Daddy

by Madison Young

  “I’m ready for that, too, Daddy.” And I felt ready, ready to confront the site that had caused such a struggle between us. I wanted to believe that confronting this fear would end the pain that was consuming me. I wanted to be the submissive that Daddy desired. I wanted my own rite of passage, to take the journey with Mr. Mogul’s hand in mine. I was ready to enter into an intense, week-long commitment with Daddy in order to uncover whether we had something worth salvaging. It had to take place on his turf, camera rolling to capture it all. I took a deep breath and watched as the waves crashed on the shore.

  Daddy and I woke up early, thrown from the comfort of sleep by our blaring alarm clock. Our bodies were damp with sweat and we separated slowly, peeling apart and becoming two individual entities by light of day. I groaned at the agony of getting up, and buried my head under the pillow. The smell of coffee and aftershave wafted through the loft. The digital clock’s red LED display moved closer to the time of my training and I was concentrating on making myself invisible. I longed to disappear, to postpone, to avoid my impending responsibilities. Instead, I heard the sound of Mr. Mogul’s voice.

  “It’s time to get up, Maddie. We have a long week ahead of us.” Mr. Mogul was standing beside the bed and pulled the warm comforter from my body. The air was unusually cold on this summer morning, goosebumps sprung up along my limbs.

  “Ugh...do I have to?” I kept the pillow pulled down over my head like a defiant young schoolgirl.

  Mr. Mogul was quiet for a moment and things were frighteningly still. “No, you don’t have to.”

  I peeked my head out from the soft pillow and looked up at him. He was neatly folding several pairs of jeans and T-shirts, placing them in his suitcase for the week-long shoot. We would be leaving the comfort of the Oakland loft for many long days of production at the Armory in San Francisco. It was all part of the site’s training program: the girls taken out of their element, to have as little influence from the outside world as possible.

  What am I doing? I tried so hard to get to this point, to embark on this journey, and now, when it came down to it, I was hiding under the covers like a child. This wasn’t the way to show my dedication and appreciation for this opportunity; I needed to pull myself together and mentally prepared myself for battle.

  “I want to, Daddy. I’m ready.” I rubbed the sleep my eyes and stumbled into the shower.

  I toweled my body dry and slipped into a sleeveless turquoise dress. I zipped on knee-high black leather boots and started to gather simple dresses and nightgowns for my suitcase. Mr. Mogul sat down on the leather couch and crossed his legs, contemplative, drinking his coffee, watching, as I scampered around the apartment fetching items for the journey. “Last night was your last night in our bed for a week, so I hope you enjoyed it. You’re going to need to be strong this week, Maddie. This is going to be hard on both of us.”

  “Yes, Mr. Mogul,” I said as I sorted through my pantyhose, slipping my hand into the stockings and checking for runs before stuffing them in my garment bag.

  “I can’t have our personal problems acting themselves out onscreen. This is my job. Your job, too. It’s what pays the rent.” I stopped and put down my stockings. James was serious, he was always very serious when it came to his work; I didn’t want to mess that up. This week would require us both to show an immense amount of trust in each other. I needed to remember that this wasn’t just about me; it was about us.

  Mr. Mogul patted the couch and I joined him. “I’m going to be brave, Daddy,” I said. “I promise.”

  James sat his mug down on the coffee table and ran his hand through my hair, “I know that you are brave. But I know you. Sometimes you let your emotions control you and you need to be the one in control this week.”

  I felt like a little girl looking up to her daddy for guidance, for a hint about how to face the challenge that lay before me. “Well what should I do if that starts to happen? If my emotions take control?”

  “Let’s make a safe word. Just say my first name and then I’ll know something is wrong. If we need to hold or take you aside or give you a break or talk without the cameras on us, then we will. It will be our secret code, okay?”

  Daddy handed me his white handkerchief without my asking for it. He knew before I did that my eyes were about to well up. “Thank you, Mr. Mogul. I love you.”

  Mr. Mogul leaned in and kissed me on the forehead. “I love you, too. Now grab your bags or we’re going to be late.” I tucked the damp handkerchief into my purse and, grabbing our luggage, we headed out the door.

