by Brianna Hale
Isabeau cuts across me without raising her voice. “Aren’t you going to tell me how that was?”
I feel a lurch and the room goes out of focus.
“You never say good girl anymore.” The feel of her body close to mine. The deep pools of her green eyes as she looks up at me.
“Don’t I?”
“No, you don’t. Daddy.”
The miniscule hesitation right before she says it. Daddy. “What? Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not your father.”
“I know. I didn’t mean it that way.”
I was always Laszlo to Isabeau. She didn’t call me daddy until the night of her eighteenth birthday. I said “good girl” a lot when she was younger, when correcting her and praising her had been easy. Before it started taking on new and unexpected dimensions. Before I started thinking about her in ways I knew I shouldn’t.
Isabeau slips like a fish into my lap, making my breath catch. My desire for her paralyzes me as I’m caught between acting on my fantasies and pushing her away. I should push her away. Her fingers stroke my short beard, her nails scratching through the bristles. Her soft, pink mouth is very close to mine. “Do you like that, daddy?”
Yes. Yes I like that. Her touch, her weight in my lap. That word. Daddy. It sounds decadent and more than little slutty from her grown up but still very young mouth. And when she presses her lips against mine I let her. My hands slide around her hips and I pull her tightly against my thickening cock, letting her feel my length through her underwear. What she does to me. What she’s been doing to me for months even though I’ve hated myself for it.
Her sharp intake of breath. The way she looks wonderingly down at the evidence of my arousal and then slides back and forward against me, tentative, holding onto the lapels of my suit jacket. Her soft cry of pleasure as rubbing her clit against my cock seems to send sparks through her. Raising her eyes to mine, eloquent with arousal.
“Good girl,” I murmur, encouraging the back and forth of her sex against me, holding her lightly, guiding her. Just a little longer and she’ll be coming in my lap. Fuck, I’ve wanted this. This, and so much more. She moves faster, breathing hard, her eyes filled with need for me. Isabeau’s perfect green eyes.
Isabeau, and the green eyes that have looked to me for ten years with trust and love. Since she was a child. And now, what? I’m going to fuck her on her eighteenth birthday? Is this all she means to me? Shock and guilt sluices me like an icy waterfall and I shove her off my lap and onto the empty sofa seat.
“No. Isabeau. We can’t.”
She’s barely a woman and she’s naïve about men. If I hadn’t known that already from spending just about every day with her since she was eight years old I would have felt it in the tentative way she moved against me, the surprise on her face that rubbing her clit against me had felt so good.
“Laszlo?”
Her voice pulls me back to the present. She has a neutral, expectant expression on her face that I’ve seen a thousand times on the faces of my orchestra, but when I look closer I’m certain she knows exactly where my mind went.
“From forty-four,” I say, naming a measure at random.
I turn toward the window as she plays, closing my eyes to the painful memory that’s waiting in the wings. I try desperately to keep it at bay but it crashes over me.
Isabeau looks up at me in surprise, her mussed hair falling into her eyes. “What’s wrong, daddy?”
All the ways I’ve thought about her since she turned seventeen flood my head, swiftly followed by self-loathing and the horror that she’s somehow discovered that I’ve thought about how good it would be to take her to bed and teach her about things other than music. Discover what she wants. Show her what I want. Hear her say Yes, sir when I ask her if she likes the way I touch her, if she wants more. No, what she said. Yes, daddy. Fuck, that’s much better. That’s perfect.
My protégé, who is not only a virgin and in my care but half my age. I need to explain to her why it would be wrong for us to have a sexual relationship but I can’t think straight. I’m torn between my desire for her and my instincts to keep her safe, keep her happy, and never, ever touch her like that. All the pent-up need and self-recrimination wells up, and when she reaches for me again I grab her wrist and growl, “Isabeau, what the fuck are you doing?”
The second the words were out of my mouth I regretted them, not just because I was lying about how much I liked what she’d done, but also because how much it hurt her that I talked to her that way. Her nearly bringing herself to orgasm in my lap was the sweetest moment of my life, but I was so used to berating myself over my feelings for her by then that the guilt erupted at a ten on the Richter scale and I lashed out at her. Ever since then the sweetest moment also became the most shameful, because I hurt her. And I’ve never said sorry.
She stops playing and the silence in the room stretches. This room was never meant to stand silently. It was meant to be filled with music. Anger. Joy. Danger. Heartbreak. I need to speak but I don’t know what I want to say more, that I’m sorry or that I want her. That I did then and I still do now.
“All right, next—”
“Laszlo. I didn’t even finish the last piece.” The seconds tick past and we just look at each other.
She speaks first. “I didn’t come to the Mayhew to audition yesterday.”
I sit down on the piano stool and fold my arms. She’s holding her bow like it’s a weapon, gripped tightly in her hand. “I know. You wanted to talk, and when we were interrupted you wanted to play. What I don’t understand is why you then asked if you had the place in the ensemble.”
“Because I do want the place, on certain conditions.”
I wait, watching her closely. Isabeau has conditions for me. It’s not just her features that are finer and her hair that’s longer. She’s got a firmness about her that I’ve never seen before. She’s scared but there’s something she wants.
