Work Text:
“I need to come so bad…” your voice quakes as you set yourself at his feet.
"Do you?" He's auspicious, looking down at you. Knelt before him in his chair; here in his study, where you come seeking respite from your mind and repose for your body, on nights of need like this.
"Yes," the sharpness you take in return is more serious than sensual, laying bare your present state. He brings the leather of his hand to your cheek gingerly and you nuzzle into it, instantly softening with the comforting reminder of where you are. "Please, Papa,” you ask to be granted your deliverance again, with a degree of reverence this time.
Looking you over, he sees your eyebrows knitted tightly with the plea you just made. Lower lip quivering, your hands kneading at your thighs; betrayals of the sense you are full of.
Although he's amenable to your open confession, he's not necessarily moved to act in response to it; your apparent desperation. While Papa certainly understands you think you are desperate, being is something quite different. He didn't put you on the edge you currently find yourself, you did. Your thoughts toiling about, images in your mind; you've worked yourself up all on your own. And yet, you find yourself before him, because that alone isn't enough.
This care, guidance he provides for you, it's sexual but it's not about sex. Nothing wrong with that, but if all you wanted for was the quick, momentary pleasure of self-gratification, you wouldn't be here. No... it's the passion of suffering, the ecstasy of being, that comes with his control.
Papa has always been giving in the manner of your needed painful inflictions when you come to ask; wielding the same oversight for your needed pleasures anymore. A power he's come to the addition of, in the duration of your friendship since he was Cardinal. In this conclusive belonging to him you've asked for, some additional deep seated yearn is fulfilled by his allowances... and, on occasion, by his refusals.
A yearn that would go unattended, were you free to do as you pleased.
Is that surrender easy? No, not always. Your want, need, desperation... beholden to his authority to relieve. But to ask his permission? To require receipt of it; therein a different kind of freedom he provides.
"No, my child." Papa soothes your denial with a sweetness to underpin the seeming cruelty, stroking at your cheekbone with his thumb. "Not until you're... desperate."
He knows the ultimate coming undone is so much more his gift, when it's on the other side of your struggle. In truth, you know that too, but the sound of a pitiful whine in response escapes you still. You bring a trembling hand up to his, forcing your face against the warm leather of his palm, whimpering out another quiet please with it.
He smiles; the want, the need, indeed your display of desperation. "Yes, Sister, like that... I want you to show me. Tell me. Beg, cry for it even."
You lower your hand back to your lap and close your eyes; the confirmation you are indeed on his terms, is as humbling as it is a reassurance. If Papa wants your desperation first, he's going to get it.
You, are going to give it.
"Look at me." His hand slides to cup under your chin, the smoothed tips of his encased fingers tilting you up to him with the words. You open your eyes to meet his mismatched irises, obedient given your knowledge; if you're to have any hope of what you've come to ask for tonight, you'll follow his commands. "You don't have my permission," he affirms, "and you need my permission, don't you?"
All the air in your lungs is huffed out at once, as he speaks the reality you both understand. "Yes, Papa," the acquiesce falls from your lips a moment later, the persistent drip in your panties pooling further with it. Needful yet resigned, to the fact you do need his permission. Because that is how you want *it*, if you are to have it... here, amongst the pleasures found in submitting to his ultimate charge.
He lets his fingers slip out from under your chin and pats at his lap firm, "up here, child."
With a relieved sigh you come from your knees to lay across his. Ready to receive, to endure, to be made to struggle. Content in the knowledge this way between you, the imparting of your welcome pain, is in many ways his own pleasure. This dance, play; as purposeful in tending to your spirit as it is your emotional well-being. How Papa enjoys being a provider of what he has long understood your many reliefs to be had by. Yes, you need to come so bad, but you need another form of letting go much more.
By his hand, his lead, to your true relinquish, eventually the sights and sounds of real desperation will move him. Having given you what only he can, to finally give you the permission... that only he can.