by S. L. Finlay
I took a deep breath before telling him, "well," I swallowed, "I want to talk about our arrangement. It's not working for me anymore."
Daddy's face looked shocked at my words. He didn't say anything for a good long moment. I thought of what I could say to fix things and rushed in to tell him, "it's not that I don't appreciate it. Daddy, you have helped me to get settled in Paris really well. You have made me very happy. I just feel, I don't know..." I trailed off.
"Feel what?" Daddy asked, indignant. "Have I not taken care of you? Have I not provided for you? Is there anything more that you want? If there is something, I will get it for you - no problem!" Daddy's voice was raising quickly and I wanted to quiet him, even though no-one (except maybe the butler, wherever he was in the house) could hear us, out here in the French country side.
"No, no Daddy. It's not like that." I comforted him as best I could, "I am not leaving."
My words, and their sincerity, seemed to calm Daddy quickly. His face changed from one of alarm to a relaxed one. Daddy seemed more comfortable, then he spurted out, "What then? What is wrong?"
The French capacity - or at least Daddy's capacity - for melodrama never surprised me.
"It's just, I don't like taking your money Daddy. I want to have a normal relationship with you." I told him.
"Normal relationship?" Daddy asked, a little alarmed, "you don't want to be my baby girl anymore? Is that it?"
I was a little taken aback by his words, and his reaction. Daddy seemed to be genuinely upset, and I hadn't seen him show such emotion before. I took a deep breath and tried to clear my head. How was I going to tackle this?
"I do really like being with you." I told him, "It's fantastic! It's just, I don't like it like this..." I trailed off, feeling silly now for bringing it up. I would have felt even sillier if I have of allowed myself to realize that I had wanted to bring this up for some time, and that I had even arranged what I would say inside my own mind before, too.
"So," Daddy begun in that way he used to when we started getting to know one another. The way I had since decided was his way of beginning awkward questions, "what do you mean by 'like it like this'?"
I took a deep breath. I felt like I was under pressure to say things the right way, so I wouldn't hurt Daddy's feelings. "I just, I don't want to do the arrangement anymore. I want to be partners. Equal partners." I told him.
Daddy's face dropped, "I see," was all he said for a long moment.
"I was thinking, that we could enjoy being together while I still live here, and when my visa runs out and I have to return to the US, maybe we could see if I could get another visa and move back permanently." I told him.
Daddy just stared at me blankly.
"You don't get it." He said, sounding frustrated. "You are not my girlfriend. You are my little girl. This is age play, this is D/s. This is not a romantic relationship."
I was surprised to hear his words at first, but as the smoke cleared and they settled in, I felt more hurt than anything. What did he mean this was not romantic? Here we were, dining under the stars in the French country side, and he was telling me this couldn't be romantic? That this wasn't a romantic relationship. Just who did he think he was kidding?
I stared, and let my emotions flow through me. First shock, then hurt, then annoyance.
Daddy was looking at my face. I knew my feelings would be visible there, and he would be reading them. I was an open book after all, and so easy to read. Daddy's eyes looked into me, and he read me quietly.
We were both annoyed now though, and neither one of us was saying anything. It was like we were two armies, with our tanks rolled out ready to shoot at one another. It was like our tanks were being told, too, not to fire. This was a stand off.
I didn't want to hurt him, I didn't want to say anything. I was annoyed with him though. With his selfish view of the world, with his wanting me to come to him with solutions where we could stay in this wonderful world of indifference and never-changing-ness.
But the world didn't work like that.
Feeling frustrated, I stared him down. Daddy stared right back at me.
"So, you won't concede that some of these date nights are romantic then?" I asked him, feeling frustrated that he would behave as if this date we were on right then was not romantic.
Daddy was looking around, as if he had just realized we were dining together in this picturesque and romantic location.
"Hmm..." He began, "I guess an American could see it that way, but no. This is what French people do. It is seduction."
I stared at him for a good long moment, trying to ignore the dig at my American-ness, I spoke to the seduction comment, "Seduction?" I asked, "isn't that about sex, Daddy? And we don't have sex..."
Daddy shook his head, "Seduction isn't about sex." He told me, "Seduction is about charming someone, about wooing someone, about showing them how desirable you think they are."
"You find me desirable?" I found his comments strange, as if anyone could find me desirable. Plain, maybe. Sweet, or maybe even cute, but desirable? That didn't feel like the right word. I wondered if Daddy was just shifting the argument.
"Yes, of course!" He cried, reading my mind, "Why should I not find you desirable?"
Narrowing my eyes at him, I thought about how wrong that sentence sounded. But I pushed on after a moment of disbelief and annoyance, "you are just trying to seduce me, to charm me, and to show me how desirable I am? You are not romancing me?" I asked.
Daddy looked taken aback at my comments for a moment, and his face portrayed someone who didn't quite believe what he was hearing, or at least someone who wanted the person looking at him to think he didn't believe what they were saying. "Of course! I am not romancing you, this is not romance. This is not boyfriend-girlfriend. I am your Daddy and your benefactor and that is all." His voice was matter-of-fact, like this was the most obvious thing in the world.
