Daddy & Julie

“You’ll say it, princess, when you’re coming.”

He swept the hair out of her eyes and cupped her already lifted chin. She was invariably willful and he smiled at her stoicism. Even now, with her naked limbs stretched wide across the bed, she was stubbornly engaged. Her eyes gleamed fire and she pursed her lips when their gazes met.

“Tell me you’ll say it, Julie” he said forcefully.

“Fine, daddy. Fine, I’ll say it.”

She rotated her hips upwards, a fidget made of pure arousal. The lips between her legs were alive and she offered herself like a skilled toreador. Her body was unaware of its restraints, her focus single-minded and obsessive for his attention. Her mouth opened and silently screamed for touch, her eyebrows perked in infatuation. He studied the curves of her breasts, the way her breathe undulated from her hair to her toes, the tumble of soft blonde fur near her navel. She was such a woman, bound and yet so active, and he loved how easily she could abandon herself and leave only the most well-worn characteristic behind: neediness, impatience, desire.  

He smiled at her exquisiteness and affectionately stroked her belly. She wiggled her pelvis towards his fingers.

“Such a little whore for your daddy”.

The tender words lingered in the atmosphere as his belt sliced through the bedroom and seared a near-immediate welt to Julie’s inner thigh.

“Oooooppph” she murmured.

But her skin drank the injury and it spread his adoring contradiction throughout each cell of her body. Again and again the belt met her flesh, making bands of purple and pink on her abdomen, thighs, chest. Julie sang with each strike but her steadied her limbs for his next advance. He loved the vigor of her body, its indomitable robustness. As if her body was built solely to withstand the inhumanity of his love.

“That’s my good girl” he whispered as the belt fell quiet again by his side.

With glossed eyes, she craned her neck off the mattress, sweat mingling along her hair line. “Daddy…” she crooned. He knew that sultry tone, knew the temptation and innocence she tried to mask in it; the tone she always used to dissuade him from abuse. He kneeled next to her face and knotted his hand through her hair.

“Baby wants daddy to be nice?”

Before she could answer, he thrust his tongue into her open mouth. She met his lips with fury and urgency and moaned each time she exhaled. When he broke their kiss, he looped the belt around her neck and pulled tight, until her eyes woke to a world with less oxygen.

The leather band twisted into his fist and his free hand traveled to the warm markings on her thighs. She flinched instinctual under his investigation.

“No. Don’t move! Let daddy see what he’s done to you.”

Her animation surrendered itself as his free hand spread her pussy lips, revealing a watery invitation between. He rubbed two fingers between the inner and outer labia, his fingers engulfed with her fluid. He held her pussy open and stared into her eyes.

 “Why are you so wet, baby?”

This was where she struggled. It was not the metal chains or the impossible positions he bound her to. It was not the beatings or the impossible waiting. It was finding words when he had stripped her of her intelligence.

 “…Because…” she started “…. Because…"

“Because why baby?”

“….because…. you’re… touching me, daddy”

“And you like that, baby? You like daddy coming into your room, ripping off your jammies, holding open your dripping cunt, like you’re an animal, like you’re a whore who can’t control her own desire? You like that daddy leaves you alone all day and strangles you awake at night?”

Julie’s mouth pouted open, all of her expression flooded in stimulation. “Yes… daddy…yes…”

“And you like it when daddy treats your pussy like this?”

She sharply inhaled as he flicked the end of his belt onto her defenseless cunt. Each whack made her entire body wince and yield a galaxy of whimpers. His aim was general but with every bullseye to her clit Julie bucked with shock. She could not decide if his violence was pleasurable or painful and her facial expression short-circuited from the indecision. To confuse her further, he drove his fingers into her hole and he inwardly smiled when her noises drop several decibels, a hallmark of her deep arousal.

“There’s a good girl,” he said lovingly as he jerked the belt around her neck.

Her eyes whipped and her whole body erupted fuchsia. He rhythmically pumped two fingers in and out of her pussy and kept the belt taut in his other hand.  Instinctively her pussy clenched and released with his fingers’ movement and a deluge cascaded out of her. As he felt her gspot swell and lower itself, he loosened the snare of the belt. 

“Oh, look. There’s baby’s spot. Right there. Who’s spot is this baby?” He tapped his fingers to emphasize his question. Her eyes transfixed towards the ceiling, her soul captivated by his command. She loved him for touching a fragment of her body that she could never touch or see herself.  

