Her fingers trembled as she typed a reply, “Daddy?” His response was swift, “Yes, bitch. I’m near home.” Her legs moved in their own accord, propelling her toward the mirror. She smoothed down her messy hair and wiped away the tears that threatened to spill. She removed her bra and panty. The dress she chose was the one he had gifted her last month—a deep blue, the colour of the ocean they used to watch together. As she slipped into the dress, her heart soared, and pussy had a tickle. The hallway seemed longer than usual, the seconds stretching into eternity. And then, there he was—standing in the doorway, his eyes tired but filled with love. His embrace enveloped her, and she buried her face in his shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent. “Daddy,” she whispered, her voice muffled against his shirt. “You’re really here.” and kissed his chest. He chuckled, a sound that resonated deep within her. “You thought I would miss this time?” And in that moment, as the streetlights flickered to life outside, she knew that this was more than just a reunion. It was a reminder—a testament to love’s endurance and to the way it could bridge oceans and continents. The ordinary street had transformed into a magical path—one that led to her father’s arms. They stood there with their fingers interlocked, lost in their world. The street outside faded away. Replaced by the warmth of their shared laughter and the promise of countless stories yet to be told. She looked up at him. She realized that the most extraordinary moments happened in the simplest of places. “Daddy,” she said again, her voice steady this time. “Welcome home. My mom is not home.” And he hugged her tighter, whispering, “I missed you, my little adventurer. My cock needs your mouth, and I want to spank until your cheeks turn red.” Daddy’s POV She stood there, defiant and unyielding, her eyes flashing with determination. My words had fallen on deaf ears, and now it was time to assert my authority. I stepped closer, my resolve hardening. The room seemed to hold its breath as my fingers grazed her skin, tracing the curve of her cheek. With a swift motion, I spanked her, not harshly, but enough to make my point. Her eyes widened, surprise mingling with a hint of something else, perhaps realization. I had taken control, and she would listen now. The tension in the air shifted, and I knew that this was a turning point. No longer would she defy me. From now on, she would heed my words. I spanked her again. She had tears, but she liked it a lot. She loves the way I treat her. The room enveloped us, its walls echoing our silent struggle. Her defiance had been a tempest, but now it wavered like a flame flickering in the wind. I could taste the adrenaline and the raw energy that hung between us. My fingers traced the contours of her jaw, mapping the delicate terrain of her face. Each touch was deliberate, a silent command etched into her skin. Her eyes, once defiant, now held a mixture of surprise and something deeper—an acknowledgement of the shift in power. I had taken control, and she sensed it. The room seemed to hold its breath as if aware of the gravity of this moment. I spanked her again, not harshly, but with purpose. Her gasp was a symphony, a note of surrender. Tears welled in her eyes, but they were not tears of pain. No, they were tears of release and acceptance. From now on, she would heed my words. No longer would she defy me. Our roles had shifted, and the tension in the air crackled with newfound understanding. She loved the way I treated her—firm yet gentle, with a delicate balance of dominance and care. And as I leaned in, claiming her lips with mine, I knew that this was more than a turning point. It was a beginning—a dance of desire and trust, where boundaries blurred and whispered promises hung in the air. In that room, with our breaths entwined, we forged a pact. She would be mine, body and soul, and I would cherish her—spank by spank, word by word, until defiance melted into devotion. And then In the dimly lit room, he commanded her again, his voice a whisper against the silence. “Let go,” he urged, his words a gentle nudge against the walls she had built around herself. His command was not a demand but a plea—a call for her to surrender to the passion that simmered between them. His touch was a language all its own, each caress a word, each kiss a sentence. He spoke to her in the language of desire, his fingers tracing a path of longing across her skin. His command was a symphony, a song of passion and need that echoed in the quiet room. And as she surrendered to his command, she found herself not lost but found. In his arms, she discovered a freedom she had never known—a liberation born of trust and desire. His command was her anchor. His touch was her compass, guiding her through the storm of their shared passion. Their story, written in the language of desire, would continue to unfold in the dimly lit room. They ventured deeper into the labyrinth of their shared passion. They would discover that their journey was not one of conquest but of exploration—a journey of discovery, of surrender, of love. In the end, they would emerge not as Master and servant but as equals—two souls forever entwined in a dance as timeless as eternity itself. Their story was beginning. It was a story that would be written in the language of love, spank by spank, word by word, until the end of time. The Prequel of this story, character names, and how they both met will be told in the next part. Interested people. Can text Master at [email protected]