I felt my eyes well with tears at the insensitivity of his comments. Just my Daddy and benefactor? Would just my Daddy and benefactor romance me like this? Would just my Daddy and benefactor talk to me as often as he did? Would just my Daddy and benefactor be someone who I was so effortlessly falling in love with? Would just my Daddy and benefactor be a man who I was so sure loved me too?
My calculations were that I could live off what Daddy had given me to date. I could also sell some of the clothes he had given me and that I had only worn once if I needed more money. If I needed to, I could go home early. I could get a job waiting tables in a tourist restaurant or teaching English if somehow my calculations had been wrong. There was always a way to make it work after all.
None of that mattered right now though. Saving my dignity mattered, but I couldn't help it. I had one more question for Daddy before I called it quits, in an effort to save face. "There is nothing I can do to make you change your mind?" I asked.
Daddy shook his head, his face solemn.
"Okay then." I told him, "I won't be your little girl and sugar baby anymore then. I cannot be those things to you. They simply hurt too much."
There was a long silence where I didn't even look at Daddy, I simply looked into the garden near our table until he answered in a low voice, "very well."
At the sound of his voice, I looked up and saw his face, it was stony and gray. Just like the streets of Paris. I had wanted something else there on his face, but wasn't seeing it. I forced myself to breathe, as I hadn't realized I was holding my breath and I didn't want the tears in my eyes to fall.
We stared at one another for a long moment before I told him, "I want to go back to Paris now. Please call the driver."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Daddy returned me home that night, and not another word was spoken. I spent the next few days feeling sorry for myself and not leaving my apartment. Sure, Paris was a beautiful city, but I couldn't abide that right now. I just couldn't push myself to get out of bed. I was too sad, too lonely. I mostly just moped around my apartment, eating whatever I
could find in the fridge, trying hard not to think about him.
It wasn't until a few days later that the agency called me and asked if I was going to pick my money up or if they would have someone run it over.
When I took the call, I sat there mute at the mention of the money. What were they talking about? Daddy and I were not seeing one another anymore, it was over. How did they not know? Surely he would have stopped giving them money when I told him I didn't want to take it anymore?
My muteness was taken as some sort of answer as the woman went on, "Usually we don't run money over for girls, but we realize you are taking extra French classes to make your Daddy happy. We don't want to take away from all the time you are putting in to make him happy." She told me.
My shocked silence again was taken as an answer after a few more beats, "His business is important to us." She said, "he is one of the more regular benefactors."
As if her comments meant anything at all to me. But I felt like I should give her some sort of response, even if just to be polite.
"Okay." I said finally, "you can send it over."
Then I took the phone away from my ear and pressed the little red button to end the call. I stared at my phone for a good long moment afterward, feeling as if this couldn't quite be real. Of course I didn't want the money, I didn't need it. But, could this mean that maybe Daddy was reconsidering? Or, maybe it was some sort of covert communication from him? Maybe he was trying to tell me something, but what?
I shook my head as if to dispel whatever was inside there that I couldn't quite comprehend, then took a few steps towards my bathroom. I had to be clean and showered if I had someone coming around here. I had to be presentable. The thought of someone seeing me like this, as the messy girl I felt I had become since I found out Daddy didn't want to see me, and the thought horrified me.
I got in the shower, and as I felt the warm water run over my skin, it was as if all my sorrows were being washed away. Maybe this was a good thing, maybe this was the start of something new.
Running my fingers through my knotty hair I forced shampoo over every ratty part of it, and down towards the scalp. I washed my skin with soap suds and felt my tense muscles under my skin.
This wasn't good enough. I would need to get out there and do something. I couldn't just sit around feeling sorry for myself. I would need to get my body moving soon, and go back to French classes. Daddy wouldn't like it if he knew I was just sitting around at home. Daddy wasn't one to put up with that.
Maybe the real reason the agency was dropping off the money was that they had a note too? Or a letter? Maybe Daddy had written a letter to me that he wanted hand delivered. He would do that if he wanted to contact me surely. I thought of all the reasons he would write rather than call. Maybe he was away for work. Maybe there were things he could only say through the agency. Maybe it was one of those weird man things, where they can't talk about their feelings or something, but it's easier to write them down. Perhaps, even, he wanted to work on his written English rather than his spoken today. Daddy never seemed to be bothered about learning English, even though he had requested an English speaker. But, maybe.
I thought to myself that this must be it, Daddy must be writing to me. That had to be what was going on! I washed the last of the soap suds from my skin and saw them going down the drain along with all my doubts.
Reaching for a towel, I dried myself off and looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. I looked okay, clean at least. Better than I had when I got into the shower in the first place. I felt fresh, happy. This was a sign of good things to come, I was sure.
