Most of you probably know that in my dynamic, M is the Sir (often times “Sir Daddy”) and I am the toy. And yes, these are our pet names for one another, but to me, as the toy, the word runs deep. When he calls me by it, I melt. Truly. I swear to the gods it probably lowers my blood pressure and wets my panties when the word leaves his lips.
But what does it mean, really? To be Daddy’s toy?
Well, it means that I am his, to do with as he pleases. He can play with me (**please Daddy**). He can torture me (boys do that to their toys right?). He can abuse me, beat me, pull my hair or smack my ass. Whatever he desires at a whim.
For I am here for his pleasure. To bring him joy. To keep him entertained and happy. To help him relax. Unwind.
He can use me or leave me for another day (although be prepared for me to pout about it). He can make me feel special with his attention and kind words, or he can put me in my place and make me remember who is in charge.
He can use me as a vessel, nothing more than a tool for him to reach a goal. He can use me to help him sleep or to keep him warm. He can take out his frustrations on my body, let his aggression rage until he is subdued.
I just pray that he doesn’t tire of me, set me aside, forgotten in the corner, eventually packed up and shipped to Good Will.
So, like a good toy, I adapt. I grow. I morph into something new and different when the opportunity presents itself. I try to make it so playing with me does not become boring, or old, or tiring.
Being his toy has been one of the best experiences of my life; his happiness brings out the best in me. His pleasure, pleasures me. His toy is what I was meant to be.
Thank you, Daddy. Always.