Daddy

by Madison Young

  James and my dad headed off to the living room, while I made my way upstairs to my old bedroom. It looked exactly the same as when I lived there. I was greeted with the same Pepto-pink walls and wallpaper, pink roses and gray ribbons. It was the first wallpaper I ever picked out and I had a comforter and sheets that matched. I closed the door and looked around. My old journals were still stuffed into my dresser drawers and the graduation cap and honors cords I earned for being at the top of my high school class still hung from my bedroom mirror. I sat on the bed, listening to it squeak, gazing out the window as snow began to fall.

  That squeaking bed, like a rocking chair, used to put me to sleep. I remembered Gauge sharing the bed with me, the year I brought her home for Christmas. We don’t mind sharing a bed, Mom. We had disrobed under the covers after the door was closed and the lights were out, her soft skin rubbing up against mine, the taste of her lips sweet. My hands ached to be inside of her. We rocked slowly back and forth trying to avoid making the bed squeak, quiet as the falling snow.

  My father’s voice drifted into the room: “Come downstairs, Scrooged is going to be on in just a couple minutes.”

  Ok, Dad.

  I snuck one last look at the world I left behind: diplomas, scrapbooks, career charts, report cards, and old loves. Photographs of a girl with braces and freckles, brassy red hair, and an awkwardness that comes from not belonging, lined the halls. I descend into the family room, where my family was huddled around the TV with Christmas dinner. We would be outcasts without our common language: television.

  We sat captive to the television, reciting the familiar lines, like we had so many times before. Dad brought his voice to a high falsetto, fluttering his hands like wings and mimicking the ditzy blonde fairy on the television: “Sometimes you’ve got to slap them in the face to get their attention!”

  “Ha! She’s a dominatrix fairy!” My brother Reo pointed at the screen, amused by his observation. “Tina, you know about dominatrixes don’t you?”

  “Reo, we’re not going to talk about that on Christmas!” my mother reprimanded.

  “What? I didn’t do anything,” my brother responded, dumbfounded and defensive. “What? She’s on TV talking about it. Aren’t you, Sis? She knows all about dominatrixes, all that kinky shit. Dad and I saw her on what’s that show called, One Thousand Ways to Die. Called her sexpert or somethin’.”

  “Richard Edwin Oliver Butcher! I will not have you ruin my Christmas. We are going to be a normal family for once and sit down together and eat our dinner and watch the goddamn movie. Is that clear?” My mom’s face glowed red with anxiety and embarrassment.

  “Listen to your mother, Reo.”

  Mr. Mogul and I stared forward, avoiding eye contact while tension thickened in the room, terrified of another eruption from my mother. James excused himself to the bathroom. I kept my hands folded in my lap, trying not to breathe or move.

  “Chasm, we need more ice for the bar and bring out another case of chilled champagne for our guests,” Daddy’s hand rested on Sarah Chasm’s shoulder. She was the head house slave. She gazed upward at my Daddy and moaned as his hands traced down her naked body and struck her pink flesh with a crisp slap. She released a sharp yelp, an inappropriate reaction for a submissive who had been granted the honor of serving on The Upper Floor. I found her vulgar. Part of me pained with jealousy to see Daddy’s hands on another woman, but I understood it to be part of the job, and accepted it as such. Daddy leaned in and whispered into her ear. Her mouth opened slightly and she closed her eyes. He stuffed his hand down her throat and she gagged on his digits, eyes watering. Pathetic. His eyes fixated on Sarah, a new toy ripe for training. He removed his hand from her mouth and slapped her slobbery face. Her eyes opened with adoration and she crossed her arms behind her back and disappeared into the hallway to carry out his orders. The camera followed James’ every move.

  He grabbed a black towel and walked toward Maestro, the butler of The Upper Floor, who was Daddy’s right hand and had become a close friend. Mr. Mogul seemed to enjoy having a young dominant to mentor. After wiping his hands clean, he poured himself a drink, whiskey on the rocks.

