My fingers are in my mouth because he wants them there. Three of them, my pinky and thumb hugging my cheeks which are slick with drool, my palm pressed into my tongue, the trap door of my throat pulsing as he goads me on gently. He’s proud of me. His voice is heavy and stern but thick with love, both a hug and a slap. He knows I’m humiliated as he calmly tells me to speak. I pull my drenched fingers from my mouth to sputter the single word he wants to hear and I’m instantly admonished, caught on a technicality; he never said I could stop sucking. It’s like a game of Simon Says, but there are no caveats here. He says and I do. No questions, no hesitations, no stalling or arguing, just the weightlessness of compliance and the soft way he shushes and clucks when I whimper or catch sight of myself in the long mirror opposite the bed. I can barely bring myself to look into his eyes and so of course he tells me not to look away. He is always a step ahead of me in this dance, I am forever at his heels, on my knees, ready. He knows where the lines are and which ones have razor wire, which ones are booby-trapped. He moves us through the scene gently, with purpose and with such quiet confidence that I cannot help but drift below him, transfixed. He’s got me where he wants me, there’s just one last push.

His words are like distant bells, robust and filling the space between us, the clarity of his desire is unequivocal. He has asked for something I have never done. He knows what he’s asking, and he waits as the tears prick my eyes and spill over, mixing with the drool he’s coaxed out of me with his words and my shaking fingers. I look up, eyes begging. I don’t want to. I want to. I can’t. I need to. I don’t want to. But I will.

This pleasure isn’t mine, but it fills me still, coursing through me and filling me as his eyes begin to smile and he sits back to watch what he’s created, what he has demanded, what he has allowed. I’m shaking and the tears have stopped. His gaze holds me strong and his whisper spurns me on. I am his Brave Girl and we have earned this moment together. I don’t stop or pull back, I just free fall, breathless with trust and suddenly I’ve done it. It’s a breakthrough and suddenly I’m so much less broken than I thought.

Every Damn Day In June is run by Hyacinth Jones of ‘A Dissolute Life Means …’, her sex, life and sex-life blog. Click through to read more!


Violet Fawkes

Violet Fawkes (she/her) is a freelance writer and sex blogger focusing on pleasure education, erotic fiction, and the intersection of identity, kink and mental health.