Daddy

by Madison Young

  “I’d better line up,” I said to James, and took my place with the magical misfits, artists, fairies, goddesses, and porn stars. This is my community, my family; we are a varied and visually astounding group of people. It was impossible not to be overcome with happiness standing on this hill, ready to descend and give our offerings to the elated couple whose blessed event made the front page of the local paper. I tried to keep my mind from wandering to what has been consuming my relationship with James: the Internet. Specifically, sites full of pornographic imagery. The images that once signified our positive relationships with our sexual selves and community now filled me with fear and distrust.

  James moved to the Bay Area to be with me, but it was his site that really tied him down. KINK offered a comfortable, stable salary, but left me with a partner who was emotionally unavailable. He had been building the world of The Trainer for a long time, compiling it from notes and concepts gathered up and developed over years of experience as a bondage photographer in Seattle. Finally, a company with the resources to make his concept for a BDSM training site a reality had taken an interest in the idea, but something was missing from his initial vision: Sex.

  There had to be sex, and sex with Daddy. There was suddenly a price tag on him. Girls he hired would have the experience of being his submissive for an entire week: including bondage, sex, and emotional intimacy. It was more than simply an exchange of bodily fluids and physical closeness. It was a built-in one week on-camera relationship with my Daddy and it was eating me alive. It even extended to my friends and fellow Speigler girls Bobbi Starr, Lorelei Lee, and Adrianna Nicole. They all became a part of the growing anxiety that I was developing around losing Daddy. Many of the girls had strong boundaries, they knew how to compartmentalize and return to their off-screen lives and daily routines, but some girls were in search of a Daddy themselves, some girls didn’t care who gets hurt in their process of fulfillment. The experiences lingered on well past their on-screen training, and these girls yearned for something more with James. They called him while we were at dinner and clung onto him at company parties, greedily drawing his attention away from me. It was my job as his submissive, to stand by him always.

  When we first discussed the site’s development, James talked about male talent—stunt cocks—being brought in for the sex scenes. Six months went by before Mr. Mogul admitted to me his full job description at Kink. He was also working as a sexual performer.

  “Why is it okay for you to have sex on film but not for me?” he would ask.

  “Because you didn’t even ask me!” I yelled. James waited until just days before the site went live to sit down and disclose this secret that he had been keeping.

  That kind of a breakdown of communication was becoming typical for us. Mr. Mogul was worried about his future. He felt scared and vulnerable, like he’d been given the choice between a 401K plan and telling his girlfriend the truth. He was choosing the job, and I couldn’t really blame him. His work was his security blanket, and he was mine. We tried to create boundaries and come to agreements when it came to work. We discussed what we were comfortable with each other doing on-camera with strangers and what was to be reserved for our home life. The weekly site updates taunted me with images of James breaking our agreements.

  After a dramatic outburst about the site, James simply cut off all communication about it. It had become a forbidden subject. The site was an entity of its own, I felt like I could trust Daddy, but not the site. I caught up on gossip in makeup rooms and green rooms full of models that sent shivers up my spine before being called to the set of another production, my mind fully preoccupied by what was happening on Mr. Mogul’s set. I never knew what to believe, or when it would stop.

  What I didn’t know is that we were equals in our isolation. James, terrified that he would lose me, had put up walls and created distance. He avoided conflict whenever possible, and that meant unanswered phone calls and a bed that was often inexplicably empty. I became subject to erratic fits of passion and child-like temper tantrums that would result in public scenes. I stormed out of a four-star restaurant after clawing at the man I loved and tossing both insults and high heels at him. Once, I stood paralyzed on O’Farrell Street as trolley cars full of tourists stared at us feuding. I was immobilized, shaking, on the street corner, unwilling to move forward with James beside me and unsure if I could get past a city block on my own.

  I knew I wanted to move forward with him, but neither of us seemed able to make real progress in our relationship, much less create the kind of happiness I was witnessing in that magical glen.

  The group started down the hill, looking a bit silly in platforms and stilettos trying not to tumble into a pile of glitzy broken ankles. With our heads held high we sank into the grove of trees, and something bigger than our group took hold and guided us—a parade of participants that look like a mixture of St. Patrick’s Day, Mardi Gras, Gay Pride weekend, and Victoria’s Secret at Fashion Week—onto the stage. It was beautiful, vulnerable, and brave. It made you want to grab hold of the person next to you and give them a big kiss, embrace them with all the love that crackled in the air. We took our seats and watched as Annie and Beth climbed onstage, joined hands, and sat in their thrones.

  Here they were royalty, and each of us had something to present to them: a gift, a blessing, a moment of brief entertainment, a breath to share. One man presented himself in a headstand with a ribbon tied around each of his big toes, his legs spread wide. Bells jingled as he wiggled his feet up and down and paper tags dangled from the ribbon with Annie and Beth’s names along with words like “Love” and “Peace.” A champion yogi presented a series of yoga positions, flowing with ease from one beautiful pose to the next, pushing her body to contortionist extremes.