  “Maestro, Sir…can you make sure the slaves have properly set the dining room table for tonight’s dinner?” As he brought the tumbler to his mouth, I could see his eyes pan the room full of yelping and screaming, well-lubricated guests. “And if it hasn’t been taken care of to your satisfaction please make note of it and we will demonstrate an appropriate correction for the viewing pleasure of our guests.” He pulled a white handkerchief from the inside of his jacket pocket, sniffled, and wiped his drippy nose. The dusty environment wreaked havoc on his allergies and the more time he spent on The Upper Floor, the worse his allergies got.

  “Right away, Mr. Mogul,” Maestro replied as the camera returned.

  “A drink, Mr. Mogul?” Holly asked, then handed him an already refreshed tumbler full of whiskey.

  We had spent Christmas day at our apartment in the Lower Haight, an apartment we acquired shortly after Mr. Mogul received a promotion at KINK. The majority of our belongings were still in boxes. With my touring schedule—directing feminist porn, on-camera porn performances, and educational speaking engagements at conferences and sex toy stores—I wasn’t exactly a stay-at-home domestic submissive. I had been driving on the high of my career, neglecting to build a home for Daddy and myself. His workload had also doubled, and we were rarely around to keep house. Our kitchen lay in disuse; it was a novelty to cook at the apartment. Daddy was directing two sites: The Training of O and The Upper Floor. The Training of O was the slave training site I participated in for my own training with Daddy. The women entered with no ranking and only a desire to be trained to discover something powerful that existed within themselves. It changed many of their lives, as it changed mine. The experience created infatuations and Stockholm Syndrome responses among a handful of the women. The Training of O was an emotional journey resembling that of a makeover reality show. Mr. Mogul was the Chef Gordon Ramsey of online dominance and submission.

  The second site, The Upper Floor, was the next phase—a graduation for the women. Only a select few submissives who had completed The Training of O could petition for serving on The Upper Floor. The Upper Floor was modeled after the old English Manors of the early 1900s and featured black tie events and a working staff of slaves that served as maids and butlers. Directing the site was a promotion not only for Daddy, but for anyone that he allowed into this world.

  The first time I saw The Upper Floor was a few months earlier, at The Upper Floor Halloween party. I was in awe. The fourth floor parlor was draped in red velvet curtains, ornate couches, and fine rugs. Rich blood-red embossed wallpaper covered the walls and a roaring fireplace heated the room. Here, every affair was an elegant affair with a mandatory black-tie dress code. San Francisco’s elite celebrated here in sexy long evening gowns, tuxedos, and fine suits alongside nearly-naked bombshells in stockings, black garter belts and elegant high heels. This neo-Edwardian palace had a full bar, a humidor full of fine cigars, decanters of scotch and a grand piano in the foyer. Classical music competed with moans and yelps from participating men and women and the snap of whips and floggers.

  I had just returned from tour with the Queer X Show. For two months I traveled through Europe with seven other radical feminist performance artists. We took the stage in Paris, Berlin, and Brussels, addressing sexuality and identity through raw performance art.

  The gritty nightclubs and dark theatrical stages I had seen while traveling were a direct contrast to the decadence and pornification of the female body that I found at home in San Francisco. Hairy legs were replaced with smooth ones, cheap beer and burlesque costumes were replaced with expensive bottles of champagne, heels, and Wolford stockings. I left dreads, Mohawks, and tattoos on tour and arrived surrounded by platinum hair dye, Brazilian blowouts, and hair extensions.

 
After security guards radioed to Daddy for permission to send me up, I lugged my large suitcase up the five flights of stairs into the models’ green room so I could freshen up. I powdered my face, freshened my lipstick, spritzed my body with vanilla scented perfume, and slipped into a new pair of thigh-high stockings, a garter belt, and high heels. I was jet-lagged and tired, but excited to see my Daddy. It had been months since we had last seen each other, with only patchy correspondences back and forth during my travels.

  Daddy had used my time away to build a new world for KINK. Mounted cameras filmed The Upper Floor twenty-four hours a day, capturing the late-night sexual appetites of Master Peter Acworth for viewers’ pleasure. Peter lived on The Upper Floor in the master’s quarters. As the sun rose on the horizon, Mr. Mogul would also rise to lead the house slaves in morning workouts like lifting weights in the nude and jogging up and down the stairs while Master Peter looked on in his slippers and robe, sipping coffee, laughing, and nodding in approval.

