Let Me Take Care of You

✨ Author Note:

This one's for the girls who were too strong for too long.

For the ones who learned how to survive before they were ever held.

He doesn't push. He doesn't punish.

He just wants her to feel safe. To be soft. To be okay. ????

I love hearing from readers.

If this story touched something in you, I'd be honoured to hear about it.

Your words mean more than you know. ????

-----

I didn't meet him in a bar, or online, or through friends. I met him at the community garden.

It was late in the afternoon, and I was dragging a torn bag of soil up the gravel path, sweat bleeding through my shirt, hands raw. When it slipped from my grip and split open, I froze. I didn't know if I was supposed to clean it up, try to salvage it, cry, or run.

Then he was there.

No questions. No introductions. He just bent down beside me, gathered half the bag in his arms, and carried it to the plot like it was already decided. I didn't even have to ask. He just... helped.

That was the first time.

After that, there were small things. A pair of gloves left on my gate. My compost turned when I hadn't touched it in weeks. A mug of tea placed quietly beside me on a cool evening--chamomile, no sugar, still warm. I never told him how I liked it. He just knew.

He lives across the street from the garden. I must've walked by his house a hundred times without noticing it, until one day I realized I was always looking to see if his porch light was on.

He never asked for anything. Never flirted. Just helped. Watched. Noticed.

And I kept finding reasons to stay late.

⸻

A few days later, we started sitting on the bench.

It wasn't planned. He just showed up with a thermos and two mugs--one plain, one pale blue. He poured without asking and handed the blue one to me without ceremony.

We didn't speak at first. Just sat, shoulder to shoulder, watching the garden like something might bloom if we stayed still long enough. Eventually, I began to talk. Bits and pieces at first.

I told him I'd spent most of my twenties trying to prove I wasn't broken. That I'd learned how to be useful but not how to be soft. That quiet used to terrify me, but lately it's the only thing that feels like kindness.

He didn't try to fix it. Just nodded, sipped his tea, brushed a leaf off the bench like it mattered.

Later, he told me his kids were grown. That he'd been married once. That his life used to be louder, fuller. But he didn't miss the chaos the way he thought he would. He liked the quiet now. Especially when it was shared.

And so it became a ritual. Ten minutes. Sometimes fifteen. No expectations. Just two people, two mugs, and the kind of silence that doesn't press.

⸻

The night I came to his door, it was raining sideways--soaking me through and into places that don't usually feel wet. I hadn't meant to end up on his steps. But when I saw the light on, I didn't keep walking.

I didn't knock. Just stood there, dripping, unsure if I was hoping he'd open the door or afraid that he would.

He opened it like he'd been expecting me.

No questions. No judgment. Just, "Come in. Let's get you dry."

Inside, the house smelled like him--citrus and cedar and something herbal I couldn't place. The couch had a folded blanket. The kettle was already humming. My mug--the blue one--was already waiting.

"Shoes off," he said, quiet but firm.

I obeyed.

He took my coat, set my bag aside, and pointed to the couch. "Sit. Tea's almost ready."

And I sat.

⸻

He brought me a tray: a steaming mug, a bowl of soup, a slice of toast, and a napkin folded neatly beside the spoon. He set it in front of me without a word and sat just close enough that I felt safe, not watched.

I ate slowly. Carefully. He read a book. Not for show--just as a way to give me the space to breathe.

When I finished, I didn't know what to do with my hands. So I tucked them beneath the blanket and leaned my head back against the couch.

And then I fell asleep.

⸻

When I woke, the room was dim, quiet. He was kneeling beside the couch with a brush in his hand.

"I thought this might help," he said softly. "You don't have to let me."

I nodded.

He began at the ends, gentle and slow. His other hand rested lightly on my shoulder, anchoring me. Each stroke was deliberate, soothing, like he was brushing more than my hair. Like he was helping something inside me quiet down.

"I used to do this," he murmured. "Long time ago."

I didn't ask who for. I just let him brush me until I couldn't remember the last time I felt this safe.

⸻

Afterwards, he carried me down the hall, wrapped in the thick towel he'd laid out earlier. My skin was warm. Soft. Sleepy.

