Daddy Issues

The Dutchman's Wife

The flat felt too quiet without him.
Steve had left that morning for work, kissing her at the door, telling her he wouldn’t be long. She had smiled and nodded, but inside she had already started missing him.

It wasn’t just his voice she craved, or the way he looked at her. It was the weight of him, the warmth, the smell of his skin when she pressed her face into his neck. She wanted the heavy, grounding sense of his body against hers - pressing between her legs.

She lay in bed, his scent still faint on the pillow beside her, and stared at the long body pillow she always joked about - the so-called Dutchman’s wife.

She pulled it close. It was long, firm, almost the size of a man’s torso. She wrapped her arm around it, draping her leg over it. The cotton was cool at first, but it began to warm under her touch. She closed her eyes and pretended it was him.

“Daddy…” she whispered.

In her mind, the pillow wasn’t a pillow anymore. It was Steve, lying beside her. She imagined the sound of his breath, the slow thump of his heart. She could almost feel his arm pulling her closer, his hand sliding up the curve of her back.

Her hips shifted without thinking. The pillow pressed between her thighs, and heat sparked low in her stomach. She moved again, slowly, feeling the gentle friction through her thin silk shorts. She took a sharp intake of breath.

In her head, Steve’s voice was low, telling her to keep going, to show him how much she missed him. She pictured him watching her with that dark, intent gaze, the one that made her feel naked even when she was clothed.

She slid her hand down the length of the pillow, squeezing it like she would squeeze his body, fingers tightening as if she could make him real. Her legs wrapped tighter around it, her hips rolling now with more purpose.

“Oh… Steve…”

She imagined his mouth on her neck, his stubble grazing her skin. His palm cupping her hip, holding her exactly where he wanted her. She could feel the phantom press of him against her, hot and solid, moving in sync with the rhythm she’d set.

The cotton cover dragged lightly over her inner thighs with each movement, making her shiver. She pushed harder against it, grinding down, chasing the ache between her legs that was building and tightening. Her breath came quicker, small gasps filling the stillness of the room.

She shifted the pillow between her legs so it pressed higher, exactly where she needed it. A sharp wave of pleasure made her toes curl, and she clung to it tighter, riding it now, her body moving with a desperate, hungry rhythm.

In her head, Steve was beneath her, his hands gripping her thighs, urging her on. She imagined the weight of him pressing up into her, the low groan in his throat when she moved just right.

Her hand slid under the waistband of her shorts, finding herself hot and slick. She gasped, biting her lip, eyes squeezed shut. The pillow was him, his body filling the space between her legs, his heat flooding into her. She rubbed herself in quick, needy circles, the friction against the pillow adding to the rush until she could barely think.

Her body tightened. The sounds she made were soft, breathless, and entirely for him - even if he couldn’t hear them.

When it hit, it was like breaking open. Her hips jerked, her breath caught, and a tremor ran through her as she came hard, clinging to the pillow like it was the only thing holding her together.

She stayed there for a long moment, forehead pressed into the fabric, chest rising and falling rapidly.

When she finally opened her eyes, the pillow was just a pillow again - long, faceless, silent. But it smelled faintly like him now, just from being in her arms.

She hugged it close, whispering “Come home soon, Daddy.”