  When it was time for my performance, my gift to them, I handed them each a bowl of dirt and asked them to coat my body with the cool, blessed earth. They dipped their fingers into the ceramic pots of soil and smeared the black mud over my white flesh. Their touch was powerful, filled with love and erotic energy, and my body shivered and tingled as their warm hands traced my thighs, across my breasts, and tenderly around my face, leaving dusty tracks. I was covered with earth, buried standing up and breathing deeply. My toes sunk into a pile of remnant soil as my breath grew stronger, allowing their touch and my exhalations to fill my erotic self until I was overflowing with desire and love for the world and ready for the expulsion of my words. The words weren’t going to just fall from my lips this time; I had a coiled scroll of paper with my blessings for the brides tucked into my cunt. My fingers dove between my moist lips and pulled out the soggy tribute to the couple as I moaned out in pleasure.

  “Mmmmmm...I think I found it,” I said, and the crowd laughed a little. I uncoiled the scroll and composed myself, looking at Annie and Beth. The three of us took a deep breath in and released on a slow exhale in a perfect connection.

  “From the depths of my body, my heart and my soul, the radiating aura of love that Annie and Beth share has left permanent imprints on this dirty girl.” My eyes welled up, I was so full of emotion. Annie and Beth cooed.

  “We are forever planted in common soil,” I read, then I kissed the loving couple, wished them all the love and happiness in the world, and headed back to my seat.

  Before they exchanged their vows, Annie and Beth wanted us to get in touch with their lover Earth. They slipped off their shoes and stepped onto the soft, green grass.

  “We would like to invite all of you to give the earth a massage with your feet,” they welcomed, and I slipped off my shoes and watched as James slipped off his. Dress shoes, high heels, flip-flops, and sandals were all discarded as we sunk into the plush landscape, toes curling into green blades of grass while ladybugs maneuvered their way around our manicured nails and beaded ankle bracelets.

  “Step right and left, a little to the right, a little to the left. Now a little more to the left. Put
your consciousness in your feet.” We were a marching army of lovers engaged in a simple dance, and the movement brought us closer together. Watching my mentors—my mothers—leading us forward into battle, connecting us with our lovers, our reality, our potential, I knew where this march would take me. I stared across the grass at James, seeking out his gaze.

  “Massage the earth, because she is your sweetheart.”

  I smiled when our eyes finally met and he smiled back at me. I am ready to do this. I can do this!

  “Breathe…feel all that love and support.” Our feet shuffled back and forth, right and left, right and left. I could either face the demons of my past and move forward, or remain in that past and allow myself to be subject to its corrosion. Before I went anywhere, I needed to go deeper.

  “Feel your heart. Open your heart.” I needed to give up my weapons, my sword, even my rope, spelunking deeper with a clear head and a pure heart.

  “Send that love to your lover Earth.” My enemies were jealousy, fear, and shame—not James. James was subject to these emotions as much as I.

  “She is starting to relax. Ahhhhhh.” I shed these emotions like a snake coming into a new skin, a new life. Like a Buddhist monk, I gave up all of my worldly possessions. As Daddy’s submissive, I would be in service to my lover. I would seek enlightenment and freedom, learn his desires, and focus on the pleasure of someone other than myself.

  “With these steps, let us reach your love. Through our senses, we will become your lover. Every day we promise to breathe in your fragrance and be opened by you.” On this journey, I would find true contentment within myself, and I would reunite with my love, my Daddy, to create a union as powerful as the one I saw in Annie and Beth.

  “Let us not be severed from your love.” I knew it was time for training. I knew that it wouldn’t be easy on James, or on me. We were both raw and exhausted from fighting, from the fear of losing each other and the anxiety of never getting past the past, but in that moment, I felt ready.

  The sunrise over the Santa Cruz Mountains was breathtaking enough to pull me out of bed and toward the room service waiting outside of the soft, warm, compliant bed. James sat on the deck, facing the woods, reading the paper, and eating his morning pancakes and sausage. I splashed my face with cool water and prepared myself for a talk. As I watched him through the glass sliding door for a few minutes, I wondered if he could feel my eyes on him, and if he would turn around. I grabbed my camera from the small indoor dining table and stepped out. A squirrel with a big, bushy tail jumped from tree to tree.

  The morning sun shined down on James, who was wearing the hotel’s big white terrycloth robe and hiding behind movie-star sunglasses. I wanted to find him, to find us. I snapped a photo and he was disgruntled by the flash, but amused by my early-morning impishness. It made him smile; I wish I had caught the smile on film.

  “Mr. Mogul?” I sat down on the white lawn chair next to him.

  “Maddie,” he said, looking my way.

  My hands were antsy and quickly made their way to my mouth. Nervously, I chewed on my nails. I needed a manicure; my nails were a wreck—chipped and filthy with soil from the wedding.

  “I was thinking...”

  “Stop picking, Maddie.” Daddy scooped my hands away from my mouth. “Do I need to put you in mittens?” I smiled at the thought of an anxiety-laden child with mittens belted onto her hands. I pulled my hands from my mouth and put them in my lap. “Yes, Daddy. I was thinking about us and...I’d really like to do submissive training on your site.”