But when he opened the doo to the guest room, something in my chest fluttered.

The blanket was already turned down. The blue cup was waiting on the nightstand. A lamp glowed low in the corner like a secret.

He laid me down like I was already meant to be there. Tucked the covers up over my body. Sat on the edge of the bed, silent.

His hand rested on my back again--steady, anchoring, the same as before.

But this time, the stillness held something more.

Not pressure.

Not expectation.

Just... a pause.

He waited. Not because he didn't know what to do.

I turned my head to look at him.

His face was calm. Eyes kind.

"You still can't settle, can you?" he asked softly.

I shook my head, barely.

He didn't move. Just stayed there beside me, warm and quiet.

Then--gently, like he was offering a blanket--he said,

"Would it help... if I helped you let go?"

So I nodded.

Not fast. Not brave. Just enough.

He watched me. Not hungrily, not expectantly--just patiently. Like he was waiting for something else to surface. Like he knew I'd said yes before I really understood what I was saying yes to.

And he was right.

Because even as my head tilted forward, something inside me was tightening. A question I couldn't form. A tremble I couldn't name.

I didn't know what I wanted.

Only that I wanted it from him.

His eyes softened.

Then--gently, calmly--he said,

"Sweetheart... when I say let go, I mean let me touch you. Let me help your body remember how to soften."

He paused, letting it land.

"Is that what you want?"

The breath I let out didn't feel like mine.

But I nodded again. This time slower. Truer.

"I don't know how to ask," I whispered.

"I need you to say it out loud," he added, soft but clear. "Do you want me to touch you? Between your legs."

I swallowed.

"Yes," I said.

Then again, quieter: "Yes, please."

He studied me a moment longer. Not for hesitation--but for readiness. For safety.

Then his voice lowered.

"You don't owe me this. Not now, not ever. You can still come tomorrow. Still sit on the bench with me. Drink tea. Let me take care of you. Nothing has to change."

He reached up and tucked a piece of hair behind my ear.

"I want to help. That's all."

Something in me--something old and tight--gave way.

I didn't say anything, but my body did.

My breath deepened.

My spine softened.

My thighs fell open beneath the blanket without me realizing they had.

And he saw it.

He leaned down, kissed the crown of my head, and whispered,

"That's my girl."

His hand slid down my arm, slow and sure, resting for a moment at the bend of my knee. He didn't move any further until my hips leaned into him, yearning for his touch.

Only then did he slip beneath the covers.

Only then did he press his hand to my stomach--warm, wide, unbelievably soft.

And only then did I exhale the kind of breath that doesn't come unless someone knows you. The kind that says yes without a single word.

⸻

He moved lower, sliding between my thighs. I wasn't just wet. I was drenched. Open. Desperate.

He touched me like I was precious. Not rare. Not perfect. Just... worthy. His fingers parted me, and I let out a small, broken sound.

"You've been needing this for a long time, haven't you?"

I nodded into the pillow. My hips shifted instinctively, a silent plea, and his hand followed--sliding lower, slow and deliberate, until his fingers dipped into the slick heat between my thighs.

He parted me gently, his touch featherlight at first, stroking through the swollen, soaked folds like he was learning a language he already knew by heart. When he found my clit, he circled with soft precision--just enough pressure to make me twitch, not enough to let me escape the tension building behind my ribs.

I whimpered. My legs shook.

And then he pushed inside me.

Two fingers--thick, warm, coated in me--slid in slow and deep, curling just slightly to press against the place that made my whole body stutter. I moaned into the pillow, high and helpless. My cunt clenched hard around him, greedy and involuntary, and he didn't pull back.

He held still, letting me feel the fullness, the stretch, the presence of him inside me.

"God, you're so tight," he murmured, voice low and reverent. "And so wet for me."

His other hand settled at the base of my spine, grounding me as he began to move--slow, deep thrusts of his fingers, perfectly timed with the rhythmic circles he resumed on my clit.

And all the while, I felt the pressure of him behind me.

Hard. Caged in his trousers. Straining against the fabric.

He never rocked against me. Never moved to unzip. But I could feel the tension in him, the restraint vibrating beneath his skin like it might tear him open.

And still, every touch was about me.

