Kristin Garth

Everybody Needs A Daddy 

Daddy holds your ID in his pocket because you don’t have those — clothes at all.  College girl, southern drawl, bites the Big Apple, 23, where everybody doubts you are old enough to be at this sex party, stripped, spanked and whipped.  Small town Southern breeding exacerbates a physicality of young-eyed innocence which disturbs the local swingers enough.  A “little girl” who likes it rough, doesn’t want to cum from pain is the kind of girl rich sadists put on planes.   

Need to cry, scream, suffocate, sometimes bleed  — at movie theaters, you’re still IDed.  This new daddy likes the side-eyes he scores holding hands with you in candy stores, your hair in braids, his pinstripes Michael Kors with a houndstooth seven-fold tie, the vanilla disapproving scoffs that make you shy.  He could take out your ID any moment — always keeps it close by.

But he saves that for parties.  Takes it out of his pants for both the concerned and his dom sycophants curious about this new womanchildish addition to his ddlg retinue.  If he pulled out his own, they would know he was only 32, just nine years your senior though his hair’s going prematurely gray.  It adds to the gravitas of his character in this polyamorous age play roleplay.  

You learn this lawyer was once a stage actor when he takes you to Broadway, a play about people putting on a play with Robin Rees, Frances Conroy.  Detail of a life amidst interrogations, you discern, is less about care than decoy.  The more you learn the less mysterious he is to his most impressionable toy.  

But it’s acknowledgement, at last, he wears a mask — not just in sadomasochistic displays at naked parties where you are always cast, one of his favorite props.  He wears three piece suits, this persona in ice cream shops.  Drops more interesting facts over pink peppermint about his former affluent wife who outgrew their kinky experiment. You know real love will require he drop this false face.  Each peek behind it he gives you teases a taste of trust you must earn one detail at a time.  His parents are missionaries, you learn after anal sex at bedtime.

But it’s after a sushi dinner your whole worldview is changed.  You are the only female amidst a table of aged male doms where sordid stories are exchanged about power and control and acquisitions like you.  You blush frequently, answer only when spoken to — until the waiter, refreshing your water, questions is that cute skirt a Burberry plaid?  Not even really a flirt, but you giggle until you see the glowering expression of the hirsute man, mad, on your right, ruddy brute in gray suit, you have only just met tonight.

“Mind your collar, child.”  He speaks while dark irises spark.  No one hears the correction but you in the diaphanous dark only punctuated with tapered light.  You look to Daddy at your left, afraid he might have, but he’s recounting a tale of a torture by toad to the others there.  You stare at your plate, fiddle with hair. 

When dinner is over, before you go home, you spy the two of them speaking alone.  The elder’s hand on Daddy’s back, both looking toward you.  His has the coldest of stares, the iciest blue.  You ponder your decorum in silence all the way the home.  The man who dined on your right has powers unknown.  

Alone in the guest bedroom (Daddy doesn’t visit tonight), you cry for your sins, however slight, until you hear feet by your bed.  Raise your head.  Hope it is him, but it is his primary, the lover, live-in.  She has a sophisticated power, submits only to him.  Hasn’t been nice to you unless he’s around.  She is not a fan, it is clear, of little girls from small towns. 

Helpless to disguise this pain before one who’s happily restrained you for varieties of hurt, you listen to her explain the master’s mind as she toys with your skirt.

“Mark was his dominant for some time.  He is still very much — a mentor, a daddy to him.”

She wipes away tears as you quietly process the biggest revelation to date.

It’s not this new information that Daddy isn’t straight.  You’re bisexual yourself;  he’d not be the first bi guy you’d date.  It’s the submissive part that is hard to process. You’ve never met a man who could finesse such a tearful plea, dominate without a modicum of indignity.  In negotiated public scenes at times as brutal fights, he always found his way to what he likes.  Safewords in place are rarely used.  You’ve kissed, time and again, his whipping hand, self-abused, from overuse on needy skin, a plethora of curious women because everybody needs a daddy to hurt them right — even yours, you learn, in New York City tonight. 

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