Daddies Taboo

by Iona Nixon

  She had read him from the start. When they met at the Art Charity Function, they had both been observing a local artist's splash of colors on a canvas named "Bouquet". The colors were intense and varied, bleak-blues, ruby-reds, grass-greens.

  "I don't like it," she said rather suddenly, without taking her eyes off the painting. Her breath of mint wafted his way and had an earthy tobacco edge.

  Although his tux seemed to hold him rigid, he turned enough to look at her and said, "I like the colors."

  She moved her eyes, but not her head, toward his gaze and flicked her observation of him from knees to head with precise and expert nonchalance. Her lithe and aristocratic body was swathed and hugged by a clingy black dress, the classic "little black dress" that fashion magazines say never goes out of style. She stood in apparent comfort in six-inch black stilettos, her skin was white at her cleavage where his eyes rested now. She was ivory and ebony and stunning.

  "Are you gay?" she said suddenly, "This artist is. Too much color."

  Odd thing to say, equating gayness with color. He had not taken his eyes off her, could not. "How else do you paint flowers?" he said.

  "Just don't paint flowers. I like black." Then her head turned toward him and she asked again, "Are you gay then? I assume you are because you didn't answer."

  He couldn't help it. He blushed and responded, "I am not gay; I'm straight, maybe a bit crooked, but not gay. I'm sexual." Why the hell did he say that, he wondered? The blush stayed with him and he wavered in eye contact. That was when she read him. She smiled.

  "I see. Interesting response. You should get me a drink, a glass of wine, an oaky Chardonnay perhaps. My name is Alena." And she reached out her long arm toward him.

  He wasn't sure what she wanted to do, but he took her hand and instinctively put it to his lips, and he bowed at the hip. Again, he felt silly, and he jerked his hand away while saying, "My name's Neil, Neil Webber."

  She giggled slightly then and said, "Well Neil, I need a smoke desperately. Get me a glass of wine and bring it to the outside mezzanine just over there. I'll be there with all my friends." She didn't say please.

  Neil strode away with as much confidence as he could muster, stiff in his penguin suit, wanting desperately to be alone with her, not with "all of her friends". With a glass of Chardonnay in one hand and a Shiraz in the other he walked over to where she had pointed and momentarily became confused, as there appeared to be no door to the outside, and when he looked outside to the deck there was no one there. Then he spotted the glass door and ventured out, expecting to be disappointed. She would not be there; she would have attached herself to someone else more interesting already and forgotten him. His insecurity always reared its ugly head when he met a fox.

  The evening was cool, but not unpleasant, and the sun had been gone for an hour. Even if she was not there, it was good to get away from the stuffiness of the function. Besides, he now had two glasses of wine, and that couldn't be a bad thing. Then he smelled smoke and saw her at the far west corner of the deck, leaning on the rail, staring at the faint outline of the mountains. She was alone. He paused in momentary fear.

  "Alena, there you are. Where are your friends?" He said as he brought her the wine.

  She accepted the wine and laughed, "That was just a sarcastic euphemism for the fact that I'm here alone. How about you?"

  "Same," he said, sipping his wine, "I hate these things really, but it's for a good cause I guess." Neil stared west as well, as the moon was beginning to illuminate the snowy, high altitude slopes. He smelled her perfume now. No, it wasn't perfume; it was...what was it? She turned to him then and he heard a distinct creak of, what was it? Then it hit him; she was wearing leather somewhere, thick leather. That was the smell, as he put it all together.

  "So, what do you do Neil?"

  He stared at her face, white in the night, intriguing and a bit frightening...an enigma of sorts. "I...I...I'm a geologist," he stammered, "I find oil and gas. You know, I'm one of the bad guys polluting the earth." Jesus, he was having a hard time remaining dignified.

  She smiled at him and tilted her head, suggesting she was smiling at his periodic bashfulness and finding it cute and endearing. "So, you're sexual, you say. I'm looking for someone tonight. I think you are it. You're kinky and submissive aren't you?"

  Without thinking, Neil raised his glass and took two gulps of wine, not sips, full gulps. How did this woman cause him to betray himself so easily?