  We were moments away from starting the first day of shooting for The Training of Madison Young. The shoot was held at KINK’s new home in the historical San Francisco Armory building, where the National Guard once trained their soldiers and housed their arsenal. After lying vacant for more than twenty years, the two hundred thousand square foot castle of a building seemed to have reclaimed its purpose. A new labyrinth of voices mingled with old memories as they echoed among the dusty walls and dirty floors.

  I was locked in a cage that hung suspended from the ceiling by thick chain. The cage was a small metal box, aged by prop designers to be the color of rust. I sat in a compressed position,with my knees held to my chest, shackles and chain affixed snuggly around my wrists and ankles. Despite my butt being pressed up against the flat, checkerboard strips of metal, I felt entirely comfortable. It was reminiscent of squeezing myself into small spaces as a child—behind the couch, crawl spaces, and the cages my mom used to kennel our terriers. Outside the cage, the room was cold and lifeless: cement floors, cement walls, cement ceilings, metal suspension points, metal chains, metal cage. The Armory felt strong and unyielding; it conflicted with my love of all that is natural. Where was the soil, the rope, the leather?

  I watched the crew run around set, gathering implements like whips and thin reeds, which would be used as switches that we referred to as canes. The production assistant, Lux, was a petite but spirited young woman in her mid-twenties with brown eyes and chestnut-brown hair that she kept pulling back in a ponytail. She was the kind of girl who didn’t take shit from anyone but knew how to do her job, which was mainly to care for the models. She kept a knife that Daddy bought her in her back pocket. Lux laid tightly coiled pieces of rope out on a black, fluffy towel to keep them clean. My hands trembled as I grasped the metal cage, full of nervous energy but eager for full immersion. The anticipation was killing me—like watching a nurse preparing a needle.

  The lighting crew—two stocky men, one silver-haired, and the other sporting a full beard and mustache—came in and adjusted the lights until they were warm on my skin. I started to perspire, and took in a deep breath, patiently watching the production team finish setup. Daddy fastened a small microphone to his black button-up shirt and switched the microphone on.

  “Testing, testing. Can you hear me?” Mr. Mogul glanced over at me and smiled.

  “Seems to be working just fine, James.” Carlos, the tech assistant’s voice sprung up from behind the video camera.

  I ran my fingers across the large, rusted chain collar that Daddy padlocked around my neck before placing me in the cage. It was heavy. Many collars could pass for stylish chokers or necklaces, like the ones you might buy at the mall or at a jewelry store, but this collar was a symbol of humility. A huge chain that looked like it came from a mechanic’s garage. I thought about what Daddy said when he locked it around me, “You’ll be wearing this all week. It’s a training collar. Don’t get emotionally attached to it. This collar is just a vehicle, a prop. It will be used on others after you and you will give it up at the end of the week. Is this understood?”

  It was understood; this was a production. Though it was a personal journey for us, ultimately the goal was entertainment, and I knew that. I knew that, foremost, I was an entertainer, and our intertwined personal life had simply brought us to this public journey.

  W
hen performing with strangers or coworkers it was possible for me to have a pleasurable time, while also keeping things compartmentalized and emotionally safe. But this combination of Daddy, his work, and me, was an emotionally loaded triad and I felt incredibly vulnerable, sensitive, and terrified.

  “Okay. Is everyone ready?” James asked Carlos, while looking over the notes on his clipboard.

  “Looking good, boss,” he yelled from behind the camera. Lux snapped a couple quick photos and Mr. Mogul stepped up to the cage. “I love you, Maddie. Whatever I say or do, don’t take it too personally. This is meant to be fun. That’s why we do this, right? Because it’s something that makes us happy. You okay, Maddie?”

  I nodded and kissed Mr. Mogul’s hand through the cage.

  “Action!” James called out to the crew.

  Daddy circled the cage and took a step back, taking a good look at me. “Why are you here, Ms. Young?”

  “To learn how to eroticize submission and how to be the submissive you would like me to be. How would you like me to address you? Mr. Mogul? Sir?” My voice was soft and unsure.

