Dutch Daddy
“Open your mouth for Daddy,” he commands, as he spits Moet into the back of my throat. My wrists are bound to either side of the velvet bench in the presidential suite of the W Hotel, and I, the woman who is responsible for so much in her life, tonight have surrendered it all to him. I am babyslut. I am goodgirl. I am job.
Tears of joy well in my eyes as a vision from my manifestation list unfolds before me. What I have dreamt of all summer is this: to submit to a man in this room that holds so many memories of my first ever curated babygirl experience. The Sagrada Familia glistens outside of the window, and my eyes roll into the back of my head as his belt cracks against my skin.
I feel feral, deeply in my wild feminine, and my most unconventional fantasies.
And him? He is the best Dom Daddy a girl could ask for.
~~~
It’s a beautiful Friday morning in Barcelona, and I’m easing back into my routine after a week of gallivanting through Budapest and Berlin. Everything feels fresh, like a clean slate. I hum along to the music in Aldi, filling my trolley with my usual diet of meat, New Zealand Sauvignon, and dates. As someone who once counted every cent, the freedom to indulge never gets old. My phone beeps.
“Miss Valentine. You give the impression of a young but grown-up lady with a brain, beauty, and clear ideas.
I am a Dutch legal consultant traveling to BCN pretty often due to business reasons - I am looking for a challenging yet submissive lady, as I consider myself rather dominant… especially behind closed doors. To start with, I would be happy to have drinks/dinner, great conversation, and - if there is chemistry - some fun time in private. All drama-free and mutually beneficial, of course. It would be great to hear from you.”
I stop in the middle of the street, balancing my groceries on my hip as I reply immediately, “Xavier, I could not have asked for a more perfect introduction. Thank you!! It would be my absolute pleasure to be your submissive, drama free fun in Barcelona. When are you here next? Here is my contact.”
He tells me of his desire to have an intelligent baby he can mind control; I tell him of my manifestation list to submit to a man while looking over the bright lights of the city that I gave everything up for, my number one love story. My Barcelona.
We agree to meet the following evening.
“8 pm. The W Hotel cocktail bar. Wear a classy dress but something that shows everyone in the room you are secretly my submissive babygirl.” I die.
That evening, I go out dancing with my friends, reveling in my secret double life and the woman I am becoming. As I take a moment for myself in the toilets of the VIP booth, I see a message from Daddy. “I am going to make you my little good girl whore.” My heart skips a beat.
The following day, I wake up with my period, and low and behold… my first hangover in months. I spend the day rotting in bed, torn between canceling or pulling myself together and going. I feel proud that meeting with someone so extravagant and the gift he offered me no longer holds the same weight—it’s the experience I crave on MY terms. This is part of who I am now. Men are my playground.
He sends me a video of the presidential suite, eager for our meeting. Now that I have him wrapped around my finger, I lay down my boundaries—what once terrified the people-pleaser in me now feels deeply empowering. If he says no, I don’t go. Simple.
Some things worth mentioning that make me feel safe.
A healthy balance between degradation and being called a good girl/rewarded.
Aftercare in whichever capacity you are able to give. (Simply cuddling while my nervous system comes back down to earth is greatly appreciated.)
A safe word. Do you have a favorite? I love to use tacos (yellow taco if I need you to tone it down, red taco if I need to stop); it keeps it light-hearted.
I need you to check in with me the next morning so I feel respected, knowing you want to see me again makes me feel safe.
He immediately sends me a voice note: “My darling, I am fully with you. I am not just some tough Dom; I need balance, too you know! I am more into psychological domming than shaming you, my darling. Ok? See you soon.”
I exhale, decision made. I spend the entire day in bed, my Telegram buzzing with messages from the other interesting men in my life. I laugh at myself, lounging in a stained T-shirt, stuffing my face with greasy food while casually replying to them all. Each one plays a vital role in different aspects of my life. I feel whole, fully expressed in the way I navigate each connection.