  He was now in full verbal retreat, "Jesus, you are direct aren't you? I, yes, well, no, not...shit! Listen, this doesn't feel right. I should go inside."

  She grabbed him by the arm then and pulled him towards her, "Put your arms around me and say this doesn't feel right."

  His hand timidly touched her tiny waist and then he embraced her. He felt the corset now, and her musk wafted over him. They kissed. They drank more than one glass of wine. They talked. He shared his deepest secrets with her. She shared none with him. She had no secrets; she wore hers like clothes for all to see all the time.

  So here he was now, at her home, and he had allowed her certain, umm, discretions. When she paced too far to the left or the right, he had to give up staring at her. He was restrained. That was putting it mildly. He was strapped face-down to what could partly be described as a medical operating table, but the end where his feet were held was splayed outward and downward into a "Y" shape exposing him shamefully. His head was hanging over the other end of the table, and he was getting tired of holding it up to follow her beauty. He was helpless and he allowed his head to slump.

  He had allowed her to completely dominate him from the moment they entered her home. He didn't know why; he just did. She was good. She was very, very good, and he did whatever she said. The sting of her crop reinforced her demands. The most embarrassing part of this whole scene was that she dressed him in a bra and panties, with a garter belt and stockings. She had painted his face and called him her whore. And he allowed it. Now, with the last click of the lock he was officially helpless. And it was too late to be manly.

  Alena slowed her pace in front of him. "Look at me, "she commanded. She laughed now, a deliberate humiliating laugh. "So you say you aren't gay, huh? You're lying there helpless with women's clothes on and make-up. So, you must be gay, or maybe you're a woman. Are you gay, huh?" And she snapped the crop on the back of his legs, just below his buttocks. The question required an answer.

  "Ow! No I am not gay."

  "I see. Okay, that only leaves one alternative then, doesn't it? You're a woman, and you do look it, don't you? I'm going to use you like a woman now. Say goodbye to your manhood, my little pick-up."

  Alarmed now, really for the first time, Neil said, "Wait a minute Alena; I don't like the sound of that. What are you going to do?"

  She was out of his sight now, and she didn't answer, at least not right away. He heard "clinks" and rustlings behind him for a few minutes and then she reappeared.

  He started squirming in futility and yelling, "No! No way. That's NOT going to happen. Alena, no!"

  "What? A girl that doesn't want to be fucked? You poor thing! Let me show you what you've been missing then." And she strode behind him while lubricating the strap-on.

  He yelled then, angry, shamed. He was being raped, and he had allowed it to happen. "I won't let you do this; I just won't," he screamed, "Stop it! No, oh no, Jesus...stop!"

  And she did. Stop, that is. Then he heard more rustling in the background, and he was relieved that she was removing the strap-on. Without warning her hand reached around from behind and pinched his nose so that his mouth stayed open to breathe. The penis shaped gag was pushed in to the back of his mouth immediately and locked in place with a strap around the back of his head.

  She came around in front of him then, grabbed his hair and pulled his head up so that she stared into his muted face, "Now you will be sucking cock while I fuck you." And she disappeared again.

  He tried to protest but now it was wi
thout voice and without hope. All he could muster were deep guttural grunts, as he tried to resist the pressure of the dildo on his anal muscles. She was relentless, and without a hint or prediction of release, the shaft plunged deeply into him and she stopped, allowing him to treasure the sensation of the invasion.

  She knew he would like it. They all did. Once the initial pain was over, they all succumbed to pleasure. She loved that feeling, that feeling of total dominance. The return pressure of the strap-on made her wet and anxious to continue, but she waited, gloating in her power.

  He waited; the shock now over, and he felt a fullness, one he had never felt before, as he lay there helpless and taken. Then she started, slowly at first, building in rhythm and intensity. She started to moan in delight. With panic he started to realize that the pounding and rubbing on his prostate was causing him pleasure as well. He was aroused again and he couldn't help himself. This could not be happening, he thought. But it was.

  She came multiple times and groaned and screamed while he tried to respond within his trussed state. Then she collapsed on his back and reached down for his cock and worked it while she worked the strap-on. She went slowly. She had things to say.