Isabeau takes a deep breath. “This isn’t easy for me to say. I’ve only ever made you angry with me once in my life, but I’ve never forgotten that and I know I’m risking your anger again.”
I want to interrupt, to say that I was never angry with her, only myself, but she keeps talking.
“For ten years you made me feel nothing but safe and happy, even during the scary parts of my life. Performing at the Mayhew. Before exams. And just…every day. I always knew you were there if I needed you. You gave my life structure and meaning and made me do my best.”
I frown, because while I’m glad she always felt safe and happy living with me I don’t like the idea that I pushed her to do anything. “Isabeau, I didn’t do that. You did it. You were always the most dedicated student, at school and in your lessons. You never gave me a moment’s worry. I barely did a thing.”
It wasn’t just in school. Day to day she was polite, well-behaved, sweet. Not one tantrum or transgression that I can remember. I never caught her smoking or had to wait up because she was out past curfew. Isabeau was an angel.
She shakes her head. “You made me want to be like that. You showed me kindness and respect and told me what you expected of me, and I wanted to make you pleased with me. I loved that. And you did correct me, all the time, the way you correct your orchestra. Good, but softer this time. Pianissimo. Except with me it would be, You’ve done so well in Chemistry this semester. Why don’t you see if you can do as well in French? I know you can. Or, If you eat at this time of night don’t you think it will keep you awake?” The corner of her mouth turns up. “You practiced that piece so beautifully, sweetheart. Why don’t you try it slightly slower next time. Good girl. Don’t you remember, Laszlo?”
I rub the back of my neck, thinking. “Yes, I guess I do. It just felt natural to talk to you that way. I didn’t notice I was doing it.”
She moistens her lips. “I liked the way you talked to me. The expectations you had of me. That’s sort of what I wanted to talk to
I don’t quite know what Isabeau’s asking for but something tells me it’s not cello lessons.
“I want what we had when you were my mentor. I want how it was between us just before we last saw each other. Because of the way it made me feel. To be good for you.”
My heart starts pounding. Isabeau was always such a good girl and I thought that was just the way she is. I didn’t know she was doing that for me, because she liked that it made me happy and that that in turn made her happy. That it became something more for her. I think that’s what she’s telling me but I’m not sure. I have to know for sure. “You don’t need me to be your mentor any more. Your playing is superb. There’s nothing else you need from me.”
She takes a deep breath. “You don’t know this, but in those last months I started feeling differently about some of the things you would say and do. The way you would correct me. The way you would praise me. The feelings you gave me made me a better player, a happy person. I want to feel that way again.”
What way, Isabeau? I still don’t know what you mean. The old self-loathing rises up, that I shouldn’t be hoping for what I think she’s asking for, but I let it fall away. She’s twenty-one now. She can ask me for whatever she likes.
She turns her green eyes up to mine and they’re filled with pain. “I’ve been so unhappy without you, Laszlo. I rarely enjoy playing anymore and I can’t face auditions and performances because I’m sure that everyone will hear my unhappiness in the music. I’d rather you just know what I want and risk you getting angry with me again than long for something and never—”
“What sort of feelings?” I ask quickly. My chest feels tight. I have to know what she means. I can see how much it’s costing her to talk like this but I need her to brave for me, just a little longer. Her hands gripping her bow are white-knuckled.
“It’s sexual, Laszlo. Your voice, your words, the way you talk to me. Especially the way you are with me when you’re conducting or we’re playing together. It does something to me. I understand why you reacted the way you did that night I turned eighteen. I was… I was pushy. I sprang my feelings on you and shouldn’t have.”
I hate hearing her apologize for something that wasn’t her fault. She needn’t feel ashamed for kissing me. “Isabeau—”
She puts up a hand to stop me. “Let me just finish. I’m not asking for—for that. What I called you. What I did.”
Do you like that, daddy?
My hands clench on my biceps. If I’d known half of this three years ago things would have been very different. I still wouldn’t have touched her, but I would have known how to tell Isabeau that we needed to take things very, very slowly. That if she wanted me to keep praising and being strict with her even though she didn’t need it anymore, just because she liked it, because it was good for her playing, for her happiness, that I could do that for her. That I wanted to do that for her. That it was very easy for me to start doing those sorts of things consciously for her, to give her pleasure. Because making Isabeau happy is my keenest joy.
“I’ve been away for three years. I’m twenty-one and I’ve thought about things. Realized things. I’m asking you to make me feel safe, give me instruction, but this time knowing how it makes me feel. If the idea is horrible to you and you can’t do it I understand and I’ll leave. But if I come with you on the tour I want you to be my mentor again, I want you to be strict with me, and I want you to know why I need it.”
She takes a short breath and drops her eyes. It seems her measure of bravery has run out, but she’s said enough. I more than understand. She’s asking me to be her dom, though she doesn’t seem to know that’s what she’s asking for. Not with sex, not with physical discipline, but with words. Instructions. There’s a great deal of power in words, in expressions, in body language. She’s asking to give up a measure of power to me because it makes her feel free. Despite everything that’s happened between us, she trusts me.
