The Golden Hour, by Anna Sansom

Content: daddy/girl, age play, spanking, fingering, good girl. All characters are consenting adults.

We work different shifts: I’m on the early train and at my desk before her alarm has even gone off; she gets home a few hours after me, eyes gritty and tired from a day spent driving her limo, and eager to relax. It’s not what either of us would have chosen (if jobs were easier to come by) but we’ve made it work for us. There’s only a small window when we’re both awake and feeling sociable, so that has become our special hour. It’s an unconventional partnership in many ways, but it works for us.

When I come home from work, the first thing I do is get changed out of my corporate attire. Taking off my bra feels like freedom. I wipe off my make-up. I put away my jacket and shoes and open up my other closet. From there, I get to choose something soft and comfortable. I pick out my favourite outfit, select some fresh underwear and a pair of socks, and then I take a shower.

A rub down with a fluffy towel and then a sprinkle of powder soothes me from any remaining frazzles of the day. Once dressed, I feel buoyant and re-energised and ready to play. I have the house to myself to do whatever I want, but I have to wait until she gets home for the real fun to begin.

When my Daddy comes home from work, the first thing she does is loosen off her tie. Then she hangs her jacket over the back of the dining room chair and empties out her trouser pockets into the little dish on the sideboard. Coins jangle and chink as she gathers them into her palm and pours them into the wooden bowl shaped like a leaf. Sometimes I like to play with the coins, sorting and stacking them into matching towers, or making flower shapes from the different size circles. Sometimes there are other things that get emptied into the bowl too: crumpled strips of paper or plastic cards with raised letters that tickle my fingertips if I stroke them. Daddy says not to play with those in case I break them. I’m allowed to play with the money, though, as long as I put it all back in the dish again.

She goes upstairs to the bathroom to refresh herself, returning shiny faced, hair still wet and slicked back, and wearing clean shirt and trousers. Then she goes to get a glass of water from the kitchen and stands in the doorway drinking it. She watches me from that position, also drinking in the mess of my toys scattered about the living room. If I’m in the middle of a game, she usually lets me carry on. But sometimes she wants me to tidy everything away so she can sit on the sofa without stepping over crayons and Legos and Barbie dolls.

Once I’ve put everything away into the big coloured crates, and pushed them underneath the window where they live, Daddy pats the seat of the sofa next to her and smiles. “Come and sit with me, little one.”

I hop onto the seat and lean into her; her arm goes around my shoulders and she pulls me in tight. I feel her mouth press a kiss into the top of my head and I close my eyes. I breathe her scent deep into my lungs and let her infiltrate me from the inside out. We stay like this for a while, reabsorbing each other and reacquainting ourselves with our shapes and edges – our real shapes, not the ones we’ve been moulded into by the outside world. My edges soften when I’m with her. At work, and on my commute, I am like hardened plastic: non-porous, rigid, brittle. But at home, with her, I become soft and fluid, and osmosis draws me to her.

Sometimes Daddy asks me what games I’ve got up to that day, whether I went to the park, whether I had my afternoon nap. And sometimes we just sit quietly for a while and I hear her big beaty heart going boom-a-boom as my ear presses up against her chest.

Sometimes Daddy has another question for me. “Have you been good today?” she asks. I’m not allowed to lie. I have to tell her the truth even though doing so makes me squirm and pull away from her. I’m not always a good girl. Sometimes I get crayon on the carpet and, even though I try to rub it away, the waxy streaks are clearly visible. Sometimes I don’t go for my nap: I carry on playing even though I know I’ll be a tired little girl later. And sometimes I forget to say ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ and that’s not good manners and little girls should always have good manners.

Today was a crayon day. I was kneeling on the floor with my colouring-in book but it’s hard to stay on the paper and while I was colouring in some sky, my arm took my hand too far and now there’s a big blue line right by my Daddy’s feet. She must have seen it when she sat down. I can’t pretend it’s not there and I’m not allowed to tell fibs to my Daddy.

“I’m sorry Daddy,” I start, “it was an accident.”

“I understand it was an accident,” she says, her eyes dancing with mock seriousness, “but you know you’re meant to be careful when you’re colouring in. What do you think will make you remember to be more careful next time?”

“I…” I bite my lip and look down at the pattern on my ankle socks, scuffing one foot over the other, my toes curling as I hesitantly finish my sentence. “I think I need to have my bottom spanked.”

She exhales, audibly grateful that we both want to play this game. “I think so too. How many spanks do you think I should give you?”

It’s a question that’s not really a question; I already know what the answer is meant to be. I feel my pulse quicken in anticipation and take a deep breath, “T-ten?”

“Ten? Do you think that will be enough?”

We both know that’s only the starting point. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Well, let’s see how sorry you are first.” Daddy gestures to me to lie across her knees. Her hands shift my skirt up around my waist and she places her warm palm on top of my bum. This bit feels nice. Comfortable even. I’m draped over her wide lap and her fingers gently knead my cotton-clad cheeks.

