excerpt from The Daddies by Kimberly DarkBrill | Sense (October 24, 2018)
Content: Sex, daddy/girl language, bondage. All characters are 18 years of age or older.
I am interested in finding out what she means. She is articulate and open with a confident stance. She is tall, not particularly attractive, grey-blue eyes and ruddy white skin. Her hair is fluffy, not quite curly, as though it carries its own small wind. Still, she seems strong; she speaks with curiosity and good grammar. She has good posture. These things attract me. I react. I am a spasming muscle; she is the stimulant. We flirt – in that ambiguous way that can never convict us.
I meet her at a university where I am giving a talk. I am the expert on gender for this evening. She is in attendance. It could be any city, any university – but it isn’t. I used to live in this city – Colorado Springs. I have a history here, finished my undergraduate work at this very campus. I have connections here – and here she is, connecting to me.
After my talk on gender roles, she lingers to question, to hold my gaze, to touch my elbow in conversation as we walk together to the parking lot after the event. I want to know what she means when she says, “There are complexities to this butch/femme thing that I wonder how much you know about. Some things I don’t know who to talk to about. The sexual identities…” She pauses, and then continues. “I don’t know how much you know about the leather community …”
She pauses again. It wasn’t really a question; she intended to continue all along.
“In the leather community, I am a Daddy. But because I pass for femme, I don’t get much recognition, much respect. And I think, I could change my appearance, but I don’t want to. I like to be soft too.”
She seems to read my attentive silence, renegotiates her admissions and adds, “but you know, I also used to be a bottom, and I looked a little more butch then.”
This admission is unique – her timing, bold. I am nodding, pondering the creation of balance between appearance and behavior. I could say, “You’re so big and strong, so forward and in control of this conversation. I think you have the credibility of a Daddy, despite the long hair, the eyeliner.”
I don’t say this. I think it. Fascinating. And so it begins, an academic discourse. She is a seeker. I am a teacher. She is a Daddy. I enjoy a considered submission. And so it begins. She watches me, listens, responds, leans in. She uses the same tools of communication I use: disclosure, analysis, physical openness, negotiation, and re-negotiation.
Later, about 5 a.m., I ponder how she presented herself to me. I agreed to have coffee with her, so I will interview us both further on this theme. To what, in me, was she responding, in order to create this response in me? She is remarkably skillful, or perhaps, I don’t know that I am an easy mark for this sort of intellectual and erotic tension. I am an easy mark for curiosity about what “leather daddy” means to her, and how she does that role – what “femme” and “passing” mean to her – what “bottom” means to her.
A few years later, we are lovers – more than lovers – we are something like family. She asks me, “How did the Daddy thing start with us? Did you ask me for it?”
I stare, incredulous. “You brought it up the first time we met.”
“Right, but we were just talking about it. How did we get around to doing it? I mean, we were lovers for a few months before that came up.” She wobbles her hand around the word that, assigning it indescribable meaning.
I am fascinated that she really doesn’t remember, that she really doesn’t know what she chose in me, the first time she laid eyes on me. We have had time to think about this. I have thought about this, but apparently she hasn’t. I don’t recall my exact words – how I gave her permission to do what she did for the first time, but I know I gave permission – the soft, steady reassurance that a violation would be allowed, appreciated.
She stood on the balcony smoking her pipe, watching the light retreat over the city skyline. She was wearing her black bathrobe over her white boxer-briefs – the snug kind that keep the soft-pack in place, hug the thighs, the gluteal muscles. (“I’m developing an ass like a Clydesdale fucking you as much as we do,” she chuckled once, admiring her rear in the mirror.) She stood alone, smoking against the pink sky. We’d been lovers for a few months, but tonight, something was different. Before she walked out, she held me for a kiss, made sure I felt her cock, soft but assertive, against my pelvis.