  “Decide now, and that’s the way it will be the rest of the week,” Mr. Mogul said and looked down at his notes. I was used to following the dominant’s lead, but Mr. Mogul seemed to be pushing me to make the first move. He asked for a declaration of my expectations, my desires—but wasn’t this supposed to be all about serving someone else and not serving my own needs?

  “I suppose...Sir?” I stared at James, looking for a clue as to whether I was on the right path.

  “Good choice. You will be expected to follow certain protocol and specific rules this week while you are in training. You will be expected to follow these rules twenty-four hours a day and to report to me immediately upon any infraction. Is this clear?”

  My eyes searched him as he paced back and forth in front of the cage. I listened attentively and tried to remember every word. I wouldn’t fail. I could follow his rules. How hard can this be?

  “Rule number one: You will refrain from masturbation unless I give you permission,” he said. “Rule number two: You will ask for permission to orgasm. Rule number three: You will not use furniture this week. You will sit on the floor or stand, unless I give you permission to use the furniture. This includes the use of a bed, Ms. Young.

  Rule number four: You are to address me as Sir and only Sir for this week. Is this all clear to you, Slut?”

  The camera panned across my body, zooming in on my face, then moved over to a tight shot of James’ clipboard, where these rules were written. I imagined what my life would look like that week without vibrators—without orgasms—sleeping at the foot of the bed.

  “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.” I maintained slave decorum, mindful of my physical position. I could look toward James, but never at him. Suddenly, I had to fight back a smile as a strange warmth spilled over me. It felt so good to shed the complex layers of daily life and exchange them for routine, absolute dedication and service to one person (if only for a week).

  “You will have a curfew this week. You will be in your hotel room by ten p.m. every night. We will check up on you and if you are not in your hotel room by curfew you will be severely punished. You will need your rest and your strength to make it through this week. I don’t need you slutting around town and coming in tired to our training sessions. I take this very seriously, Ms. Young, and I intend you to as well. Are we clear?” Mr. Mogul looked up at me for acknowledgment.

  “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.” The camera focused tight on me from below, where I dangled in the cage. I usually felt a distinct awareness of the camera’s presence, charging the scene with the energy of all those who would view this moment in the future, but naked and enclosed in this tiny box I focused. I was not sure what would be waiting for me at the end of the week, but I felt the experience itself solidifying.

  “You will have homework that will be assigned every evening for you to work on in your quarters and I expect you to have it completed and ready to hand in every morning. Is this clear?”

  “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.” It was all in the details; it was in the way in which he spoke and the richness of intention in his words. It was verbal dominance, intended to gain my unfaltering attention. Maybe for the first time, I truly listened to what he said, observing what he liked, taking note of his specific desires. In our relationship, our trust had become fractured and communication had deteriorated, our voices muddled, muted, and stifled. Today, I was starting to hear him again, able to listen because it was being demanded of me and because I was stripped of distractions and resistance.

  “Ms. Young?” Even the sound of his voice struck me differently; I instinctively trusted it.

  “Yes, Sir?” My reply was more confident than the first “Yes, Sir” I mumbled only an hour ago. How long has it been? An hour? Half an hour? How much time has passed listening to and watching this man?

  “Who do you belong to, Slut?” It felt like he was calling my name: Slut. It conjured an image of being ravaged and undone. It brought a sense of calm and well-being; it validated my sexual self. Slut. It was a word I owned proudly; it was sensuous, exciting, and full of life. Sluts deserved to be worshipped and adored, and at the same time to give themselves to others. Sluts filled chalices with their come, sweat, and blood; sluts blessed the town. I was empowered by my Slut self and now it was time for me to show my lover.

  I looked Mr. Mogul in the eye and answered with complete confidence: “I belong to you, Sir.”

  I had never been more certain of anything in my life. Although this was just the beginning of our journey together, the distance between Mr. Mogul and I decreased every minute. I had never been so happy or so sad to see time pass.

  “That’s right. That’s my good girl.” He pulled the cage in close to his face and kissed me before he let the cage go and it spun in circles. I was like a little, captive bird: well fed and happy. I was ready for whatever he could give me.

