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.
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Chapter 6
A Slút for My Professor (6)
I follow his instruction without a second thought, as my heart pounds and my cheeks flush. Just last week, I never would've imagined myself standing bare in front of Professor Cassian.
But here I am. Naked, exposed, and willingly his. As I slowly turn, my mind won't stop spinning.
What if he doesn't find me séxý enough? What if my body doesn't do it for him? What if he's used to women who make him lose control with just a glance?
But then a darker, more twisted thought creeps in...one that makes my thighs press together.
What if he has been with women like that? What if he's touched them, tasted them, devoured them?
Instead of making me jealous, the idea turns me on. The thought of Cassian wrecking someone else, then coming to me with the same hunger. It does something to me I can't explain.
I feel my wetness pool between my legs and my pússý throbs.
"Spread your legs wider," Cassian commands with a low voice.
I comply instantly, every nerve on edge.
"Open yourself for me, kitten," he growls, and then... holy fúck...I catch it the hint of aggressiveness in his voice. "Open your pússý for Daddy."
Daddy? Did he just say Daddy?
My chest tightens, breath hitching. The word is so wrong, so forbidden but it stirs something deep inside me, makes my cúnt pulse hotter. I want him to be my daddy. I want it more than anything.
"Daddy" feels like a secret spell, and I'm under its power.
Slap!
The sharp sting against my ass makes me gasp and cry out, "Oh God!" This isn't just his hand, but it is something else. My ass tingles on the spot he had just spanked, and all I can think of is how thrilled I am.
"Don't you dare turn around," Cassian's voice booms. It's thick with anger I can feel even without seeing him. "I told you what to do."
"Yes, Cassian," I whisper, voice trembling. My hand reaches for my slick pússý, and I immediately stroke the folds of my cúnt.
Slap!
His hand crashes down again against my ass.
"Yes? That's what you say to me?" Another smack lands.
Slap!
"Y-yes, Daddy," I squeal, the pain biting deep but the desire to please inside me igniting brighter. His blows inch dangerously close to where I need him most, and I open myself wider, desperate.
"Red, orange, green, kitten. Say it with me. Red, orange, green."
"Red, orange, green," I echo in a shaky voice, having no damn idea what's going on.
Slap!
Oh fúck, I wonder, have I screwed up again?
"Repeat after me with confidence!" He grows.
"Again. Red, orange, and green, Daddy," I stammer, pain shaking through me.
He presses the leather strap against my ass, the square tip sending heat through my skin. I'm sure it's leather. He pushes my hand away from my pússý, forcing me back onto all fours. The strap slides teasingly along my folds.
"Red means stop. Orange means think twice. Green means keep going. Say it."
"Red means stop," I whisper as the strap traces the bottom of my pússý.
"Orange means think twice," it flicks upward.
"Green means keep going, Daddy," I add with a voice that's barely steady.
He pulls the strap back and studies me. "How are you feeling now, Baby?"
"Green," I say firmly.
"Good. Lie on your back, and spread those pretty legs wide open for Daddy."
I obey, lying flat as he cushions my head with a pillow. He bends my knees, spreading my legs wide. I catch sight of the riding crop resting on his chair.
"It's a riding crop, kitten. It'll bring you pain... and pleasure," Professor Cassian murmurs in my ear. I feel his hot breath on my skin and I smile at him. He slips my hands beneath my head on the pillow, pinning me there. My breath hitches. A tiny orgasm buzzes between my legs just from his words.
"I'm going to blindfold you now," he says softly. My pulse races as he pulls a dark blue silk cloth from the cupboard.
"Close your eyes, baby," Professor Cassian coos, wrapping the cool silk over my lids and tying it tight behind my head. The darkness envelops me, heightening every sensation. My pússý tingles in delicious anticipation as I crave what's next. I hear him step back.
There's silence for a moment, and then a sudden crack shatters the quiet.
"Ouch!" I scream, heart pounding. But he didn't hit me. He only struck the bed beside my navel. Fear twists inside me, in a raw and electric way. I want this. I need it.
Crack!
"Oh, fúck!" I cry out as the crop lands hard on my bréást, just missing my nípplé. Heat blooms where it strikes, and I can tell that my skin is getting red.
"We're just getting started, kitten," Cassian chuckles darkly.
Another strike, still on the same spot. I instinctively raise my hand to rub the sting, then his crop smacks my palm away.
"Oh God, please," I beg, as my breath shakes.
"Hands where I put them," he snaps.
The crop drifts to my other bréást. I whimper, helpless. Three quick, stinging blows follow, each one setting fire to my nerves.
"Ahh, please..." The pain burns through me, fierce and delicious. He's unlocked a door I never knew existed. And right now, I feel the raw paradise of pain and pleasure tangled as one. He flicks my nípplé harshly, and he chuckles.
"You like that, don't you?" he asks.
"Yes, Daddy. I love it," I admit breathlessly.
"You want more?" He tugs on my nípplé.
"Yes... yes, please, Daddy," I plead, my voice thick with need.
"Ask me nicely, kitten. Ask."
"Please hit me, Daddy. Fúck, please," I beg shamelessly, desperate.
He laughs, then I feel my nípplé slip into his mouth. His hand darts down to my pússý, and I spread my legs, hungry for his touch.
Swat!
"Oh my God!" I cry out as his hand slaps my pússý. The sting is sharp but it's the best pain I've ever felt. The ache fades quickly, replaced by a tidal wave of pleasure. He keeps tormenting my nípplé with his mouth while his fingers tease and tap my slick folds, driving me crazy. I curl in anticipation, aching for the next strike.
The crop slides over my pússý again, tracing every sensitive inch. Then he lashes the inside of my thighs, making me groan loud. Left thigh, right thigh, alternately, each smack sends shivers through me. Soon, the pain melts into pure bliss.
I whimper and squirm as Cassian stretches my legs wide. Then-
Whack!!!
"Oh fúck. Yes, hit me there, Daddy," I arch my hips, begging.
He obliges, stroking my pússý with the crop, not too hard. It's just enough to tease the edges of pain. He strikes the sides relentlessly, claiming me with every blow. I want to be his kitten, completely and utterly.
I arch higher, begging silently for more. He slows, then delivers a final strike right to my slick pússý lips.
I let out a scream in part agony, and part ecstasy. I want him and I want to belong to him.
"You've been a very good girl, kitten. You deserve a reward," Cassian purrs, fingers caressing my dripping pússý folds.
"Thank you, Daddy," I breathe.
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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.