“…it’s yours….” she whispered.

“Who’s?” His fingers coiled upwards and rooted into her swelling.

“Fuck. Daddy’s! It’s yours. It’s daddy’s spot!” The words came out in a tornado of relief. It was daddy’s spot. It was and would always be daddy’s spot no matter how long he left her alone.

“That’s a good girl, Julie. Daddy’s going to unchain your arms now. Touch your pussy. Show daddy how you rub your clitty.”

She didn’t feel the pain that the red marks around her wrist implied. Dutifully, she plied her pussy apart and easily found her clit, soaked and awake. Her fingers circled around the outer edges and he slipped his fingers through the grooves of her pussy. Her hips pulsated and her feet pulled against the remaining restraints, the endorphins completely vanquishing the tension around her ankles. He watched as her nipples rose and deepened in color, announced the approaching of her orgasm.

“Someone’s close to cumming, baby.” He maintained steady assault on her pussy even though she slowed the circling of her clit.

“No, keep going baby. You’re going to come and you’re going to say it” he said matter-of-factly.

Julie mouth twitched in discomfort, the most genuine tell of vulnerability she had shown all evening. Her hands obeyed and spun in pace with his cues, while she hesitated with her mouth.

“You’re going to say Julie. Right as you’re coming. Do you hear me!” He yanked his hand out of pussy and let down a flurry of smacks on her open gaping hole.

“…Yes! … Daddy! Please. Yes! I’ll say it!” Julie panted her words, her whole face flush with deliberation.

He slammed his hand back up against her gspot and she screeched. With his other hand he slid his cock outside of his boxers and dragged his palm across his girth. Julie’s want amplified when she saw the glisten head.

“Good little slut. Keep rubbing your clit.” He kissed the insides of her thighs as he methodically pumped her pussy. He kissed the bruises on her belly and the sucked each nipple affectionately. He kissed up to her ear and let the warmth of his breath caress her face.

“I know you’re close baby” he said sweetly “You’re going to say it. If you don’t, no more fuckies for you for the next week.”

Julie’s body reared at the threat as the avalanche of her orgasm threatening to suffocate her. She would say it. She would have to. He fingered her faster and her eyes dilated in desire.  

“Besides, you love daddy” he whispered “and you want to show daddy that you’re his best girl.”

The words hurled her over the edge.

“Thank you daddy!” she began as her pussy clenched around his fingers, her limbs constricted in ecstasy.

“Thank you what, daddy?” he said with a smirk.

“Thank you for fucking her before fucking me!”, she screamed, her shame completely evaporated, her body thrashing under her orgasm.

 “Thank you daddy for fucking her before me!” she moaned again, her syllables softened with lust.

“That’s a good girl!” he snarled as he buried his cock deep inside her pussy. 

Husband socks

The hallway is where straggler clothing loiter before finding their way to the hamper. There’s no sense in overcoming this habit of disorganization; it just feel so natural to surrender pieces onto the hardwood as I strip for the shower. So there is always a smattering of clothing parallel to the bathroom, like tumble weeds made out of poly blends and cotton. Like old snow that turns ashen with each passing day. This time, when I round the corner, a small patch of electric blue screams from the floor and catches my eye. A lone athletic sock, wadded into a ball, leaning against the molding stares up at me. For reasons too slippery for my tongue, when my sight absorbed my domestic negligence my brain labels the carelessness with “my husband’s sock”.

What the hell is that?

Because that is not my husband’s sock. I have no husband. I have a lover who loans me socks when I show up to teach classes in his gym without any of my own. I have a friend who listens to the victories and insecurities engraved on my cells; a priest who offers absolution just by stomaching my self-indulgent confessions. I have a companion who compassionately feeds me dinner and volleys back inquiry about any subject under the sun. I have a soul mate who tongues my mouth and cunt with equally engaged passion; a comrade to fondle flesh with as a means of resurrecting god.

I have a rare thing, an ingenuous thing, a thing so difficult it shreds my soul bare.

But I do not have a husband and I never will. He is not my husband and he will never be.

Then why does my mind apply words with a complete disregard for their meaning? Why is that ball of black and blue “my husband sock’s”?

I want to tell you it’s because “husband’s socks” makes it easy. That you would immediately understand the significance of this relationship if I could summarize it with just one word. I want to be like everyone else in the universe and use a language that is succinct and fulfilling; a language capable of highlighting the importance and the need for protection of a relationship that stands singular to all else.