Going into the bedroom of my tiny Parisian flat, I dried off and, finding some clean underwear and a clean bra, I slipped them on before digging out a blue knee-length dress that Daddy had given me from the depths of my wardrobe. It was like 'little girl lite' with a dark blue bow which went around my waist and tied at the back but nothing else that looked overly girly. I told myself I could wear that as I answered the door and got my money - and anything else the agency had for me! The dress could be like my own private celebration for Daddy and being little and the fact this wasn't quite over. I was relived that he was contacting me. That felt amazing!
I didn't have to wait long before I answered the door and was met by an unfamiliar face. A young man stood there, looking a little sweaty. He was wearing Lycra and had on a bicycle helmet. A courier.
In French, he asked me to sign a piece of paper. I was a bit struck by it, and looked at the paper on a clip board for a moment too long until he repeated himself in French, but slower this time, like I might be stupid or something and need it.
Even though the courier seemed rude, I apologized anyway in French. I wanted what he had for me and didn't want to give him any excuse not to hand it over. Without a further word, I took the paper to sign. The courier was in a hurry and took the paper back before thrusting a small brown package into my hands.
There was not even a goodbye as the abrupt courier hurried away from my front door. I stared down at the parcel for a moment before reaching for my front door and slamming it shut. I needed some privacy with my package, this felt important. Monumental.
Inside my apartment, I opened the parcel and took out the contents. There was only money here. Wads of Euros, with no note.
Counting the money, I saw it was the same amount I always received. I checked the empty parcel again and found that there was still no note, no letter. Nothing.
Disbelieving, I put the money down on my kitchen counter top and started pacing my tiny studio.
This couldn't be real. Why was Daddy giving me money after we had terminated our agreement? Why was there no note or anything here from him? I decided to call the agency. There must be a mistake I reasoned. I had told myself already that there would be a letter and couldn't abide the fact there wasn't one.
"Hello?" Answered the voice on the other end of the phone. I found it funny that of all the businesses I spoke to in France, this one was the only one who was always answering their phones in English. No-one else seemed to. The French were so proud of their language, and this was France after all. Why would anyone answer their phone in English?
"Hi. It's Lindsay again. We spoke just before. I just have a few questions." I said.
The agency never really had time for questions, so I was expecting a curt answer, and that's what I got. "What questions do you have?" The voice asked impatiently.
"Well, have you had any communication from my Daddy or just the money?" I asked.
"Just the money." The voice said, sounded as if it were distracted by other things going on in the office. Things that were obviously much more important than my phone call.
"Okay." I said slowly, "well, do you know if this money comes automatically or if Daddy has actually sent it? I am not sure if I have received it in error."
A beat. Two.
"In error?" Asked the agency girl.
"Yes, as in, I am not sure that I was supposed to have this money sent to me. You see, Daddy and I are not seeing one another anymore." I told the girl on the other end of the phone.
There was a snort of derision before the girl asked me, "well, it's free money then, isn't it?"
"What do you mean?" I asked, a little confused.
"Well, he's giving you money and you don't have to see him. Many girls would be happy with that. They don't want to see these dirty old men for money, imagine if they didn't have to see the man and got the money!" The girl sounded as if she thought the whole thing was a funny joke. Like I was being ridiculous to complain about receiving free money.
Unsure what else to say I told her, "but, it's wrong. It's not fair." I wasn't talking about the same thing she was. She thought I was complaining about getting something for nothing. I was really complaining about how Daddy had cut me off emotionally but was giving me this little sliver of hope with the money and ongoing support.
The woman's answer came quickly, "well, if you don't like it, give the money to ch
arity. Otherwise, I cannot help you anymore. Good day!" And she hung up the phone in my ear. I had wanted more from her and from the agency, I wanted answers. I wanted support. That was not what I was getting.
In the end, after Daddy gave me nothing and the agency gave me even less, I put the money back in its package and put the package inside one of the pots in my kitchen cupboard. When Daddy realized his error, I would still have all the money there for him.
Otherwise, I would force myself to go out into the streets of Paris today now I was dressed. I had to get on with the business of living. I had come here for a reason, and no matter how depressed I felt, I wasn't going to keep letting myself sit inside and cry. That just wasn't right.
Daddy had made a point in the past of telling me how much he admired me for coming here just to learn the language. Sure, they had French classes in America, but I had wanted to learn more about the countries culture and history, and he admired that.
I guessed it was a European thing, to have this obsession with history, and that he saw in me someone else who was interested in history, that was something he could appreciate.
That afternoon, I went out onto the streets of Paris in my little blue dress and walked around until I decided to go to one of my favorite cafes and sit down with a coffee. I sat there thinking about what I would do now that Daddy was gone, and for the first time in several days, I thought about Daddy without bursting into tears.
Bursting into tears was not the best look in all the world, and I didn't want to do that right now. I wanted to move on. Well, really, I wanted my Daddy back, but I had gotten my hopes up before and I knew I shouldn't do that again.
I only had a year here in Paris, and my time was running out. I wouldn't sit around moping about a guy, that felt like a poor choice of things to do with your time. From tomorrow, I would get back into French classes, I might even try to read some books in French. That would be a good idea. There was supposed to be plenty of beautiful French literature that I had yet to read.