  When I entered The Upper Floor’s grand parlor for the first time that Halloween night, Daddy ran to my side, grabbed me around the waist and swung me around in a circle, kissing me deeply and taking my breath away. He immediately gave me a tour, but it was a world that only they could understand completely. I was lost in his enthusiasm, delirious with jet lag, and heady with champagne.

  “I can’t wait to get my hands on you. Wait here, let me check in with the staff.” Mr. Mogul returned with a smile on his face and a whip in his hand. He grabbed my red hair and coaxed me down to the floor, on my knees. He pulled my coiled leather collar from his suit jacket pocket and wrapped the black leather around my neck. I closed my eyes. I felt the familiar, soft leather tighten around my neck and his hands securing the collar in place with a lock and key. I was home. With his index finger hooked around my collar he brought me to my feet, kissed me on the mouth and led me to a beautiful large wooden St. Andrew’s Cross.

  He ran his hands up my thighs, grabbed hold of my cunt and slapped it. His hands weren’t nearly as rough as when we had first met, the calluses gone and his skin soft, but his fingers were still strong and knowing as they made their way slowly up the landscape of my abdomen and my ribs. His thumb and forefinger clasped around my nipples and he pulled. I smiled wickedly with appreciation as a jolt of adrenaline rushed through my body and I quickly inhaled, allowing the sensation to flow down to my cunt in a hurried rush and churn and swirl into an aching throbbing pleasure. I exhaled, releasing a slow thin stream of air through my slightly pursed lips, my eyes locked with Mr. Mogul’s.

  Mr. Mogul leaned in close and whispered in my ear, “I love you, Slut. I’ve been waiting to greet you with a nice welcome-home whipping for some time. Are you ready?”

  “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.” I smiled, one of his hands still pulling at my pink nipple.

  Mr. Mogul’s whip fell repeatedly on my cunt. My vulva throbbed and ached for release. The leather implement found percussive rhythm, falling on my labia and teasing my clit. I let out a deep moan as the leather struck my inner thighs. I lifted my feet from the ground, pulling myself upward by my wrists and I felt all of the heat and energy that had been swirling about my body join forces and spasm through me in a deep tremble. Suspended, my body shook and shivered until my muscles, exhausted, went limp. Mr. Mogul’s hands traced the fresh pink and red stripes that ran up and down my body. The lighter marks were already fading, but some rose to attention against his comforting and tender touch.

  He released me from the cuffs and helped me to the couch. The cameraman followed and hovered over us, reminding me that I lived in a fantasy that was being filmed. The crowd parted as we walked through in a daze. A woman in a corset and her collared submissive got up from their seats to make room for us.

  Sarah glared at us from across the room, her eyes stone cold and emotionless. She approached with a silver tray of champagne balanced on the palm of her hand. Mr. Mogul had first taken Sarah on as a project. She was the head submissive of The Upper Floor and worked full time for the site assisting with administration duties, post-production editing, serving, and event planning. She was like an executive assistant who also was whipped and fucked for the house and master’s entertainment. Outfitted similarly to me in black stockings, heels, a lace garter belt and a house collar, she had short dyed black hair, like a twenties flapper girl. She came across as quiet and depressed, a gothic stoner. Still in her early twenties, she was discovering who she was in kink and BDSM play. Mr. Mogul found potential in her willingness to explore the outer reaches of her boundaries. She was eager to serve and learn, and she had left very little behind when she devoted herself to the castle and The Upper Floor as a full time slave. Perhaps that made her a perfect candidate for the job.

  “Is there anything I can get for you, Sir?” Sarah asked, standing at attention, stoic and focused. She was so quiet I felt awkward around her. I knew over the last few months that The Upper Floor had focused Mr. Mogul’s attentions on Sarah with a greater frequency than they were focused on me. I felt my hackles rise with jealousy.

