You could say I’ve fucked my share of daddies—by which I mean both men who have literally fathered children, as well as hot, dominant, sexy-older-man types. (There’s a probably unsurprising amount of overlap between those two varieties of daddyhood, as it turns out.)
As for actually calling any of these men “Daddy,” that always felt a bit on the nose for me. As a teen of the 2010s who used to get ready for school every day listening to Lana del Rey’s Born to Die album, the whole “Daddy” thing always felt like more of a campy schtick than something I could imagine anyone actually saying with any level of erotic authenticity.
That is, of course, until one night in my early 20s, in bed at a five-star hotel with yet another man old enough to be my father—this time, one I happened to work for. We were a workplace scandal waiting to happen, the cliché-est of sordid clichés, the 22-year-old assistant and the married big shot with a reputation. The kind of thing you can’t possibly imagine still happens because, Jesus Christ, this isn’t Mad Men, and yet somehow still happens all the time. And because I have a somewhat unflattering, occasionally inconvenient, and often frowned-upon thing for the illicit, I couldn’t fucking help myself.
It started the way these things usually do—innocuous work emails that turn into maybe-unnecessary work phone calls that turn into Holy shit, his voice is sexy that turn into texting after hours late one night. First we were talking about work, then we weren’t. Around 2:30 a.m., he let me know he was going to be back in the city next week (he’d been away doing Big Shot things since I’d started my job—we’d never actually met IRL) and we should “grab a drink and talk shop.”
Got him, I thought.
Well, I thought. I didn’t know for sure what this man actually had in mind. Even our latest late-night texts, while not strictly professional, hadn’t technically crossed any lines. So a few days later I put on my tiniest, is-that-really-work-appropriate? mini skirt and met him in a ritzy Midtown hotel bar to find out if “talk shop” was the euphemism I assumed it was.
Here’s the thing you have to understand about Big Shot, though. He wasn’t actually your typical arrogant prick of a corporate asshole, barking orders and sleazing on interns. At this stage of my daddy-fucking career, I’d already encountered more than a handful of self-proclaimed “Alpha male” types (pro-tip: if a man ever refers to himself as an “Alpha,” GTFO of there as fast as you can) who take what they want and fuck you like they’re flexing on you. This man was not that. He was kind and warm, flattering but not sleazy, with the kind of understated confidence that we talk about when we’re talking about Big Dick Energy. He wasn’t aggressive or creepy; three drinks in, sitting side by side at the bar, I still had no way of knowing for sure if this man even wanted what I wanted him to want from me. All I knew was that every maybe-not-so-accidental brush of his hand against my thigh felt fucking electric—in a way that made me understand, for the first time, what people mean when they say that. Some clichés are just clichés until they come along and nearly knock you off your barstool on a random Tuesday night.
As had been true from our first phone call, his voice was the thing I was most attracted to. Like him, it was confident, not arrogant, deep, but not booming, smooth and warm—the way I imagine people who like whiskey think good bourbon tastes. When that smooth whiskey voice asked the question I’d been waiting for, “How old are you?” I smiled and said, “I just turned 22.”
“You seem much wiser and more mature than 22,” he said.
Checkmate. Like many women—particularly those who seek out and/or are sought after by older men—I’d been receiving some version of this compliment for as long as I could remember. He may not have known it yet, but Big Shot had just shown his cards. If there’s one thing men—this particular brand of men, especially—want, it’s a woman with the wit and intelligence of one their own age perpetually imprisoned in the body of one half that age. This doesn’t exist, by the way (though that won’t stop men from expecting it of us), but I could do the “I’m just an old soul trapped in this hot young body” bit pretty well.
We closed down the bar and spent a few awkward moments in the lobby, me unwilling to leave and him unwilling to let me go, but neither of us sure how far the other was really willing to take this thing.
“Do you want to just raid the minibar upstairs?” he asked, like we were both just in need of a nightcap and nothing more.
“Sure,” I said, as if I hadn’t known all along what “talk shop” really meant.
Upstairs in his room, we pretended we were there for innocent purposes for about three minutes. I took a total of two sips of the minibar wine he poured before he kissed me, downed the rest of my glass, and led me by the hand to the bed.
