On My Knees, Daddy: A Steamy Compilation of Erotic Stories
What if your next filthy favorite story started with a moan... and ended with "Yes, Daddy"?
Then take a deep breath... •ON MY KNEES, DADDY• is ready to leave you soaked, breathless, and aching for more.
This is a raw, erotic collection of dominant men who don't ask-they take. And their submissives? Oh, they beg. They kneel. They come apart, over and over.
Inside, you'll find stories that cross every line: hotel-room threesomes, forbidden stepdaddy fantasies, one-night stands, rough office sex, taboo roleplay, and the kind of dirty stories that will have your thighs clenched and your fingers wandering.
Warning: These pages drip with sin. Read in private, or get caught dripping. 18+ only.
Chapters
Share
Chapter 2
A Slút For My Professor (Part 2)
"I guess I just want to understand... what BD'SM really is. I mean, I know it has to do with submission and, um, dominance... and something about slaves?" My voice drops at the end.
He chuckles softly, and his lips curve into a knowing smile.
"Most people have a very limited idea of what BD'SM really is," he says. "They hear the word 'slave' and immediately think of control, pain, and abuse."
"Oh..."
"But that's not what it's about, at least, not when done properly. The truth is, it's built on trust. Real trust. And yes, there are people who enjoy playing those roles, but everything is agreed on beforehand."
I listen carefully, trying not to think about how inviting his lips are.
"As someone new to the scene," he continues, "you don't need to worry about anything intense. We'll start with the basics, take it slow. There's time for everything else later."
"The basics?" I repeat.
He nods. "In the community, there's a rule we always follow: everything must be safe, sane, and consensual. Those are the pillars."
I take that in, nodding slowly.
"There are a few ways we could move forward," he adds. "One option is for me to take you to the dungeon-"
"The what?" I cut in, my voice rising in panic. My eyes widen. "Wait... did you say dungeon?"
He bursts into a soft laugh, clearly amused by my reaction.
"It's not what you think," he says with a grin. "A 'dungeon' is just a term we use for any room or space where scenes happen. It's not an actual dungeon with chains and torches. It could be a studio, a large room in someone's house, or even a specially equipped club space."
"Oh. I... wow. Okay. I thought it was something way darker," I admit, embarrassed.
"It's a common misunderstanding," he says gently. "So, we can either visit the dungeon where a few other members can walk you through things, or..." He pauses, then looks at me more intently. "We can explore the basics in private. At my place. Just the two of us."
"I'm not really comfortable getting naked in front of a bunch of strangers," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "So... I guess I'll go with the second option."
I'm going to be at Professor Cassian's house getting fûckéd, I realise.
The thought of being alone with Professor Cassian sends a shiver down my spine. I've never felt this turned ón in my life. My body is already betraying me, aching in places I've barely explored.
"Well then," he says, "We can leave now, if that's what you want."
I squeeze my thighs together, trying to manage the heat pulsing through me.
"Yeah... yeah, let's go," I breathe out, trying not to sound too eager.
His lips twitch into a knowing smirk. "I like it when a woman's this enthusiastic."
Oh God. That wicked smile on his face is almost too much.
I am beyond excited. I want him and I want him to take me like I belong to him. My slave tendencies are surfacing. As I stand up, I feel the wetness in my panties.
We leave the restaurant and slip into his car. As he drives, his hand casually drifts over to my thigh, sending jolts of high electricity through me. I carefully pull my dress a little higher without getting his attention.
"Let me help you with that, Ms. Kristen," he murmurs, lifting the hem of my dress until the sheer fabric of my panties is completely exposed.
His eyes flick over them, and he chuckles low in his throat. "You're clearly... anticipating this."
His fingertips edge dangerously close to where I need him most, and I can barely breathe. My body arches toward him involuntarily, and I am desperate for more.
He pinches my thigh, just enough to make me gasp. The sensation shoots straight to my core, making me squirm. I can't even form words anymore, just tiny moans and shallow breaths as his hand slides higher, cupping me through my soaked panties.