I want to tell you, that like everything else in my life, I wish it was easier. I wish I could make you understand the burdens of that come with mind. I wish I could just say he was my husband even if I’m not built to withstand the monotony of being a wife. Husband and wife aren’t titles can handle the gravity of our relentless honesty; they aren’t labels with enough elasticity for the feelings we inspire in each other. But still, I wish I could say husband and you would know that this is about a meeting of mind; the purpose behind evolution, the fluke of sheer luck that we have made it this far.

This is not about shared property and rigid gender roles. Not about limiting the range of our independent explorations. Not about grand gestures in front of a superficial audience just to prove we’ve lived and made uninspired noise.

But this is about sickness and health. This is until death do us part but understanding that vast time and spaces away from each other is not the same as death. This is about letting love move in the way that love sees most fit.

None of that makes it easy but so much of that makes it magical. I pick up his lone sock and inhale; it still smells so much like him even if I dragged it through 60 minutes of intense sweating. There is so much of him inside my head, woven in the never-ending prattle of my subconscious. This is not my husband’s sock but I wish for some way to explain that this sock defies too many physical laws. How the fuck did this sock get here in the first place?

There are 8,420 days between our birthdays and 5,317 miles between our birthplaces. We were incubated in nonconsecutive generations, seeped in vastly different culture. How did we ever manage to have a conversation, let alone share garments? And yet here is his sock sauntering up against my dirty laundry; weird evidence of love’s lack of concern about logical prerequisites for its unfettered manifestation. And here is more evidence amassed in unpredictable fashion, over weeks and months and tear-soaked years. Here are the bruises from his kisses sometimes violent undertows, turning yellow like overripe fruit, mottling my thighs. Here is the poetry scrapped from our gums after a million small moments of emotion jostled our individual souls bare. Here is a story encrypted into my maneuvering of my veins; an impetus swirling behind my blood’s flow. Here is him crying in my arms over love lost, over his broken vows for a woman who was once the reason he rose out of bed. Here is me coddling the most tender facets of his psyche, spoon-feeding him perspective and chicken soup. Here is he cradling my insecurities and salvaging the sharp edges of my bravery from a depressive monsoon that swears I am a bad mom. Here is us listening to music in the back of an outdoor café at 11 pm on a Wednesday; here is us laughing too loud in downpour while we pluck sushi from square plates.

Here is us when we are beautiful: naked, glowing, open. So much electricity in our salvia and in our syllables. Here is us as immortals, male and female, vulnerable and oscillating, one into the other. The meaning of everything in motion.

But here is us when we are brutal: sterile, insensitive, cold, so full of rage the only color in our universe is red. Here is us as demons, selfish and explosive. Here is me erupting rage when he permits his other lover too close to my force field. Here is him stubbornly resolute about not caring about the outcomes of his actions. Here is us submerged in metallic silence. Here is us creating hell on earth.

We’re capable of forfeiting reality and creating either fantastical extreme: heaven on a Tuesday afternoon, Hell rattling off its slumber at the most unexpected of places. In the upheaval of either universe, emotive thought dilutes my blood, oxygenates me as if for the first time. How did we get here? How does anybody ever get to either of these places when they still have these lumbering mortal feet?

It can be jarring at times, to have a love like that. To be worn down the demands of this love’s honesty and passion. But we persist, throughout all the endless reasons to cease the connection. It is not about the intercourse; it has always been about the discourse. There is something cyclical and essential in how we speak to each other; something divinely inspired that heals wounds that each of us has housed way before we ever met. There is something restorative about heading to heaven only to fall back down to hell. We do not catch each other. We do not make promises about paradise forever upheld between our flesh.

We just tell each other of the journey and wet each other’s skin with our laughing tears.

He is not my husband and I am not his wife. I am just a woman who lets him be himself and he offers me the exact same privilege in return. I have no insurance if this relationship tanks; you would never be able to offer condolences the way one would if there was a divorce. If this ends badly, I suspect the damage would be much more complicated than a divorce. We share part brain and part heart. It seems so much easier to split a bank account.

I guess when my brain slips and says “my husband’s sock”, what it’s really trying to say is: I wish it were simpler. I wish I could make you understand what the risks are and why we take them.

Sometimes, I wish I were simpler, that he was simpler. Maybe then there’d be a better label for his dirty sock.  

