Aching Sweet Reminders

Two days after that unforgettable night, the soreness lingered — not the sharp, tearing pain from the first time, but a deep, delicious ache. Every time I sat down, shifted in my chair, or walked a little too quickly, a sweet twinge shot through me, reminding me exactly how Daddy had claimed me. Three times. Three perfect, condom-slick rounds that left me trembling and spent.

The memory alone was enough to make my clitty twitch and leak into my panties. I stayed constantly horny, replaying every thrust, every whispered “good girl,” every time he called me his princess. The ache wasn’t punishment — it was proof. Proof that I’d finally become the girl I’d always dreamed of being.

Several weeks earlier, I had taken a bold new step: I created a private Twitter account.

No face, no real name — just soft lighting, cropped shots of lace-clad hips, arched backs, glossy lips parted in invitation. Seminudes at first, then bolder nudes: smooth thighs spread wide, my clitty caged or leaking, my hole glistening from lube or plug play.

The DMs flooded in almost immediately. Filthy compliments, desperate pleas, detailed fantasies of how they’d use me. I read every single one in the dark, hand between my legs, imagining their hands, their cocks, their voices calling me “sissy,” “pottachi,” “slut,” and “baby girl.” I came hard to those messages, over and over, but I never replied. Not yet.

My dating profiles stayed active too. Messages poured in — mostly straight guys looking for quick booty calls, offering hotel rooms and cash. I flirted back sometimes, teasing them with pics, but when it came time to meet… I backed out. Fear? Maybe. Or maybe I just wasn’t ready to give myself to strangers when Daddy’s touch still echoed inside me.

I waited patiently for Daddy’s booty call. But some weekends became torture.

Daddy would text: Family outing this weekend, baby. Can’t meet.

Or: Kids have a school thing. Next week?

I waited like a lovesick puppy, checking my phone every few minutes, aching for his call, his command. The whole week felt empty without the promise of his hands on me. Frustration built until it hurt.

That’s when I decided: I couldn’t keep waiting forever.

If Daddy couldn’t be there every time I needed to feel filled, claimed, feminine… then maybe I needed a few reliable guys on rotation. Safe ones. Discreet ones. Men who understood what I was and wouldn’t make me feel ashamed.

The first one came through a DM on my new Twitter.

A French guy, over 50, on a temporary work assignment in the city. His profile picture showed salt-and-pepper hair, kind eyes behind glasses, a gentle smile. His messages were polite, patient — no crude demands, just curiosity and compliments. “You are very beautiful,” he wrote. “I would like to meet for coffee only, if you wish.”

I wrote back.

We met at a quiet café near the river.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a simple button-down and jeans. His English was broken but warm: “Hello, Farzin. I am Pierre. Thank you for coming.”

We ordered coffee and shared a fresh French baguette with butter — simple, civilized. He talked about his job (engineering consultant), his grown daughters back in Lyon, how strange and lonely the city felt sometimes.

An hour passed easily. No pressure, no rush. Just a man who looked at me like I was something precious.

When he asked softly, “Would you like to come to my apartment? Only talk more… or whatever you feel comfortable,” I surprised myself.

My rule — first meet, no sex — crumbled.

I trusted him. Something in his calm eyes, his careful words, felt safe.

We walked the short distance to his rented flat.

Daddy was still my favorite — my first, my deepest. But this… this was freedom too.

The girl inside me wasn’t waiting anymore.

She was choosing.