  Mr. Mogul picked his napkin up from his lap and wiped syrup from the corner of his mouth. He sat the napkin on the table and took another sip of his coffee. His site was never an easy subject for us and I felt his hackle rising.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea, Maddie. This is my job. I can’t take any chances here. If you flip out on set, what am I going to do? How is that going to look?”

  “I won’t flip out, I promise, Mr. Mogul. Remember what Dossie said?” Dossie was our therapist, a respected pillar of health in the queer and kink communities and an expert on open relationships. “If I’m ever going to get past this I have to face my fears. I want to do this, Daddy. I want to learn how to make you happy.”

  Daddy leaned over and brushed my hair out of my face, tucking a lock behind my ear. “Maddie, you already make me happy.”

  “I want to be a good submissive. I want to put our relationship first, and in order to do that I need to put all of my baggage aside and figure out what makes us tick.” At this point tears were streaming down my face. I may not have been doing the best job of showing composure, but at least I was being honest.

  I took Daddy’s hand and slowly took off his sunglasses so I could look him in the eye, “I can do this.”

  He looked at me, stroked my hair, and waited a moment before giving in. “Okay. When we get back home I’ll tell the talent office to put you on the schedule.”

  “Oh thank you, Papa!” I leaned in to give him a big, teary kiss. I wiped my eyes and slipped on his sunglasses to cover the mascara dripping from my tears.

  Undertaking submission training was about more than me overcoming my jealousy of his other models. It was a personal journey that Daddy and I were committing to, to see if we could make it to the other end of the tunnel. We had to move forward, because we couldn’t stay here. Here, there were only lies and deceit. We would use this week of work to construct not only entertainment, but also a set of protocols, a new type of bondage and erotic play, a new connection that would serve to deepen our devotion to each other.

  “I want one by the tree, Daddy!” Trees and nature walks surrounded the resort where we stayed. It smelled of life, of things green and of growth. I knelt down and ran my fingers through the vibrant grass, digging my fingernails into the dirt. I breathed in its scent as Daddy’s camera flashed. If I was going to find my connection with Mr. Mogul, I was going to need to strip myself of all of my armor. I was going to walk into this situation humbled and debased, and offer myself fully and wholly to him. This wasn’t about rope anymore, this wasn’t about looking good in bondage or being the top rope suspension model. I wouldn’t be allowed rope there; we were going beyond the ropes.

  Daddy took another sip of coffee and pat his lap. “Come be close to me.” I smiled and curled up in the lawn chair. His flesh was warm and furry. I liked to pet it, it soothed my wandering mind.

  “I love you,” he said.

  “I love you, too,” I whispered.

  On the drive back up the coast to San Francisco, we spiraled up and down the mountains watching the waves crash on the coast. On the straight passes of Highway 1, I had a clear view of the Pacific; I became transfixed by the rhythm of the waves, which gained momentum and then reached the point of greatest tension before crashing into foamy waters and washing up onto the shore.

  “I love the ocean,” I said, nose pressed against the glass, fantasizing about being someone else, someone who wouldn’t have to face the coming waves.

  “Why is that, Maddie?” Daddy asked. His eyes on the road, he placed my hand on the crotch of his jeans.

  “It soothes me to watch it, to listen to it. It’s like you can hear the earth breathing, inhaling and exhaling with every wave.”

  Mr. Mogul laughed. “And that’s why I love you, Maddie. Most girls would just say they loved the beach because it’s the perfect place to get a tan. But not my Maddie.”

  “Most girls...” which meant most models, really. These were the women who made up our world and with whom I felt in constant competition. He was silent for a moment, the sound of the waves muffled by the car window.

  “What do you know about submission, Maddie? About service?”

  “Not much, Papa. I love rope and pain, though I don’t really understand service. But I am drawn to it. I know that I can do a good job.”

  “I’m
sure you can, Maddie.” He was quiet for a moment. “When I first got into BDSM I had a mentor, a Daddy. I was at a point in my life where I knew I needed to be broken in. I needed to go through an initiation, to enter into a new stanza of my manhood. In some Native American tribes, young men are taken out into the woods, pierced with animal bones, and suspended by their back flesh from a tree. Either their bones or their flesh must break for them to be released. They are left there and told to transcend the pain. This is how they become men. For me, it was my service to Drake. He didn’t need me for sexual service—he had other boys for that—but I would accompany him to parties, talk with him, be his companion, take his coat for him, and occasionally take a beating from him. He taught me the pleasure of a job well done, the absolute satisfaction of providing for a leader in our community. It was my rite of passage. I needed to feel what it was like to be under the whip before I could give that to someone else. I needed to earn that right. You know, he’s been gone for nearly ten years and I still think about him, I still want to make him proud. With this site, I want to put something intelligent out there, not just the same old porn. There are values that I’m trying to instill in this project, a history that a lot of these girls have never been exposed to.”

  This was the most open and communicative James had been in months. We hadn’t talked like this since his move to San Francisco. I missed talking with him.