Daddy Dom
By the time evening arrived and we stepped out of the hotel, the air inside the car felt completely different from that of lunchtime. The cool breeze from the air conditioner filled the cabin, yet the girl seated beside me stared out the window, lost in deep thought. The fleeting intensity layered over her barely-twenty-year-old freshness was pushing her toward complicated guilt as swiftly as the shifting scenery outside the window.
The silence was broken by my casual question.
“Now that I think about it, we never even learned each other’s names.”
I never bother to ask for names or personal details when we meet online. I’ve learned from countless experiences that such trivial information burdens many women, especially once their heart has been opened. I believe it’s the refined adult way not to force anything before they’re ready.
“The name… I don’t want to say it.”
She still kept her gaze on the window and answered in a tiny voice.
“Okay. Do whatever feels right to you.”
Her slight hesitation over my blunt reply finally melted enough for her to turn and look at me. I could sense the small gesture of consideration gradually softening her wariness. As the evening streetlights flickered to life one by one, I pulled up in front of the narrow alley near her share house. Only then did she finally voice the thoughts she’d been holding inside.
“Today was really wonderful. The care you showed me, and the feelings I’ve never experienced before… I’ll never forget them. But on the way home, my mind keeps going over and over. There’s this boyfriend of mine… I don’t get to see him often, but I feel like I’ve committed a huge sin against him, and my heart is in such a mess.”
She paused, tears glistening in her eyes as she glanced at me, then lowered her head with quiet resolve.
“I don’t think we should keep seeing each other. We should stop here before things get deeper, right? I’m sorry, Uncle.”
Instead of showing disappointment, I loosened my grip on the steering wheel and answered in my softest voice.
“It’s fine. I understand why you’re thinking this way and how complicated your feelings must be. It was sudden, and you’re still young with so many responsibilities ahead. I respect your opinion completely.”
I placed my hand gently on the back of hers, gave a light pat, and pulled away.
“But I want you to know something. Don’t carry any burden about having to meet again. Life will bring times when you have worries you can’t share with anyone. At those moments—or just when you feel like leaning on someone—contact me. I’ll listen to you by your side, even if I can’t meet you. I’m an adult.”
Her expression trembled faintly at my mature reply. She bowed her head in gratitude, then carefully opened the car door and stepped out. I watched her retreating figure in the rearview mirror until she disappeared into the alley. Her footsteps still looked heavy in the gathering darkness, but I was certain she would cling to the anchor I’d thrown and keep thinking.
From that day onward, contact stopped like a lie. Day after day passed with no reply.
Sitting at my desk handling work, I kept glancing at the smartphone on the table for any new messages. I’d created and deleted several dummy rooms, chatted with a few people meaninglessly, and watched her memory fade in the boring, routine company life—yet I knew it was not forgetting. It was patience.
I had always been the patient one in relationships, matching the other person’s pace. That’s why dates lasted so long and, even after breakups, the women I left behind couldn’t forget me no matter how hard they tried. A one-night stand would even end up contacting me first because of the tenderness I mixed with my care. I once thought it was just good manners, but the intense memory left by one girl I met long ago had clearly defined my identity.
She was much younger than me, yet in relationships she was more proactive than anyone. On the hotel bed, while I gently pleasured her, her body trembled under my loving touch. When pleasure peaked, she looked at me with dreamy eyes and whispered, “Master…” Then, as her whole body tensed and she reached climax, she clung to my neck desperately and screamed, “Daddy… Daddy…!” before collapsing into my arms.
In the quiet that followed as sweat cooled, she rubbed her face against my chest and said, “You’re really kind, but you’re also so naughty. That’s why I like you.”
She smiled mischievously and asked if I’d taken a personality test. She said they could be done online like MBTI and immediately opened her phone to a personality test site. We sat with heads together, reading dozens of questions aloud. When I answered instinctively instead of my usual values, the result that flashed on screen was something unfamiliar yet oddly convincing.
“Daddy Dom.”
My most dominant trait was Daddy Dom, followed by Degrader. The others—Owner, Hunter, Spank—were just slight seasonings; the core was a caring father figure who slowly devoured his partner. Different from ordinary Doms who simply commanded and suppressed. Instead of harsh whipping, I used warm acceptance; instead of cold orders, I gave gentle advice to shatter the mind. Looking like a protective dad, I trapped her completely in a net of tenderness. Without force, I slowly made her dependent, gradually dominating her mind and body—the highest-level domination method.
I never labeled myself an SMer, but that’s how it always ended up. Real practitioners might call it shallow street performance and laugh, but the experience of young women with little-om or brat traits kept growing because the nature of Daddy Dom is simply that nature. Their lack of protective instincts and craving for stimulation found in my touch was impossible to escape. Especially the second trait, Degrader, synergized when my tenderness turned into the most humiliating pleasure on the bed.
It was Friday, six days after our first meeting. While I continued my boring afternoon work, my phone vibrated with a short notification from the familiar messenger.
“Um… Uncle. Are you busy?”
A victorious smile spread across my lips.
“No, not busy at all. How’ve you been?”
“I wanted to ask something…”
Her reply was quite long. She was in the middle of final exams for remote classes, so she had to take the test and do assignments on her laptop, but a strange ad program kept blocking the screen and she couldn’t use it. She mentioned that she remembered the Uncle who worked in IT from our last conversation and contacted me without shame.
A twenty-year-old college student couldn’t possibly not know how to delete a program. During the remote class period, a laptop that was broken was quite urgent, but the excuse was clumsily transparent. What she needed wasn’t the program—it was a “string” that would connect her to me.
I generously accepted her excuse and, deliberately putting on the expert act, sprinkled in plenty of technical terms and explained at length in complicated language.
“Simple deletion won’t work. The malicious code is probably injected into the kernel-level system process or deeply hooked in the registry. If mishandled, it could even corrupt the entire Windows profile and crash the laptop during the test. It’s dangerous.”
She looked flustered as expected.
“It was that complicated? I have to take the test…”
Seeing the sad emoji, I didn’t miss the chance and naturally suggested the next step.
“Explaining in text must be tough for you. Since tomorrow is Saturday, it’s best to come over and fix it in person. If your schedule’s free, let me treat you to something delicious while you look at the laptop. How about it?”
After a moment of silence, the reply arrived as if she’d been waiting.
“Then if you fix the laptop, I’ll buy lunch this time.”
“Students have money? I’ll scold you. Don’t worry about that.”
I gently scolded her in an adult way and confirmed the promise, but just as I was about to close the conversation, her last message appeared.
“Um… I’m Nayeon.”
The stubborn refusal to say her name had broken. I quietly repeated the three characters on the screen.
“Nayeon. A pretty name. See you tomorrow, Nayeon.”
After setting the phone down, I sank deeper into the chair. I imagined her week, wounded by the immaturity of a twenty-year-old boyfriend and the isolation of her share house. My caring presence and the memory of that short, intense pleasure had ultimately overcome her guilt and sense of morality.
Right now, I would simply approach her as a kind uncle and fix her laptop. But soon she would crave my low voice and my loving caresses again. I lightly tapped the keyboard, waiting for the weekend. This time it would sink even deeper and more secretly into her soul than last time. The result was already decided.