The Perfunctory Idealism of the Orally Regressed

This is getting hard—explaining the wild, gut wrenching intimacy swelling between us.  There’s so much nuance to our dialogues and dalliances, so much gradation in the courtship of two highbrow hedonists. The explanatory words are the most tedious part; the immediate experiences are always visceral and fluid.

But, ever the sucker for punishment, here goes my masochistic mining:

While I’m driving I notice there are renegade trees, over here and way over there. Traitorous trees. Those impatient upstarts are coppering with biochemical fire even though it’s mid-August in NY. When I see them, my heart fucking ruptures the steeliest sorrow. Sunshine is not forever is what that color says to me. Winter is on its way and my heart goes into spastic shivers. It doesn’t matter if the temperature cleared 80 today; doesn’t matter if we’ll get the muted bloom of harvest and brisk cleanse of October wind. I’ve already witnessed the decay inside of life.

The last russet tree I pass lacerates my heart but then, in a flood, an image dresses the wound. He and I, fist in fist, shoes muddled with soft earth, the smell of crisp vegetation. He and I. Acres of farm land, miles of rusted mountains, unabashed nature.  Laughter in exaggerated scarves. Slow, wet kisses during the 4 pm golden hour. His scent chilled into my pores for days.

Fall.

Him and I.

In fall.

And then suddenly fall becomes a festival and not a fucking funeral. Suddenly I can stomach the tarnishing of impulsive summer leaves.

It hurts admitting this. It’s been my whole life, bunkering down with my own reclusive mind, every single winter. Mostly by choice but not always. He hits nerves that are nestled deep into my core, makes all my limbs soupy and awake. Even if he’ll be here come fall, the whole sentiment of his presence combating the 31 year streak of hating fall… makes me… nervous. Because what does that fucking mean?

Trust me on this kids: he is not “The One”. Or at least not “the one” like Hollywood instructs.

But he might be the most dynamic muse I’ve ever met, extracting so much of my thinking and writing, it all reassembles into something more refined. This might be the single scariest thing that’s ever happened to me (but why? Because the inspiration is so torturously vulnerable or because I don’t ever want it to stop?...)

I don’t have an answer. Just feelings brimming over, drenching me with a new identity that sometimes catapults a crisis. So much of the inspiration comes fuming in luxurious sweeps from our conversations. And then all of that communication triply concentrates and suffuses throughout our sex.

We play fun games.

Sometimes, he tempts me up the stairs by hoisting my pants just a little bit down; a pulse-pinching pause in the middle of my ass. I’m lured by going up first (my favorite position).  And because he leads from the vantage with the best view, observing my exposed whiteness swelled over the top of denim, jiggling with each ascending step. He gnaws a chunk of flesh on step 3, mars the other cheek that inflames like braille on step 5, claws both wads skin  by step 9. By the top of the landing, I am muted with perceptive dichotomy. He’s drags me by a fist full of hair, knees and palms clomping awkwardly on the hardwood, into the swaddled gold light of the bedroom.

“Daddy wants to hurt you, baby. Is that okay, baby, if Daddy hurts you?” He glides off his belt, sneering. I’m kneeling in splayed disregard of the constriction of my pants, a feat not at all possible without the momentum of hyper-arousal. I’m open everywhere: eyes, ears, noses, pores, mouth, cunt, ass, brain. Open everywhere. It's obvious it's okay; I'm fattened for this kill. But he forces me to contribute at all the moments I'm flushed with indulgent idiocy.  

It takes everything, everything, EVERYTHING to verbalize what each singular cell of my body is screaming in unison: “Yes, Daddy. Please?”

“Please, what baby?”

“Please can you hurt me daddy?”

Fuck.

*Crack*

One lash. Two. Three.

By four or five, I scramble, moronically animated. Towards him as much as away from him.

Sometimes he braids the belt around my neck, just enough to make my face tinge into a life-asserting pink. Sometimes he rivets my hands back at the base of my spine, the belt dangling, waiting, in his right hand. Almost all the time it goes like this:

“Where can I hit you baby? Show me where?”

His kindness comes out in rollicking quirks: he sweet-talks my participation in my own degradation. Here daddy. There daddy. Everywhere daddy. And please, my pussy, daddy. Please hit my pussy. Especially my pussy.

Fuck. Especially my pussy.

Especially that look in his eyes when he witnesses my reaction to that searing sting radiating through my cunt, jostling my pelvic bone, resurrecting a feral gutturalness that must have been held over from 3 lifetimes ago. He looks at me like this is the most blessed moment of his whole damn life, the whole sacred impetus behind both of our lives. Especially my pussy daddy.