“Let’s see how your counting is coming along,” Daddy says. Her hand leaves me for a moment and I hold my breath. This is the bit that hurts.

“One!” I squeak. “Thank you, Daddy.”

She smooths her palm over my cheek in a gentle circle and then raises it again to deliver number two. She quickens the tempo and incrementally increases the force of her spanks as I continue to count, and we quickly get to ten. We are both huffing and puffing with the focused effort of it.

“Good girl,” she tells me. “So good, I think you can have some more. Proper ones this time.” Her thumbs hook around the waistband of my knickers and she tugs them sharply down. I lift my hips at the same time and the knickers slide down to my ankles. I kick them off. I know this is how Daddy likes it best. “Now,” her hand feels hot and slightly rough against my naked and sensitised cheeks, “ten proper spanks: five for being naughty and five for being good.”

I hold my breath again in preparation – these ones always sting. But behind the sting there is a sweetness. It begins to feel good and my thank you, Daddy’s become more and more heartfelt. By the time we get to ten again, I’m openly asking for more.

“More? More spanks? Or something else?”

Daddy knows me well. She gives me some more spanks and I forget to count. I think she’s stopped counting too – she will keep going until her palm begins to smart or the throb in her trousers becomes too uncomfortable. I can feel her underneath me: hard.

My face and bottom are both flushed by the time Daddy stops. She lifts me off long enough to adjust the strap-on she selected earlier when she was getting changed, and then manoeuvres me back onto her lap again. This time I am sitting astride her. Her hands are around my waist and her cock sticks up between us. We both look at it. We are each choosing what we want to believe in this moment. Is it her strap-on or is it her cock? Is it made of silicone or formed from flesh and blood? I can smell our joint arousal and combined desire and I want to climb straight on. But my Daddy has a different idea.

“Kneel on the sofa,” she says, standing up as I scramble to do so.

Now Daddy is behind me, pushing my body forward to better angle me to her liking. I brace myself with my arms on the back of the sofa, spreading my knees wider.

“Good girl,” she mutters as her finger slides between my folds, assessing my slickness. There’s a place that feels really good when her finger brushes over it. She touches it again and I whisper, “Please, Daddy.”

She tests me with her thumb: pushing it deep inside me, slowly twisting her hand in a semi-circle so I feel her against my walls. There’s room for more and Daddy is keen to fill me up. She pauses to take a small tube out of her pocket, squeezes the wet and sticky contents into her palm, and works it over her hand. “Wetter is better,” she reminds me. Then she replaces her thumb with two fingers, longer and wider and deeper than before. They slowly beckon inside of me and my knees begin to tremble a little. Her considerate gentleness will only last so long.

A third finger is added and now I am feeling strained and stretched. I want to lie down on my back so I can spread myself wider and take her inside me more comfortably, but my Daddy hasn’t said I can move yet.

Her fingers pick up speed and I squeal loudly as my body is pushed and pulled on the sofa. It hurts. But it’s a good hurt. It makes me cry out: a long, juddering “ahhhh” in time with the thrusts. Daddy chuckles. “Good girl,” she reassures me, “you’re such a good girl.”

I want her to go back to the place that feels nice on the outside, but she’s hooked her fingers inside me like she’s playing the ‘hook a fish’ game at the funfair and doesn’t want to let me drop.

“Please, Daddy,” I beg.

Her hand slows and then she pulls her fingers out of me. She wipes the juices between my cheeks and squeezes some more of the sticky stuff over me. Then she presses a fingertip against my bottom hole. “Just one,” she promises. Daddy’s finger is big and I am so small, but she pushes determinedly and I know how to let go and let it happen. My reward is a finger from her other hand on the nice place again. She moves both fingers: in and out; up and down.

“Daddy!” I gasp.

She keeps going until my whole body starts to shake. Then she places her lips close to my ear and whispers, “Come for Daddy.”

It’s my favourite game. Better than make-believe tea parties, and better than a new doll’s house.

When I’ve finished shaking, Daddy lies me down on the sofa and climbs on top of me. She hovers over me for a moment, her strong arms making her body into a tent that I can disappear into. Then she sinks her hips down and slides into me, making me gasp again as her cock fills me up.

She rocks her body and I am moved inch by inch further along the sofa cushions with each thrust. I hold onto her arms to try and stay with her, my legs wrapping around the backs of her thighs.

Daddy loves me and shows her love with each touch, with every “good girl”, and with the concentration on her face as she begins to grunt and groan. I join in the sounds: mewling that turns to howling as I feel her stiffen and give one last, impossibly deep, thrust.

When she’s finished, she gathers me into her arms and strokes my hair. “Daddy’s got you,” she tells me, and I let out a long, happy sigh. I want to stay in her arms for the rest of the night but she’s strict about my bedtime. She comes upstairs to tuck me under the covers and kiss me goodnight before going back down to continue the rest of her evening. When she goes to the refrigerator, she’ll find the meal I cooked for her that she can quickly reheat in the microwave. Beside it, I left a note written in blue crayon: I love you Daddy.

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