Daddy

by Madison Young

  I nodded, “Thanks.”

  Sarah crawled on top of the long dining room table where dominant men and women sat with their submissive counterparts at their sides, eating Christmas dinner from dog bowls or being fed scraps from their Master or Mistress’ plate. Everyone eagerly watched as Mr. Mogul constructed a chest harness around Sarah’s breasts, securing her hands behind her back and attached the harness to a connecting rope that led to an eyebolt on the ceiling above the dining table. He heaved on the rope, adding tension, and lifted Sarah into the air, making her the centerpiece for the table.

  He began coiling the jute rope around her face, around her eyes and mouth, leaving her completely faceless, an anonymous bound fuck doll. He pulled a cane from the utility cabinet, a thick bamboo reed.

  “Now you don’t quite know what to expect, do you, Slut? I can stuff your filthy cunt with my hand or someone’s cock, or I can whip your cunt or tease you with the vibrator. You’re our little helpless fuck doll, just a hole.” Sarah’s ass swayed back and forth, itching to be touched. I heard her muffled whimpers from the coils of rope and I was aroused, jealous, and sympathetic to her vulnerability. Daddy’s cane fell fast and hard on her pale, ghostly thighs and blood-curdling screams erupted as her body hung taut from the celing.

  “Talk to me, Slut. Are you in pain? Do you want to go forward? Nod your head if you want more, Slave.” Daddy’s cane was lightly tracing up and down the landscape of her quivering body. I recognized her internal conflict: the desire for more, more sensation, so much sensation that you are carried away to somewhere far from where you are, while your psyche is rubbing against its edge. Sarah slowly, bravely nodded her head, consenting.

  The cane struck again, this time on her tits, and she screamed. I saw the sensation zig-zagging through her body, and understood that she lacked the tools to process the scene she was engaging in. I had been there myself—she wanted it, but didn’t know what to do with that fiery heat now licking through her body with every strike. I stood up in the corner that Daddy put me in, where my dinner was served, and walked toward Sarah, bringing my face close to hers, stroking her hair and putting my hand on her shoulder.

  “You need to breathe, Sarah. Don’t let the sensation control you, let it flow through you. This is nothing. It’s one moment in time. What are you going to do with that moment, Sarah? Recognize it as a gift.” I whispered into the mummified sphere that surrounded her head. She was still just a girl, only twenty-four, and I felt threatened by her. I felt my impending thirtieth birthday approaching like a death sentence; I tried to disregard my fears of being replaced for a younger, newer make and model.

  I took a breath in and exhaled exaggeratedly as the cane again made contact with her reddening skin. “It’s not pain. It’s sensation, it’s energy, and it exists. Let it exist.”

  Her sharp vocal releases transformed to deep, cathartic sobbing and I listened closely while she attempted to mimic my breathing pattern. “Okay, here comes another one. Inhale, I want you to exhale deeply on contact.”

  The dinner guests sat, still watching, in their seats at the table. The couples were amused and inspired by the little scene that Mr. Mogul started with Sarah. This was the intent, after all: entertainment. Onlookers touched themselves with passion or sucked their Daddys’ cocks. Soon, a symphonic score of thuds and slaps, yelps, and moans filled the room, making my tiny voice even less audible.

  “Inhale, and...exhale. Good, that one was much better.”

  I left her side.

  “Too bad you can’t come without penetration. Isn’t that right, Slut?” Daddy taunted her and their connection made my skin crawl. I don’t want to be in the room for her orgasm.

  Sarah mumbled something unintelligible and Daddy quickly untied the ropes around her face and mouth.

  “Speak clearly, Slut, when you are spoken to.” His eyes locked onto Sarah’s and he grabbed hold of her chest harness and pulled her in to him.

  “Cock please, Sir. Please, I want your cock. Fill me with your cock.”

  Her words drifted into the hallway as I walked away, down the long corridor, until they were only a faint buzzing of syllables behind Beethoven’s quartets.