Sometimes, after he’s satiated the disturbance in his heart instigated by my provocative ass, he lays me down onto his bed, in diluted version of a cradle. He scoops me close and leafs through the lips of my pussy, gently, sweetly. “You’re so wet, baby, what a good girl. Why are you so wet, baby?”

Because it is goddamn psychotic how well you’ve materialize this whole aggression and nurturance bit and the sharp contrast is making my cunt turn to devotional jello! Because I’ve never met a man with this kind of linguistic speed during role play. Because I’ve never been convinced of anyone’s erotic daddy until you…  

But no. I don’t say any of that shit. I barely say anything at all. I croon. I collapse. I meekly squeak out:

“Because you’re touching me, daddy” or

“Because I love you, daddy” or just

 “Fuck, daddy, fuck, daddy, fuck!”

And he responds with open kisses on my shimmying lips. Whispers what a beautiful little girl I am into my mouth, as if directly speaking to my soul. Sweetly tells me how much he loves me. Calls me baby, calls me angel, calls me my special nickname. He gives slow, unhurried swirls on my ultra-alert clit. The tenderest caresses all over my saturated pussy. Micro-spins of delicacy. All that softness, all that deliberately languid torture, churns the whole universe upside down. The most delicate parts of my psyche waft to the surface in dewy response. I am the most exposed, the most visible I’ve ever been in my whole goddamn life. Fuck, fuck, daddy, I’m drowning in your sight.

Sometimes he muscles between my legs as if to worship at the holiest of alters. He kisses the fleshy crux of my inner thighs, the fuzz of my meandering pubic hair, the inferno of bliss between my ass and cunt. He slips his fingers in and upwards. My eyes whip, rotate compulsorily, mouth agape in disbelief no matter how many times he touches right there.

“There’s your little spot baby. Oh, fuck. There’s baby’s spot. Mmmm. What a good girl letting daddy touch right there.”

There are no words now, not even if my life depended on it. I cannot fucking speak when he tenderizes my gspot, when he excavates my cunt in the name of exploration. I cannot fucking speak. Baby’s little spot might very well be the cerebral off-button, the intellectual defense diffusion. All that happens is my mouth, spontaneously, opens even wider, duplicates the cavernous of my cunt.

I scream in complete silence.

Sometimes he comes around to the side of my face, fingers still trickling all those crenulations I can’t see.

“You’re coming to cum, baby? Do you want to suck daddy’s cock while you cum?”

Thank god I no longer need words. Thank god my swelled cunt, rigid nipples, sweating, fevered skin can speak on my behalf. He rubs the underside of his shaft between my lips, lingering crosswise on my teeth, digging his fingers further into my pulsating pussy.

Then he says it. Lines I never in my life would imagine to hear:

“Good girl. Suckle it baby. Take your cock bottle.”

Cock bottle. Of all the words to mercilessly chain down the exact caliber of my sucking, of this moment between two adults, it is that. Cock bottle. Gorging on it with the shameless fervor of a newborn babe. His hand seizes the meatiest part of my hips, the hallmarks of my womanhood, all that estrogenic fat like putty in his palm. Then he tears at both breasts, hard enough to coax out remnant breast milk, hard enough to make me moan through my suckles. Cock bottle. The moment where my mouth regresses to the most elemental drives, becomes intoxicated with life solely through scent and taste. The moment where he grapples the most grown up, curvaceous pieces of me in celebration that I am a woman with her girlhood still intact.  

“Fuck… baby… suckle… just like… that!”

Sometimes he cums, just from watching me take his cock bottle. And when he cums it’s like he is pouring everything he is into me—his orgasm, his triumphs, his failures, his memory, his affection, his courage, his love. Pouring it all into my spastic, speechless mouth. And with his orgasm speeding through my veins, I cum too, like the other half of a circuit, blazing the most delicious light.

All the times, all the time, all the time: we laugh. We laugh, coated in perspiration, dumbfounded from the intensity. And then I make a quip, a wise-crack, to laugh some more but to also prove that I haven’t totally forfeited my voice.

—

Today I saw the unexpected beginnings of a seasonal shift.

And it illuminated this message:

this summer has been fortuitous, full.

It’s only natural to want to preserve those blessings all winter long. 

The Belt on Tuesday

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