He stayed focused. Steady. Unshakable.

My thighs started to tremble. My breath caught.

"Cum for me, sweetheart. That's it, let it go."

Then it hit--hard and fast.

Pleasure ripped through me like a wave breaking against stone. I cried out into the sheets, body locking tight, cunt spasming around his fingers. My hips jerked uncontrollably, thighs clenching around his wrist as I soaked the blanket beneath me. It wasn't graceful. It wasn't small.

It was everything.

He didn't stop.

"Good girl," he whispered, kissing the back of my neck as his fingers continued to move through me. "That's it. Let it happen. I've got you."

I barely had time to breathe before the second one crested--sharper, deeper. It built from somewhere I didn't recognize, curling through my stomach and crashing between my legs like I might come apart for real this time.

And I did.

I sobbed. Not from sadness--just from the intensity. My body pulsed with it, soaking his hand, smearing slick down my thighs, every part of me undone.

He stayed with me.

Moved with me.

Held me like the whole world depended on it.

Only when I went limp--body twitching, thighs parted, breath shaking--did he slowly, so slowly, withdraw his fingers and smooth the blanket over me again. I could feel the mess between my legs, the heat still lingering, the way I was still open from him.

He kissed the top of my head, soft and sure.

"That's better," he murmured. "That's my girl."

I didn't know how long I lay there.

My body felt boneless. My breath was shallow and shaky, but not in a panicked way. More like... my insides were rearranging themselves. Like something had been undone that shouldn't have lasted as long as it did.

I was wet. Everywhere. Between my thighs, down my legs, soaked into the blanket. But I didn't feel embarrassed. Not with him.

He didn't say anything at first. Just lay beside me, above the covers, one hand softly brushing my hair away from my damp cheek.

After a few minutes, he kissed the back of my shoulder. A real kiss. Gentle. Like punctuation at the end of a sentence.

Then he said, "Stay here. I'll take care of everything."

He got up without letting in the cold.

I heard the tap turn on. The sound of cloth being wrung out. A drawer opening. His bare feet moving back across the floor.

When he returned, he had a warm, damp washcloth in one hand and something clean in the other. A soft pair of cotton sleep shorts. Not mine. Probably his daughter's, once.

He didn't ask me to spread my legs. Didn't say a word.

Just knelt beside the bed and cleaned me up slowly, carefully--his touch reverent, never shy. He wiped away the mess between my thighs, down the backs of my legs, over the flushed, sensitive skin around my pussy like it was his privilege to make me clean again.

I whimpered once--not from pain, but because it was too much. Too good. Too kind.

He paused. Waited. Then resumed only when I exhaled.

When he was done, he helped me step into the clean shorts without lifting the blanket too far.

Then he tucked me back in.

Kissed my forehead.

And whispered, "You did so well for me tonight."

Something twisted in my chest. Not fear. Not shame. Just... something hot and tender that I didn't know how to name.

Then he added softly, "Goodnight, babygirl."

That one word made everything tilt.

It didn't feel like pretend. It didn't feel like lust.

It felt true.

I didn't answer. Couldn't.

But I didn't flinch.

He lingered for a moment longer. Like he might ask how it felt. Like he already knew.

Then he stood, moved slowly toward the door, and left the room without another sound.

Not because he was done.

Because he knew I needed space to hold it.

⸻

I woke before him, limbs heavy and breath slow. I wandered into the kitchen, then down the hallway, drawn toward a room I hadn't noticed before.

The bookshelf was quiet. Not lit. Not displayed. Just waiting.

I saw the titles before I saw the meaning.

The Loving Dominant.

The Art of Caregiving Doms.

Understanding Power & Trust.

Daddy's Arms: A Guide to Gentle Discipline.

And one that made me stop:

For Her Own Good.

I didn't touch them. Didn't need to.

I just stood there. Letting it settle...

He hadn't asked me to play a part.

Hadn't told me what I was.

He'd just taken care of me.

And now I knew why he was so good at it.

⸻

When I turned, he was in the doorway. Barefoot. Calm.

"You found the bookshelf," he said.

I nodded.

He offered me his hand.

"Come sit," he said. "Tea's almost ready."