She was quiet, and felt somehow unapproachable, enjoying her pipe in the warm night air. She was quiet and yet, entirely legible to me and I knew not to say much. I knew to wait patiently. I already loved her and had already begun making sacrifices. I tingled with anticipation that her inflexible ways would soon reward me.
I became small and quiet, a transformation prompted by her rigidity, prompted by my permission, prompted by her assertion, and prompted by my invitation. We fell like dominos, a brutal, beautiful cascade. With a different entitlement in her hands, she felt my breasts, held me around the waist and pulled me in. She kissed me differently, her tongue so deep down my throat, I couldn’t breathe for a moment and I liked it – knew not to speak of it, but I liked it. “Go get in bed, sweet girl. Take off your clothes and wait for me.” She patted my ass and I turned from her, obedient.
I saw moments of her, through the bedroom door, emptying her pipe, methodically stowing it away, washing her hands, and brushing her teeth. My skin tingled beneath the sheet. I saw her change the soft dick for the hard one, long and black, protruding beneath the bathrobe. This part was nothing new, but something was new – and I knew not to speak of it. She joined me in bed. I was on my back, her body next to me. She was propped on one elbow, gentle but assertive, touching my breasts, my belly with tender fingers, pulling me in occasionally for a hard penetrating kiss. The mutuality of our passion suspended, I became shy and waited, thrilled and a bit frightened – could I do it? Was she going to do it? We’d been talking more and more about Daddy. Still abstract, still talking. I could feel it coming. Could I? Stay present and genuine, really do it?
Deep breath. Let the body decide. Breathe. The body is deciding.
Her soft hand still on my breast, she leaned toward my ear and asked, “Are you going to give your Daddy what he wants?”
As she spoke, my throbbing thickened, slipped. The body is deciding. “Uh-huh.” I managed, and my willing embarrassment, face flushing, fueled her. She was on top of me in an instant, her hand holding my wrists above my head and pushing down, hard. I had neither the strength nor will to move and a fear of both truths fluttered gently in my stomach, the sensation drowned out by my slickening need. Her tongue down my throat, my wrists aching beneath her significant strength, she straddled me, pressed her hard cock against my belly. Her body held my legs shut.
“Daddy’s cock is going to be too big for you. Is that going to be okay?” She was speaking into my ear, between kisses. I managed a whimper and she said with a small chuckle, “That’s right, it’s going to be just fine. And afterward, when Daddy’s all done. When I’ve taken all I want, I’ll kiss you better.” She gently kissed my forehead. “I’ll clean you up with my tongue, where I hurt you. I’ll take care of you because every part of you is perfect. Every part of you is mine.” She kissed my cheek and released my wrists with a stern look and said, “Don’t move now.”
Indeed, my wrists were still bound.
My eyes wide, no words, the mind reeled briefly with astonishment. Could she not have started a little slower with the Daddy-thing? But I could feel the answer in her touch. It was too big. She was going all-in. And I would take it just as she gave it. The body was deciding.
She gently knelt between my legs and spread them. “That’s my good girl,” she said, gazing at my glisten. “Legs up,” she said. I obeyed and as she nestled down onto my body, she put one arm around my back and held me, tighter than she’d ever held me, more lovingly than I’d ever felt her. The other hand found her cock, so she could move into me slowly, her forehead against my sternum, she was feeling every moment of her entry. Her first, in a way. She said, “I’m going to go slow at first, but because you’re so good, I won’t be able to hold back once I get started.” And in she went, little by little, “Are you my good girl?” And I was nodding against her head. “That’s so good. You are my good girl.”
And my mind was lost, belly fluttering. Already all in. My body was choosing this. My body was saying yes in every language it knew and she was listening so attentively. It was bringing her so much pleasure; I couldn’t conceive how exponentially mine was multiplied. How could I not have known this joy before? Her pleasure was amplifying and the mind went deaf in the soaring sound of it. Her fierceness and release became one and I felt the holiness of it. How could I not have known?