  "You like the cock in your mouth don't you sweetie? This feels good doesn't it girlie? Do you want to cum now? Like a girl? Hmm? Ah, yes, you like it. You can't resist me you know. Your life is about to change. Your whole perception of sex is about to change baby."

  He wanted to cum so badly, but in order to do so, it was in combination with being sodomized and sucking a penis shaped dildo. The conflict was complex and frightening. If he could have talked he would have said, "No, please, no, yes, oh yes, noo, oh God!"

  He came with an intensity he had never felt before. It was like an intense buildup followed by a release of tension, in turn followed by a rush of euphoria screaming from his inside outward.

  Then the guilt. He was crying. He was not gay, but he had been taken, dressed like a woman, like his perception of a gay man.

  Alena smiled in triumph as she slipped the dildo out of him. "Ah, now that was good. I'm going to go get some more wine sweetie. Don't go away. Oh, and here's a book mark, so I don't forget where I left off." And she shoved a very large butt plug into him while his head shot up in shock. His sphincter held it firm.

  She walked away singing her favorite Stones song, "I see a red door and I want it painted black, No colors anymore I want them to turn black..."

  He laid there silently sucking the gag, tear tracks on his cheeks, immobile by design and waited for her to take him again. He moaned as he realized he was looking forward to it.

  She was right. This changed everything.

  The End.

  Dr. O and Sarah

  I can't tell you what finally made me do it. I'd been thinking about it for weeks. At first it was just a wild fantasy, but as time went on, the fantasy turned into possibility, and from there into a plan. I knew my opportunity was going to be during Spring Break, but for the first several days I was stuck--just couldn't make a decision. It was all I could think about and I wasn't getting a lick of work done, but somehow I couldn't bring myself to do anything. Finally, something had to give. It was already Friday and several chill, rainy days of miserable Midwest weather had somehow morphed into this beautiful sunny, warm day. Those don't come that often in this part of the world, and almost never in March. I took it as a sign.

  So I put on one of my new outfits: a sexy black denim skirt, a light spaghetti-strap blouse (no bra--what was I thinking?) and my new laced platform sandals. I knew the sandals and the skirt would really highlight my nice legs, of which I was justly proud. How had I become such a tease?

  I stuffed a few overnight items and a change of clothes in my backpack (ejected textbooks strewn onto the floor in haste), grabbed my purse and hopped in my rickety old Escort for the two-hour drive back to the small town where my former undergrad school was located.

  Like I said, I can't tell you why I felt I needed to do this. The last 6 months had been the most amazing of my life. I just felt like a whole new person after just 1 1/2 semesters of grad school. Here I was, a naive little small-town girl in a big city at a big state university. All the things that I discovered there--I just can't tell you! Well, one of them was sex, and another was love, or so I thought for a while. The sex was great while it lasted, but it was all hooked into this love thing and I felt it and I thought he did too, but it turns out, not so much. So I fell pretty hard that first semester when I got dumped. At least I was able to channel my misery into my piano studies and I really progressed. Amazing what you can accomplish when all you do is practice. Turns out that getting dumped is also good for the artistic expression. Ain't that a bitch!

  Well, next semester, same damn thing. This time I wasn't falling for any stupid trumpet players, and while I was at it, why not avoid musicians altogether? So I met this really cute guy in my French class and we started dating. That's about when I died my hair and started using makeup. Why not just start all over? Anyway, the sex wasn't as good, but I really liked him--for a while. Then he started getting rough with me, usually just verbally, but he pushed me around a few times, too. But not many, 'cause I was outta there. Hello practice room!

  At least I had my music and that was going really great. All that unlucky in love stuff really does change how you feel about music and I was sure in the dumps. So I pulled out this old piece that I just loved--still do, actually--and started working on it again. It's this nocturne by Chopin. I heard it in the movie The Pianist. It was the first piece of music that made me cry. Well, it turns out that hearing something that makes you cry, and being able to play something so that it makes other people cry are two different things entirely. The only tears that were shed when I was learning that piece were ones of frustration. How many lifetimes ago was that now? I guess it was in my freshman year. But now, it was a totally different experience. Once I got the notes back under my fingers everything just seemed to fall into place. I could hear how the notes meant something, how I could hesitate or rush forward and it said something. And I just poured my soul into that piece, day after day after day. (Musicians are a self-indulgent bunch, if you didn't know that already.)