  I waited in a long black stretch limo outside the Armory. It was clear that my hero needed to be rescued; at the very least, he needed to be rescued from work. He had been sucked into an imaginary world, fueled by energy bars, booze, and drugs. The Disneyland of KINK. Daddy went down the rabbit hole and the only way for me to be with him was to jump in myself. Wearing black lace lingerie and nude thigh highs that made my legs like silk, I slipped pedicured toes into black patent leather heels and exited the limo. I covered up with a Burberry trench coat. In my ass I had a large purple silicone butt plug. My long red hair fell in waves down my back and a diamond necklace dangled between my breasts. After collecting a very nice bottle of champagne, ripe red strawberries, and dark chocolate, I knocked on the Armory door and waited for the familiar security guard to answer the door.

  “Madison Young to see you, Sir,” the gentleman barked into his walkie-talkie.

  “Send her up,” a staticky voice answered.

  I walked the eight flights of stairs, 120 in all, from the first floor entrance to Daddy’s office on The Upper Floor. I knocked on the thick wooden door and turned the doorknob. Over the last five months, Daddy’s office had grown from the basic desk and a white-board set-up to a full-fledged fifties bachelor studio. His room was furnished beautifully, and he brought nearly all his fetish and kink oriented books to the office. His whips and rope and canes, the implements that used to belong in our home, migrated to his castle. I didn’t like what was happening, but he seemed to have a clear explanation for every move. We don’t have a laundry unit at our apartment, and I need easy access to suits and work clothes. I want all of my books close at hand for reference. Music inspires me, so I need the nice home stereo at KINK. Always the director, Mr. Mogul hadn’t only created the world of The Upper Floor; he created a cast of characters. Each of the characters, including his character as trainer, had their own narrative, and it felt as though I was losing him to his own world.

  Daddy sat at his desk, staring at his computer, a nearly empty tumbler of whiskey beside him. He finished it off and exhaled deeply. When his eyes met mine they were cold and piercing. A bottle of lube sat on a vanity in the corner; beside it lay a small pile of condoms and a small hand mirror fogged with a cloud of white. His staff of models must be using his office prior to shoots again, I figured.

  “I have a surprise for us downstairs,” I said, approaching his desk, slowly unbuttoning my trench coat.

  “Come on, Maddie. You know I don’t like surprises.” He kept his gaze on the computer screen. I saw the palm of his hand cupping the mouse and wished they were cupping my breasts.

  “I’m rescuing you from this place.” I slipped the coat off of my shoulders and pouted. It lay in a puddle of fabric on the floor, one less layer between Daddy and me.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I offered, running my hands up Daddy’s thick muscular thighs as I knelt down in front of him. My fingers traced the hard outline of Daddy’s cock inside his perfectly tailored pants. His cock fit neatly in the palm of my hand. I gazed upward at him as he moaned. He grabbed my hair and pulled my face up the crotch of his pants, tracing my mouth up his inseam, my makeup left a smeared imprint.

  I crawled my way up Daddy’s body, straddling him and whispering with a devilish smile into his ear, “Daddy, there is a limo downstairs, I have a bottle of champagne, and I’m wearing a vibrating butt plug.”

  “And where do you propose that we go, Slut?” Daddy smiled for the first time that evening, his eyes a little softer, his hands running through my hair and fingering a dangling red lock by my ear.

  I wrapped my arms around Daddy tight and nuzzled my nose into the nook where his shoulder and neck met. “Anywhere but here, Daddy.”


  Daddy picked my coat up off the floor and dressed me, buttoning me up, and taking my hand. As we headed down the grand Armory staircase, out the palace doors, and into the cold San Francisco night, the city and the world seemed full of fantasies not yet filled and adventures not yet had. We are gods here, heroes, and we will fuck like gods and heroes in limos with champagne; with a castle for our playground, we have nested snugly into one of the most beautiful and debauched cities in the world. Passing over the Golden Gate Bridge, being ravaged against a pillar at the Palace of Fine Arts, racing to the top of Coit Tower, our blood is warm and flowing free. For a moment, everything else drifts away and we are as young as children, full of love and free of work, titles, careers, and public personas. I am safe and home in the arms of Daddy. I am Daddy’s Little Girl.