As soon as she pulled back and pushed all the way in, her restraint was spent. She was talking, as she started moving faster, not an apology, but an explanation. Not a request for permission, but a surety, a deservingness that was so beautiful, so beautiful, my mind was blinded by it. “Oh yes, good girl, that’s it. Remember, I’ll kiss it better after.” She said as she fucked me harder. “That’s it. I know it’s big, but you’re doing so good. It’s so good.”
I had to have something to hold onto. And though afraid of breaking the invisible restraints her hands had put upon my wrists, my arms sailed down and I wrapped around Daddy’s thick back and she moved to accommodate. Her one hand around my left breast, squeezing hard for leverage, the other arm still holding me close and solid, she affirmed me. She did not admonish my move to hold her. She affirmed it.
“That’s a good girl. Hold onto your Daddy while I fuck you.” Accommodating my need, she said, “You hold on.” And a warm, tingling light spread through my body, emanating from my pussy, emanating from her piercing. The point of her pounding ready to supernova, she was within herself and still with me. She was within her own pleasure, yet spurred by mine.
“Daddy needs to fuck you hard now, princess,” she said and how could it be any harder? I didn’t know, and everything felt right. I wanted to please my Daddy more than anything, more than anything and my body was choosing. My pelvis was tipping forward to give her all I could and then I had to hold on. The impact was so great, I had to hold on. I had never been fucked so hard before and she was commanding, “You take all of your Daddy.”
And I was screaming, “Yes!” And filling up. “Yes!” I had never felt so full of love before. “Yes!” Her anguish overflowed into joy, and I contained it all. I didn’t spill a drop of Daddy.
And by the time she was done closing my wound with her tongue, licking up her come and mine too, so no one would see, I was exhausted and wordless. I would’ve made my fortune on the business of sleep, if she hadn’t awakened my drifting, her eyes blinking at the ceiling, chewing her lip with worry.
“What is it, baby?” I said when I sensed the shift. I expected the post-Daddy-sex trauma to be mine. She had done this before with a lover. I had not. I was frightened by her urgency, looking for the right answers when she asked, “What do you think about what we just did.”
“It was good.” I offered, dumbstruck by the experience itself, this question, too much.
“Because you know, that’s not just sex for me.” She sat up, cross-legged on the bed, searching my face. I felt suddenly exposed, any move might be wrong and I knew no matter what we called it, I could not lose her. Right then I knew: I would do way too much not to lose her.
“I know.” I said, and I sat up too.
“No, I don’t know if you know.” She was shaking her head. “We have to talk about this, have a talk. Because we’ve been having good sex for the last few months, but that’s not just about sex for me.” She said that with bulging eyes and an emphatic glance toward where my body had lain. She continued. “I mean, I don’t know how that was for you. But for me, right now is the time to decide. We can still say ‘okay, we tried that out and we’re never doing it again.’”
My mind reeled. I had no words yet to discuss what we had just done – no words at all – and now something had to be decided? I chose words carefully and each felt like a failure in my mouth. “If you don’t want to do that anymore with me, it’s okay.”
Perhaps she saw the confusion in my eyes. “But you wanted it?” she asked.
“Yes, I was there with you.” I said, holding her gaze.
“I know you were,” she said simply. “But you have to be sure, because if I go there, it’s all the time. It’s not just sex for me. It’s all the time. It’s in our lives.” She was nodding while she was speaking. “It’s big. For both of us.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I crawled across the big bed toward her seated form. I crawled into her lap as best I could and I felt her worry soften.
“Yes.” I said.
She held me, and rocked me a little bit, soothing herself as much as me, I think. She kissed my forehead and we were silent for a time. Before she loosened her hold on me, she said, “Okay?”
I reiterated. “Yes.”
The gentle teacher, she added, “And you say, ‘Yes Daddy.’”
My whole body tingled. And I whispered it into her ear.
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