My hips twitch at the contact, but I don't care. I want this. I want him. We're on an empty highway and I can only think of how he's torturing me, making this last and I love it.
"You're so responsive," he teases, rubbing slow circles over the wet fabric. "Does that feel good, Ms. Kristen?"
I can barely speak. "Yes... yes, it feels amazing, Cassian," I pant, grinding my hips toward his fingers, craving more friction.
His fingers press harder, teasing me through the thin barrier, and I find myself whimpering.
Without warning, he growls, "Take them off."
Somehow, I manage to slide them down, my hands trembling as I expose myself to him. He glances down with a quiet, appreciative hum.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, then lightly taps my bare pûssy, sending a jolt of pleasure-pain through me. "So wet already."
I gasp as he traces along my folds with one expert finger, circling, teasing but never giving me what I need.
God, just put it in already.
We take a sharp turn onto a gravel road. The second we start heading downhill, he finally gives in, plunging a single finger deep inside me.
"F-fûck... yes!" I cry out, my body writhing against his touch.
"You like that?" he says as he slowly pulls his finger out again.
"No," I whimper. "Don't stop. Please, professor... I need it..."
"First lesson. Don't disobey me." He growls.
I have no damn idea what he's talking about, but all I want is the feel of his finger in my pûssy, again.
"What did you just call me?" He asks.
"P-professor" I moan.
"Don't you ever call me that, especially when I'm fûckíng the shit out of you."
He holds his glistening finger up to my face, and there's a wicked gleam in his eyes.
"Have you ever tasted yourself, Ms. Kristen?" he asks.
My cheeks burn instantly. God, this is both humiliating and insanely hot. He wants me to taste my own juices.
I shake my head quickly, trying to stay calm. "No, Cassian. I haven't."
"Then do it," he growls, holding his finger just inches from my lips.
My heart pounds in my chest. I swallow hard, then slowly lean forward and give his finger a timid lick.
It tastes almost like nothing. Just a salty slime. But the act? Tasting my pûssy juices feels so intimate, and it sends another wave of heat crashing through me. Suddenly, he grabs my chin firmly, making me look him straight in the eye.
"When I tell you to taste yourself," he says sharply, "you don't just lick. You take my finger in your mouth. All of it. Do you understand me?"
I nod quickly, voice trembling. "Yes, sir..."
You may also like
7.7
For two years, I played the role of the "Midwestern mistake," the mousey wife Julian Ford-Sterling IV kept hidden like a shameful secret. I hid my true self behind thick glasses and ashen foundation, acting as the perfect, cowed charity case while he lived a life of marble and indifference.
The day our marriage contract ended, the headlines were already screaming about his affair with Hollywood’s sweetheart, Lana Vane. Julian didn't even grant me a final conversation; he simply sent his legal team to hand me divorce papers that gave me nothing—no alimony, no shares, just a non-disclosure agreement and a one-way ticket out of his life.
I signed the papers and walked away, but a drugged encounter in a dark club that same night led me back into his arms. We collided in the shadows, two strangers stripped of their titles, but I fled before dawn, accidentally leaving behind my vintage silver locket. By the time I reached my secret design studio the next morning, I discovered Julian had executed a hostile takeover of my entire life’s work.
To my horror, Lana Vane was already there, clutching my stolen locket and shamelessly claiming she was the woman Julian had spent the night with. Julian stood before me in his charcoal suit, looking at me with total lack of recognition. To him, I was just a "gold-digging" architect he had bought along with the furniture.
I watched them together, the man who had discarded me and the woman who had stolen my identity, realizing that Julian was obsessed with the genius of "Rose" while despising the woman who stood right in front of him. He had no idea that the wife he’d just divorced was the very person he was now desperate to control.
I straightened my spine, my violet-blue eyes cold and lethal behind my new designer frames.
"Mr. Ford-Sterling, you wanted the best designer in the city? You’ve got her. But you should know—I don't just build empires. I know exactly how to tear them down."
7.3
Seven years ago, my fiancé, Don Dante Moretti, sent me to prison to take the fall for my adopted sister, Chiara. He called it a gift-a way to protect me from a worse fate.