Relief and gratitude pour through me. Isabeau still trusts me.
I might not remember how much I corrected her but I do remember how good it felt to praise her, to tell her she’d done well, to see her smile and turn a little pink with pleasure at my words. I remember how toward the end seeing that happen made me want to put my hands on her, touch her, taste her, and the horror that I wanted to do that to a seventeen year old girl, to Isabeau, made me never question why she reacted that way.
I gravitate toward the dominant. I enjoy it very much, not with humiliation and a lot of pain, but with control and severity. I prefer the women I take to bed to be on the submissive side and enjoy certain things, react a certain way when I say things.
The way Isabeau reacts to me.
I know exactly how to be Isabeau’s dom. I really fucking want to be Isabeau’s dom.
She shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “You’re not saying anything. I’ve made you angry again.”
“Isabeau.” Sunk in uncertainty, she doesn’t look up. More firmly, I say, “Isabeau, look at me.” She raises her eyes to mine. “Good girl. Play Beethoven’s Fifth. The opening eight measures. Then stop.”
Eyes glowing, she does, and I hear that sweet sound again after all these years. Isabeau. Isabeau happy. It’s tentative, she’s still not sure if I’ll do what she’s asking, but she’s hopeful and I hear it and it’s the most wonderful sound in the world. When she finishes I step forward and cup her chin lightly with my hand.
“Beautiful,” I murmur. She melts before my eyes, all the tension going out of her body and she angles her face into the warmth of my hand. Sweet girl. I didn’t see before how submissive she was. It would have been wrong to see it. But I see it now.
Do you like that, daddy?
Yes. Yes I like that.
I step away, pretending to be considering what she’s asked for but really trying to gather my thoughts. I put a hand on the glossy black piano top, knowing I have to be serious, to be stern, but aching to tell her how happy I am that she’s come here today and said all this.
I turn back to her. “All right. You’ve told me what you want. Now I’m going to tell you my conditions.”
She looks at me expectantly, so different from the look of fear that’s been in her eyes until now.
“You will remember that I’m a thorough man. If you are to take this part in my orchestra and become my protégé again then I’m going to be strict with you. More strict than before, because this is more serious than before. This is my work. You’ll be one of my musicians answering to me. Are you prepared for that?”
She nods, and I wait pointedly.
“Yes, Laszlo.”
“The things I tell you to do won’t be a negotiation. I’m not asking for your opinion, I’m demanding your obedience.”
Almost under her breath, she says, “No one talks back to the conductor.”
“I beg your pardon?”
She shakes her head quickly. “Nothing.”
Little tease. She always did have an impish streak and I have to fight to keep a straight face even though my heart is bursting. She’s smiling, her color’s back. My sweet girl is happy.
With a calmness I don’t feel I take out my notebook, turn it to a fresh page and hand it to her with a pen. “Three years away at university you will have picked up bad habits. Write down for me your schedule. When you practice. When you sleep. When you eat. Everything.”
She accepts the book and pen from me and starts to write. I go and stand on the other side of the room, leaning against the window ledge, arms folded. I never used to be so obviously controlling with her but the point is that she feels someone cares what she’s doing with her time. Questions race through my mind. What has she been doing with her time? What else would be good for her? How do I keep a level head right now when all I want to do is scoop her into my arms and kiss her? Isabeau wants my control, my dominant side, the part of myself that I keep tightly leashed almost all of the time. I see Isabeau sitting naked at my feet, her expression radiant with submission, and arousal surges through me. How perfect that would be. How I want that, more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life.
But Isabeau hasn’t asked for that and this isn’t about what I want. I take a deep breath and push the seductive image away.
When she’s finished I give the outline she’s written out a cursory glance and then close the notebook. “All right. Leave that with me.”
“No lectures? It’s terrible. I can see that from your face.”
“I said leave that with me, Isabeau.” I wait for a beat, watching her closely. Then I sit down on the piano stool again and say, in a gentler tone of voice, “I’m going to send you an email about the tour and I want you to think about it, and about being my protégé again, and if you want both. If you want just one, or neither, that’s fine. I’ll still want us to be close, if you do.” I smile, my eyes running over her face. I’ve missed her so much, my beautiful girl, and now she’s here. “And I want you to know I’m so happy to see you, sweetheart.”
Her eyes get very bright and she reaches down and fumbles with her cello case, letting her hair fall in front of her face. I want to reach out to her, hold her, but it’s still so tentative between us. It’s important that she doesn’t make a quick decision or feel like it’s the only way we can have a relationship again. I need her in my life and I’m afraid that if we reach for too much too soon we’ll lose everything again.
“You too, Laszlo,” she says in a soft voice. “What are you going to do in the meantime?”
“Me?”
“With um, that.” She nods at the notebook in my hands.
“I’m going to do what I always did, seeing as you asked so nicely. You’ll be hearing from me soon.” I won’t be demanding of her until she agrees to what we’ve discussed, but I want her to feel like I’m expecting her to be good in all the ways she used to be for me. Her tentative smile lets me know it’s the right thing to do.
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