  I sat at the bar in a four-star vegan restaurant working on my second glass of red wine and toying with a small black box. It contained an antique pocket watch I bought for Daddy. It was our fifth anniversary. I watched the hands tick, indicating that Mr. Mogul was now an hour late for our dinner reservation. I turned the watch over and ran my thumb over the inscription: Love Always Your Spaniel, Maddie. My heart ached.

  I grew accustomed to carrying a book with me to fill the minutes or hours that I found myself sitting alone at a restaurant or bar awaiting his presence. A thirty-minute delay wasn’t unusual, but there had been evenings I waited for an hour, two hours, or longer for him to show up. I wanted to believe in my hero. I wanted to believe in Daddy, but it became harder and harder. I felt tears welling up in my eyes. I rummaged through my purse pushing aside lipstick, keys, and used airline tickets to find a wad of twenty-dollar bills. I left two of them for the tab, tossed the antique watch into my purse, and left the restaurant with what remained of my dignity. Taxis zoomed past on the crisp summer evening. I waved one down and slid inside. Fishing through my purse for a bottle of Ativan, I took two small pills. Along with unanswered phone calls and an absent Daddy came a rapid storm of anxiety attacks, hyperventilation, debilitating depression, and heart palpitations. My doctor prescribed me Ativan and advised that I discontinue my use of birth control pills. I swallowed the pills and attempted to steady my trembling right hand, the diamond and gold rope ring nearly slid off my bony ring finger. I lost weight and couldn’t stomach much food since the onset of the anxiety attacks.

  “Fourteenth and Mission, please.” I cleared my throat, the Armory’s address sour in my mouth. I didn’t want to go there. I felt like his mother, his caretaker, like an obnoxious wife hunting down her drunkard husband at the bar. It was all too dramatic, storming the castle to win back my love. I knew I couldn’t force Daddy to love me, I couldn’t force him to stay, but I did believe that I could convince him that our relationship was worth working on. Daddy was lost, I could see that. This was perhaps the hardest thing for me, I was not willing to lose my Daddy again. It’s our anniversary, how can he do this? My mind was a mess of contradictions; I wanted him to be there at the Armory so I could hold him in my arms, but I didn’t want him to be at the Armory because that would mean that he had blown off our fifth anniversary.

  Confused and frustrated, I was in deep denial. I denied everything in our world that contrasted with the image of Daddy and me—our life together—that I had created in my mind. I didn’t want to face the feelings that did not fit my romanticized notion of us, that challenged the vision of the mythically strong and able father figure I had created. I wanted, needed someone who could hold me and pet me and assure me: It will be okay. Daddy’s here now. It’ll all be okay.

  Simultaneously, I wanted something to blame it on. I was desperate for something, anything, any act or issue I could pin our relationship problems on, but I couldn’t see what that might be. I had discovered bags of pills and other women’s panties in his pants and jacket pockets. When I confronted him about them, he launched into defensive outbursts that made him look far different from the man I thought I knew. He claimed that the prescriptions were his, that his back was in horrific pain and he had the prescriptions to cope. He said the panties were from a shoot, from work. He wanted to know why I couldn’t trust him. I began to doubt my sanity: Am I being inappropriate? I wished that I felt like I could trust him without question, but it was becoming harder and harder for me to do so. The pills, the pot, the booze, I had convinced myself that it was recreational—for me it was, but it didn’t explain the trouble he was having with holding it all together. My mind was spinning. Desperate, I repeated my mantra: everything is going to be okay. I made the decision to trust in Daddy. I needed my hero.

  As the taxi pulled up to the Armory my phone buzzed inside my purse and glanced at the display, willing it to read, “Incoming Call: Daddy.” Instead, it read, “Dad.” I can’t speak to him right now. I had been dodging my father’s calls for the past several months, after finding out that his new wife was pregnant with a little girl. It felt like I was being replaced. I knocked on the castle door and waited for the night guard. Most of the guards knew me, since I had been in and out of the Armory nearly every day, between curating artwork for the building, performing, and visiting James, I spent a huge amount of time there. James had been working impossibly long hours, staying the night, occasionally, to pack in as much work as possible. He wanted to be ahead of the curve. Part of me thought that he just didn’t feel like he had anything left at the end of the night to give to our relationship.