Making out frantically, tearing at each other’s clothes like, Holy shit, this is really happening, he stopped to ask me a question. “Do you like name-calling?”
Reader, for all my I’m a Sexually Experienced Woman Beyond My Years bravado, I didn’t really know what he was talking about. While I’d had a decent amount of bone in me by that point in my life, the majority of my sexperiences had been relatively vanilla—and relatively quiet. I’m not a big talker in general—ask me to say six words in front of more than three people and I simply forget how to breathe—and for the first few years of my sexually active life, that reticence typically extended to the bedroom.
“Like what?” I asked, feeling suddenly innocent.
“Like, I like to be called ‘Daddy.’”
Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was because I was just that into him, or maybe it was because this entire situation already felt like a cliché ripped straight out of Lana’s Born to Die era, but I was somehow…into it?
“Yes, Daddy,” I said, the words slipping right off my tongue like I’d said them thousands of times before. Like I was born to say them. Like I was born to say them to him.
“Good girl,” he said. When I tell you I fucking melted hearing those words, in that voice. It was the electric thigh brush effect, turned up to a hundred. To this day, I can feel those words working their way down my body just thinking of them.
Now I was curious. “What do you want to call me?” I asked.
As politely as possible, ever so slightly sheepishly, he tossed out a few options—mostly words I would have ordinarily knocked a man’s goddamn lights out for even saying to me. But, once again, for whatever reason, I was game.
“Are you going to lie back and be a good little slut for Daddy?” he said.
“Yes, Daddy.” I laid back and opened my legs while he grabbed a condom from the hotel’s handy supply of sexcessories next to the minibar.
“Be a good girl and take Daddy’s cock,” he said, pushing himself into me, sliding right in like my body was made for him.
Apparently he felt the same. “Yes, good girl. That’s Daddy’s pussy.”
“That’s your pussy,” I echoed back, surprising myself at how easily the words came to my lips, how good they felt to say to him.
On top of me, inside of me, his entire body pressed up against mine, he started fucking me harder, with his voice—That. Fucking. Voice.—in my ear. “Take Daddy’s cock. Yes, good girl. I just want you to take my whole cock inside you like a good little slut, okay? Take my cock. Take Daddy’s cock.”
“Yes, Daddy. That’s your pussy. I want you to use me like your little slut.” I didn’t know where these words were coming from, but I knew they felt good.
There was something about the way he was talking to me, something about the tenderness with which he dominated, that made me feel not just aroused, but safe—safe enough to say things I’d never even thought about saying. I’d always trended submissive in bed, and I’d been with men who considered themselves dominant before (the aforementioned “Alpha” guys). But their idea of dominance usually involved little more than taking what they wanted from me and roughing me up a bit in the process. This was not that. This, whatever it was, made me feel confident and secure—authoritative in my submission in a way I’d never before experienced. This, I suddenly understood, was dominance and submission as it should be—a dynamic, a dance, rather than a fight or a conquest. He was taking and I was gleefully giving, and simultaneously, I was taking and gleefully receiving.
“I want you to take Daddy’s cum,” he said as he was getting close.
“Yes, Daddy. I want you to cum for me. I want to take all your cum. But wait,” I said, surprising myself again. “I want you to say my name when you do.”
I loved being Daddy’s Little Slut, his Good Girl, but I still wanted him to know whose pussy he was really cumming in. I wanted to hear my name in that voice.
“Yes, Stella,” he said. “Take my cock. Holy shit, Stella, you’re gonna make me cum. Oh my God. Oh my God, Stella,” he nearly shouted, his voice breaking as his orgasm peaked and spilled over, cumming hard inside of me.
“Thank you, Daddy,” I said, as we laid there, breathless and sweaty, in the haziest of post-coital hazes.
The next morning I left his hotel sporting yesterday’s work clothes, morning-after hair, and an undeniable post-sex glow. On my way to the office, I stopped at the Express on Madison Avenue to pick up a new dress I could change into at work to hide my dirty little secret: I was a Daddy Girl now.
*Name has been changed.