By the time 8pm rolls around, I’ve put my body through a carwash in a sit-down shower, downed a magnesium/electrolyte concoction with 2L of water, ordered a natural ocean sponge on Ubereats, and am now standing over my toilet in my 600€ dress, sticking it up my pussy to hide my period after asking ChatGBT how I can conceal a heavy first-day flow.
Just as I am about to order an Uber, my phone beeps.
“I feel like I need to tell you this. I am curious to meet you. Besides being a promising babyslut and out-of-this-world beautiful, you seem like a person with a big heart and a very interesting woman. I love this mix.”
I let out an exhale I wasn’t quite aware I was holding in.
“This was really important for me to hear. Thank you so much. I will be there in 10 minutes. Babyslut would love a top-shelf mezcal margarita waiting for her upon arrival.”
Time stands still as I step into the elevator. As the doors close, I catch my reflection in the polished metal—my rose gold collar, chain, and delicate lingerie set shimmering secretly inside my Prada bag, a gift from the French millionaire, a whirlwind of a romance I dabbled in a few years ago. A crazy coke addict who took me on his private jet to Paris and wanted to keep me as his housewife, and I walked away, trusting in my vision and pursuing a life of the ‘starving artist’. Oh la la how far I have come since then.
The doors open to the familiar hotel lobby. What once stirred nerves in me fills me with a surge of power. I spot him in the corner and confidently make my way over. My margarita appears at my side as if by magic as I sit, not taking my eyes off him as I bring it to my lips.
Conversation flows effortlessly, and I instantly feel myself letting go. The harsh lighting, which once made me dread meeting a lover's gaze, now holds no fear. I look into his eyes, unflinching, secretly fist-pumping myself for integrating yet another shadow.
He opens up about his desire to reclaim his life and pleasure—he is 52, never married, no kids, and devoted to his career. I speak of my own journey through love, loss, reinvention, and all the lives that I have lived, I realize the persona I've been playing all these years has seamlessly fused with who I have become.
After an hour of him cracking open to me, it's time to switch gears. I excuse myself to freshen up, and the bill has already been paid upon my return. We lock eyes. We know that we have created an immaculate foundation for kink. I feel safe. He knows the depths of my soul and I want him to destroy me.
He grabs me in the elevator, kissing me passionately, sending a shiver down my spine. I melt into his grip as I slip effortlessly into subspace. I no longer have to take care of anyone; there is nothing that I need to do. I am job.
The door opens, revealing the presidential suite—the very same one I shared with a lover all those moons ago. It feels surreal—like the universe has answered my silent prayers. I feel completely present and grounded in my body. This is exactly where I am meant to be.
I see him raiding the mini bar and pulling out a bottle of Moet & Chandon.
“May I go to the bathroom and get prepared for Daddy?” I ask.
“Of course, babyslut, would you like to put your music on?’
“No, Daddy, I want to get to know you through your music. Show me what makes you feel alive.”
I stand in front of the mirror, French lingerie clinging to my skin, collar in hand, and a slow smile spreads across my face. This is my power—having it taken away from me. With a deep breath, I lower myself and crawl out of the bathroom. As I reach the bed, his gaze shifts from the soft, vulnerable man I met downstairs into an embodiment of dark, irresistible authority. I kneel before him, offering him my collar like a sacred vow of feral/slut/whore.
His voice drops, and my vulnerable Dutch Prince turns to stone."Be a good girl. Stand up."
In one swift, controlled motion, he bends me over the bed, pushing my hair over my face, his grip firm as he fastens the collar around my neck. I glance out the window at Barcelona’s city lights, glittering like a jewelry box, the sea to one side of the room and Sagrada Familia to the other. A 360 view of everything I gave up my past life for. My one true love.
The many voices of my mind begin to fade, and my nervous system surrenders to him. I descend into submission, dissolving into a puddle with every command. I am no longer my own; I belong to him.
