Princess, he calls me.
He lets the ess hang in the air like a match struck in a dark room. The phosphorus of the consonants flare to life, illuminating a secret, shameful world I had not thought was there.
Having never been anyone’s ‘princess’ – certainly not my father’s – I was not expecting the reaction I had to the proprietary weight of his hand on the nape of my neck. This sin of regression we commit when he pulls me onto his lap and smoothes my unruly hair behind my ear, and whispers those words against the shell of it with perverse intent, is unfathomable to me. The obscenity of being turned from fifty into fourteen with two little words.
Half a lifetime of tired sexual charades fall away. I’m a quivering, excited mess with awkward and confused ideas about how to cope with the bulge of his erection that presses insistently against my hip.
The first time he said, “Call me Daddy,” I laughed like the sensible, self-assured adult I am.
“You’re joking,” I replied.
He shrugged. “What are you scared of?”
“I’m not scared. I’m just middle-aged. That’s ridiculous.”
“Then say it.”
“Just once. Go on.”
“I’m not saying that out loud.”
“Then whisper it,” he said, pulling me onto his lap, turning his head, offering me an ear.
He pulled my ample hips closer. “You’re scared.”
“I am not!” It came out too loud. Too adamant. I sat rigid in his lap that first time. My whole body stiff with the implications, I was careful to distribute my adult weight in accordance with my dignity. When I couldn’t manage that, I fought to stand. “Stop it.”
He held me tighter. “Say it once and I’ll let you up.”
“If you have fantasies about fucking preteens, don’t you think you should have picked someone younger?”
He ignored me. “I’m still waiting,” he sing-songed, with a tone of authoritarian forbearance.
I took a deep breath and let it out theatrically. “Oh, alright!”
“Just once. You can do it.”
“Daddy.” It came out flat and rancid.
“Not like that. Put your arms around my neck and whisper it close.”
Draping my arms on his shoulders I repeated it. “Daddy.”
“Better. Try it a little softer. Right at the corner of my mouth.”
“Once more,” he cajoled. His hand slid between my thighs. His fingertips pressed into the crease of my cunt, worried the tender nodule of my lust. “Just one more time for Daddy. You can do it, Princess.”
The esses hissed, the match flared. My thighs parted to give his fingers room enough.
“Daddy.” It slid from my lips in a breathy, high-pitched protest, caught between too much and not enough.
“That’s my clever Princess.”
The perverse praise tugged at my nipples. A hot river seeped past my panties. I squirmed on his lap like a cat in heat until he thumbed the viscous fabric aside and breached me with his middle finger.
Then I couldn’t stop saying it. Clinging to him as if I was going to slip off his lap, face pressed into the crook of his neck, burning with shame as the monstrous orgasm built and climbed over the matrix of my arousal.
“Daddy. Daddy. Daddy.” I muttered as I pushed myself onto him, thighs twitching, cunt contracting around his violation.
“Filthy little Princess,” he hissed, working a second finger inside and fucking me as I came. “You’re Daddy’s little cunt now.”
And I did come. Silently, smothering my moans against his skin. In the awful, secret pleasure of being reborn to the names he called me.
Since then, everything’s gone downhill in the most despicable way. Being the perfect filthy little Princess takes practice–lots of it. But you’re never too old to learn.