Today, he picked me up from prison only to abandon me at my family's estate. His reason? Chiara was having another one of her "episodes."
My parents then informed me I'd be staying in the third-floor storage room, so as not to disturb the fragile girl who stole my life.
They celebrated her "recovery" with a lavish dinner party, while I was treated like a ghost. When I refused to join, my mother hissed that I was ungrateful, and my father called me jealous.
They assumed I couldn't understand their venomous whispers. But prison was my university. I learned Spanish. I understood every word.
It was then I realized I wasn't just a sacrifice; I was disposable. The love I once felt for all of them had turned to ash.
That night, in the dusty storage room, I logged onto an encrypted channel I'd set up years ago. A single message was waiting: "The offer stands. Do you accept?" My hands, scarred and steady, typed back, "I accept."
9.1
I stood at the altar in a fifty-thousand-dollar custom lace gown, waiting to marry the boy I had loved since I was five.
But Silas didn't say "I do."
He answered a phone call, turned pale, and bolted toward the exit as if the gates of hell had opened, leaving me to face five hundred of New York's most dangerous criminals alone.
He left me for a waitress named Lola.
The humiliation was suffocating. The elite of the Five Families looked at me with pity, a Genovese princess rejected for trash.
When Silas finally returned, he didn't apologize.
He showed up with hickeys on his neck, clinging to Lola, and had the audacity to suggest I become his mistress.
He even demanded I hand over my dowry—millions in weapons and cash—so he could fund their lifestyle and "redecorate" with her.
He thought I was still the innocent girl who would beg for his scraps.
He didn't realize that in the moment he ran, a shadow had stepped forward to fill the void.
Dante Moretti. The Don. Silas's uncle.
The most feared man in the city looked at me with dark, predatory eyes and offered me a choice: be a victim, or be a Queen.
"Since you are to marry a Moretti," Dante said, extending his scarred hand, "why not marry the head of the table?"
I looked at the door where Silas had disappeared, then at the Reaper standing before me.
"I do," I whispered.
Silas thought he had ruined my life, but he only cleared the way for me to marry the monster who would burn the world down for me.
7.8
A visceral, survival-focused expedition. The title itself is a location-a treacherous, living mountain range-promising a battle against a brutal, awe-inspiring natural world
9.6
A billionaire art collector purchases a mysterious 19th-century portrait and begins having vivid dreams about the woman in it. After a near-fatal accident, he realizes the portrait is connected to a tragic past that mirrors his present life. As he grows close to a woman who looks exactly like the one in the painting, he must uncover the truth behind the portrait before history repeats itself.
Can love survive centuries of secrets and mistakes? And will he finally find the courage to fight for the woman in front of him, or will the past destroy them both?
#mystery
#lovetriangle
#hero
#betrayal
8.8
"Fuck...please..."
He risks a nibble, sending shockwaves to my core. My back arches off the wall with a sharp moan.
His hand slides between my legs, cupping my soaking panties.
"Look how wet you are," he whispers, "...shaking, and I haven't even fucked you yet."
He strokes my clit gently first, then harder. My toes curl, hair spilling into my sweaty face.
He's breaking me, ruining me with just his tongue and fingers. I can't speak. I can't think. I just tremble in his arms.
*********
The night I caught my fiancé cheating, something in me broke.
I cried.
I screamed.
I drove - into the rain, into nowhere, into him.
Cassian Cross.
A stranger with gray eyes, a sinful mouth, and hands that made me forget my name.
One night was all it took. One reckless mistake to burn away my heartbreak.
Until he showed up at my mom's wedding...
As my new stepbrother.
Now, Cassian won't stop.
He corners me in hallways, whispers filth at the altar, and looks at me like he still owns my body.
But there's one thing he didn't tell me-
He already belongs to someone else.
A fiancée bound to him by a contract... and a secret that could destroy us both.
He's dangerous.
He's forbidden.
He's promised to another.
And God help me, I still can't stop wanting him.