  Anyway, while I was playing that piece I naturally thought back to my old teacher, Dr. O'Brien, or Dr. O, as everyone called him. He was so patient with me on that piece, actually with everything and I got to thinking that, as much as I'd learned and grown in grad school, it was because he helped lay the foundation for me to build on. I'd always remember the way he'd light up when I finally really got something, and the glow in his eyes when I started actually saying something with my playing. That wasn't until my last year, but he never gave up on me. I also remembered what a tough time he had for most of the time I was a student with him. He and his wife were really having problems. He never talked about it with students, of course, but word got around and you could see it those times they were together in public, like concerts and school parties.

  He had really changed by my last year, he looked kind of worn down. That's when his divorce went through, I think. It made all of us who studied with him really sad, because we all really loved him, in a student/teacher kind of way, and we were sorry to see him so unhappy.

  But as I looked back from my new perspective, I started wondering if it really was a student/teacher kind of thing between us. He never gave any physical hint that he was attracted to me. Of course, I was so damn straight-laced back then, it's probably no wonder. But there was something in his eyes, in the way he looked at me, and in his smile, that now, well, I was no longer so sure.

  And in my wallow of self-pity I had this fantasy of going back and seeing him and finding out what was what. I was probably just acting out a school-girl crush thing that I didn't even have the maturity to know I had when I was back there. But I couldn't shake the idea and as I kept on playing my beautiful piece, and thinking about Dr. O's careful guidance, something just started to take root inside of me. Tha
t's when the fantasy turned into a plan. A hair-brained sketch of a plan, but a plan nonetheless.

  So after days of waffling I was in my car in my hussy outfit and headed back to my old stomping grounds. Once I got into town, it took about 30 minutes for me to get from pushing the first digit of his phone number on my cell phone to actually making the call. Each time I got close to that last digit my blood would be pounding so hard in my head that I'd hang up. I practically wore down the battery on my phone!

  But when I finally made the call, I managed to sound calm, even nonchalant.

  "Hi Dr. O, this is Sarah."

  "Sarah!? How good to hear your voice! How are you?"

  Hmm, 'how good to hear my voice'? That seemed a little warmer than might be expected. Just maybe . . .

  Well, my first plan, of having lunch to break the ice and to try to get the lay of the land didn't pan out, but he wanted to hear me play, so that was good. But we couldn't meet until four--five hours with nothing do to! I was too nervous to eat, and several times I had the key in the ignition ready to turn tail. But somehow I stuck it out. I found the old practice rooms and played for a while, but I couldn't really focus much.

  At four I was in front of his door, purse in hand, my heart in my mouth. It took me five minutes to actually get the courage to knock. Fortunately there wasn't anyone much around. I heard a voice answering the phone in the office down the hall, but that was it.

  I finally choked down my fear and knocked. When he opened the door all I could manage was "Hi" and an embarrassed little wave from the hip as I bounced on my toes. I'm sure I looked like an idiot.

  But all *he* could manage was an astonished "Sarah?" as he stood there staring at me for the longest time. Somehow, his astonishment put me back at my ease.

  "Well, do I get to come in?" I asked with a teasing smile. That seemed to bring him out of it. He gave me a quick hug as I entered. Without thinking, I headed straight for the piano I always used to play when I had lessons. Leaning over, I set down my purse on the floor by the bench and turned to face him. (Old habits die hard: no foreign objects allowed on the pianos!) He was staring at me with a look I had never seen on his face before. He reddened visibly and quickly sat down at the other piano. I sat too. He seemed really uncomfortable because he kept squirming around on his bench. He looked much better than I remembered him at the end of last year. He had a sallow look to him then, and he smiled more rarely than he used to. But now he looked healthier. No dark circles under his eyes, maybe he was even a bit slimmer than before. It was hard to tell though, because he kept shifting around on the bench. I wondered maybe if he had hemorrhoids and such a gross thought made me smile for some reason. But he blushed again and kept shifting around.