  “Be a good girl and fetch Madison a glass of water.” Mr. Mogul issued his orders, patting his lap. I laid my head in his lap and he stroked my hair. I scowled with jealousy and unease: I’m Daddy’s good girl.

  I peered up at him, vying for his attention “Daddy...I don’t trust Sarah. The way she looks at you, at us...She wants to fuck you! I know it!” I sunk my hand into his thigh, clinging onto what was mine, suddenly afraid that I could lose him.

  “Maddie, do we need to do this right now?” The green-eyed monster had reared its ugly head in our relationship many times. We navigated our way in and out of an, at times sticky, open relationship based on our mutual comfort, but there was a line in the sand: we didn’t fuck our coworkers off the clock. I was highly uncomfortable with the thought of Mr. Mogul having sex with any of the models that he worked with. Those models were women that I also worked with, and I didn’t want that awkwardness. James didn’t want me to fuck the people that he worked with, especially his boss, Mr. Acworth, or his best friend, Maestro. Daddy also didn’t want me to participate in KINK’s gang-bang site, which was often made up of the many folks who worked in the KINK wood shop. It would be awkward for Mr. Mogul to have the prop maker talk about it, just as I had no desire to be in a green room hearing similar gossip from the models. Nearly everything and everyone else was up for negotiation, and negotiation was the key. When it came to Sarah, I did not want her any closer to my Daddy than was required of him, especially since he was no longer working as a sexual performer for his productions.

  “You’re right, she does. But I don’t want to fuck her and I’m not going to,” he replied. “I love you,” he said, kissing me on the forehead.

  “I don’t know if that makes me feel any better.” I muttered under my breath. I opened my eyes to see Sarah hovering over me.

  “Your water, Ma’am”

  The day after Christmas, things felt completely different. I wasn’t sure how they changed, but I felt a distance stretching between Daddy and me that was getting covered up with expensive presents and dinners.

  Sarah stood beside Peter and Daddy, ringing a dinner bell.

  “Welcome, everyone. Happy Boxing Day and a Merry Christmas to all of our guests and our members. Our kitchen staff has prepared a beautiful dinner. We invite you all to our dining room for a delicious dinner and kinky entertainment. Cheers.” Peter raised his glass and took a long drink of champagne. He wore a black tuxedo and raised his glass in celebration.

  The dining table was set with fine china, and the whole KINK family of directors and illustrious models were in attendance, along with pre-selected guests from the San Francisco BDSM community. Daddy fixed me a plate of potatoes and broccoli and placed it on the floor in a corner of the dining room. A red velvet pillow lay there for me to kneel on while dining.

  “Maddie, I need to go tend to the guests. I
love you my Slut. Merry Christmas.” With a smile and a light slap, he turned his attention back to the room. A devilish grin spread across my face.

  “What a good slave, Puppy. I see you’re eating your vegetables.” Lorelei Lee approached my cushion and I swallowed my sparse dinner down with a big bubbling sip of champagne. Lorelei looked ravishing. A tight black strapless latex dress clung to her body causing her cleavage to spill out like an offering, dangerously close to my face. A modern-day pinup queen with a nervous giggle and a soothing sultry voice, I find her almost irresistible. Her fingers stroked through my hair as she asked, “How are you?”

  “I’m good. Life is good. I’ve been traveling a bit, but it’s good to be home. Mr. Mogul and I had a good Christmas. And you?”

  “Things are good...exhausting. I’m back and forth between here and New York working on my MFA. I’m sorry I couldn’t read at the last event at the gallery. It sounded like a great line up. My schedule’s just…just, well…it’s a bit much right now.” I nodded, listening to her voice, while my eyes followed Daddy as he tightly cinched his ropes around Sarah. Over the months it seemed that they had become more casually acquainted with one another’s dominant and submissive personalities and my anxiety was slowly growing to a boil.

  Lorelei noticed my gaze. She was familiar with the complications of dating both within and outside of the adult industry and the jealousy and temptations that come as a result of our line of work. “You don’t have anything to worry about, Madison. You and James are great together. He loves you, he talks about you all the time.” I needed those reassuring words. She leaned in and kissed me on the crown of my head.