He flips me over, grabs the champagne, and drains the glass before looking at me. "Open your mouth," he commands, and as I obey, he drinks again and spits into me, claiming every piece of my existence.
With deliberate care, he spreads my legs, pulls aside my lace, and barely touches me with his tongue—teasing, controlling. The tension is unbearable, and I start crying, begging him for him to enter me. I want his cock more than anything; I am nothing but a puddle of wetness and want to be broken open and vulnerable. As he finally sticks his fingers deep inside me, I cum all over them, feeling the stress of these last months and all I have had to carry finally leave my body.
He pulls the velvet bench away from the end of the King size bed and instructs me to lay on it facedown, cooing in my ear ever so softly, “Do you feel safe my little slut? May I tie you?” I manage to mumble, “Please, Daddy” and proceed to feel the familiar harshness of the rope contrasting against my soft, freshly exfoliated skin; as he tightens the rope, I slip deeper and deeper into hypnosis, completely blissed out as I leave my mind and am so deliciously IN my body. He pulls my head up by a fistful of my hair and sits down facing me, jamming his cock into the back of my throat.
“You are such a good girl,” he reaffirms me as I choke on his magnificent cock.
His breath quickens until I hear him start to moan, louder and louder, until finally, he releases himself into my mouth. My head falls onto the plush velvet while he strokes my hair and coos into my ear as he unties me.
I stumble to the bathroom and see myself in the mirror as I spit out his load. I smile at the woman in my reflection. I am babyslut. I am goodgirl. I am job.
I pull on the plush bathrobe against my naked body, grab a bottle of body lotion off the sink, and climb into bed next to him.
“You were such a good little babyslut; you didn’t even use the word taco.”
“May I give you a massage master?” I ask, still returning to earth, eager to nourish, touch, and hold him energetically.
His playlist hums in the background, a mixture of tribal and deep house; the kinks in his back tell tales of a man tired of fighting for a life that is no longer his. With each stroke of my fingers, I feel him melt beneath them. I kiss him along his neck and roll him over.
“May I please fuck you master? I want to feel you inside of me.”
Once again, a dark storm emerges on his face as he hands me a condom. I sit on his cock that bends and feels as if it was made for me and cry out from the feeling of pleasure erupting inside of me. My robe splits open, revealing my body to him as we cum simultaneously, with loud, animalistic cries.
I fall into his arms as he strokes my back and holds me tight.
“Was this the aftercare you were looking for, my beautiful princess slut?”
“Yes, Daddy, I just want to feel connected.”
“I don’t think you need to hear this. You are probably tired of hearing it daily from men, but you are so beautiful, so elegant, you are the perfect woman.”
I smile at him, “Well, it means more coming from you.”
“Would you like to come to the game with me? I have box seat tickets from a client; you will be in the VIP box with me. I would be so proud to have you on my arm.”
I feel touched. “That would mean so much to me.”
We lay in silence as the DJ set in the background slowly fades out to its end. He slaps me on the butt and begins to get up, signifying our session is now over.
“It’s time for you to go, my darling, or I may begin to lose my power.” He says with a wink.
I grab my handbag to make myself presentable to the public and notice it has been stuffed with cash.
“A little extra for your Uber rides.” He says through the door. More like 50 uber rides.
I slide the door open and kiss him hard on the mouth.
“You are so good to me, Master.”
“You deserve it. I will see you soon.”
As the elevator doors close, I glimpse myself again in the mirrored walls—something has shifted within me. Despite the wild hair and smeared mascara, I see a new kind of calm, a more profound sense of wholeness within me. My shoulders have dropped, and my jaw has unclenched.
I tuck the cash into my hidden savings stash for my future home in Barcelona. Something within my subconscious tries to tell me I did something wrong. That I am not a feminist if I let a man slap me, and provide me with a gift. I ponder this as I pull on my stained shirt back on, reheat my Pad Thai and sleep like stone, utterly at peace.