  I gazed into a small video camera, set up on a tripod in a cheap motel in the Castro. I could see my gallery from the window. At the gallery, I was in charge, but this week had not been about coordinating events or writing grants for the next visual art exhibition. This week had been about delving deep within myself and reconstructing my relationship with Daddy, finding new avenues and building trust with each other. I set up for the training’s required video journal, a reflection on the experiences of a submissive’s week-long journey at The Training of O. James would meet me afterward and we would go out to sushi, Daddy wearing a tie and jacket and I donning lash marks and a large clunky chain with a three inch padlock around my neck—a training collar I would soon lose in exchange for a real collar. A collaring ceremony is the equivalent of a bondage wedding; it is a ritual, a commitment to one another bound by a dominant/submissive agreement and honored by a leather collar. I was tired and teary eyed, it had been a long and emotional journey.

  In Catholicism, a couple wishing to exchange vows must go through several weeks of a guided spiritual journey in the form of premarital counseling and Pre-Cana classes that are designed to challenge, test, and question the couple’s devotion while building their trust and challenging their ability to handle stress. Mr. Mogul and I were on a guided journey, but in a much different house of worship. The emotional stakes were high and the commitment was the same, but our journey looked different. We had just completed the third day of training, which means that the following day I would be free to collapse into my Daddy’s arms, eyes full with tears of joy and exhaustion, and we would ride our human ponies off into the sunset.

  I breathed a sigh of relief; we were almost there. I rested my heavy head in the palm of my hand and stared into the camera, trying to compose my thoughts. My fingers traced the red welts that striped my pale chest. I closed my eyes and I could smell the thick, dank, dusty air of the Armory. This training wasn’t a competition between my will an
d Mr. Mogul’s, it was a test: our relationship and our love versus the Armory, a place of power and wonder, an Emerald City in a dark forest riddled with flying monkeys. These rooms and their walls housed love and orgasms, lies and broken agreements, the pulp of my and my partner’s sexual engagement with others. We were trying to rebuild trust in the very rooms in which our vows had been broken.

  Overwhelming to most visitors, the Armory is jaw-dropping due to its sheer size; these old, beautiful walls hold the most decadent and open display of kink and BDSM in the country. More than just a landmark to us, the Armory is a massive, heavy, needy building. This was a complicated moment: our relationship—life, love, and drama, was playing out in front of a camera, and was also the source of a paycheck. I knew these were the terms when I started, but I still harbored some resentment.

  I ran my fingers through my hair and opened my eyes. With a deep breath I pressed the red record button. I flipped the viewfinder around so I could see myself in the frame. I shifted uncomfortably and sat, legs folded in the chair, propping my small body up higher. I felt like a little child at the big kids’ table.

  “Hi, this is Madison Young on day three of my training. Hmm. Where to begin? Well, the first position that Mr. Mogul put me in was crawling. I do love being close to the ground and the Armory floor was really hard and painful…” Staring at my reflection, I told my story.

  Mr. Mogul bound my upper and lower arms, then bound my calves to my thighs, and positioned me on my elbows and knees on the filthy Armory floor. The floor was cold, hard, and damp, moist with emotion and history. He whipped my ass as I crawled back and forth, from one wall to the other, my elbows and knees screaming every time they made contact with the cement floors. A rubber bit gag muffled any sound coming from my mouth. I tried to contain my whimpers and work past the pain, wondering if my body might give out sooner than expected.

  This was my place, where I belonged. I remembered something Pablo Picasso once said, “Every act of creation is first an act of destruction.” We must tear down the walls of our identity, our relationship, everything comfortable that we thought we once knew, in order to rebuild. My bones ground into the cement with every step, but the rope was a welcome visitor. I knew Daddy was being mindful and considerate, binding me with rope rather than leather. Rope is my security, a familiar object of safety and love. The rope cinched tight around my arms and legs was a welcome pain, a hand for me to hold through this challenge. Daddy followed behind me as I crawled, periodically whipping my ass and my pussy. The leather whip fell, stinging against my cunt, an erotic delicacy that sent welcomed zigzags of pleasure through my body.