  The guard led me to the basement, past the narrow lancet windows visible between the first and basement floor, past subterranean porn sets that portrayed a vast plethora of fantasy worlds, including an intricate padded cell with a two-way mirror for clinical observation, a meat locker equipped with meat hooks, and a neatly designed suburban apartment to cater to more traditional fantasies. Each was intended to be an impressive backdrop for different fetish fantasies. I felt like I could use a little vanilla, some suburban normality was starting to sound appetizing in this moment of chaos. My grasp of reality seemed to be getting increasingly fragile.

  As I searched for Daddy, sounds of drums, bass, and guitar echoed down the castle corridors in a drunken cacophony. My heels clicked meekly down the stone hallway toward the music. When I turned the corner, my stomach churned, nauseated. Maestro was seated behind a drum set, sticks clanging on the hi-hat and snare drum. Sarah leaned against the stone wall, eyes drifting, hands tucked into a black zip-up hoodie branded with the KINK scarlet red logo. Her legs were bare and she appeared to be naked under the oversized sweatshirt. She brought a glass-blown pipe to her lips and inhaled, her purple lighter dimly illuminated the hallway with a brief flame. While she was standing there, swaying back and forth, Daddy finished off a tumbler of whiskey, his mint green guitar dangled across his chest. Beer bottles and empty glasses littered the staging area. I saw him close his eyes and pull the guitar toward him; bending down on one knee his fingers and hands strangled the neck of the guitar while he tore violently across the steel strings in an aggressive ’80s metal guitar riff. Maestro looked up from his drum set with drunken, heavy red eyes and watched as I walk toward them. With tears in my eyes, I stood before him, and suddenly everything went silent, except for the muffled cries of my whimpering.

  “It’s our anniversary,” I managed to say, red with embarrassment and completely lost. I didn’t have the right words to save this evening, or our relationship, or to prevent this loss of my hero, my Daddy.

  “Sorry baby, I must have lost track of the time. What time is it?” Daddy’s eyes shifted away from mine as he propped his guitar on a nearby table among dildos and ropes. Sarah whispered something into Maestro’s ear and took the drumsticks from his hands. They disappeared, leaving us alone in the room.

  “It’s nine-thirty.” I looked at my watch and remembered the pulsing tick of Daddy’s present in my purse.

  “Woah! Really? Babe, we just started jammin’ and...well, I guess we got lost in it all. It’s cool. We can still grab dinner.�
� Daddy came to me and offered a handkerchief of thin white cotton. I held my breath, afraid to exhale, afraid of what I might say, afraid of the questions I might ask and the answers I might receive.

  We walked down the castle halls to a familiar set, the backdrop for my training with Daddy, and sat down on a large cement block. I glared at the floor, the same floor I crawled across on my hands and knees, the same pedestal on which I cried when his whip marred my tender flesh. It seemed like so long ago. We were no longer the same people that once occupied this room. I buried my face in his arms, crying, and tossed him his present.

  At our apartment, after a hasty and hollow dinner, we fucked. It was sad and desperate sex. I was confused and alone and didn’t know how to seek help for a problem that was so complicated. While I sucked his cock, his body started to feel foreign to me. Something changed. I shoved his long member down my throat, but his closed eyes made him seem far away. His mouth chewed on my nipples like bubble gum and I stuffed him into my pussy. I cried silently, wiping away tears as I bounced on his body.

  Daddy threw my body away from his and pulled back my hair. I arched my back and offered my ass, and he plunged deep into my pussy, the head of his cock painfully jamming against my cervix. I inhaled and exhaled, ineffectively trying to disappear into endorphins. I wanted to let it all go, to start anew, but I didn’t know where to begin.

  Daddy plunged deep and moaned a low, grunting sound as he finished. I lay on the bed staring across the room at photos of us on the beach during our summer vacation in Puerto Vallarta. A beautiful charcoal drawing hangs framed on the wall. In it are two figures—me and Daddy—in the midst of a beautiful dance.