Being A Daddy’s Girl

 

 

I thought that I meant nothing to him. And told him I didn’t. I spoke when I should have just said what hurt me. I should have allowed the love that we have, the affinity tear born to sustain me. But I didn’t.

I doubted. I ran. Yet, by this magic, he pulled me back to him.

I felt his hands on me the night of this great pulling away. I heard his voice in my head. “Come back to me. Come back to me.” My rage unbudging, I would not return to him. I willed my body to stop responding to him. I willed my inner self to forget his touch. Forget his voice. Forget the wonder and power of the coming together of male and female form.

I couldn’t forget how complete I felt when he pushed and inside me, telling me to open. Willing the quiet parts that shouted for him, to rise from my belly. From that rising, this fire becomes vocal–shaping to my mouth into his name. “Daddy.”

After our reconnecting, the reclaiming of my body as his and his as mine, I put my head on his lap. The warmth of his heavy hand on my slick face, damp from my tears, and his cum, soothes me. When he tucks my hair behind my ear, its the same gentleness that moved my thighs apart to welcome him home. I hang on the warmth of his thighs, closing my eyes as I feel his manhood throb behind my head. “Daddy.”

Deeper than any apology I could give him. Sweeter than any ‘I love you.’ His fingers along my bare back and shoulder coaxing a quiet growl from him. “You belong to me, Kitten.” More tears fall from my eyes, closing the memories of my body contorted to fit his. Blindfolded and on my knees to be spanked to remember my place. Closed remembering how he pulled my hair and kissed under my left ear, the tangle to braids n his fist as he told me how I hurt him. How crazy he was about me.

How insane I made him when I shut off to him. “All of you is mine, little one.” His hands were how and insistent. My body empty from his cock, watering as any mouth would be before being fed. “Don’t you dare try to do this again, Kitten. You are home.” Harder swat and I screamed more from need than pain. He was breaking me to fit me again. He growled in my ear, nuzzling along the right side of my jaw. “You are home. My home.”

I lay there, happy and sated. I was safe. I was home. I was with my Daddy.

Nothing bad could ever happen to me. Even if I did it myself.

[image by unsplash.com]

A Teacher’s Pet, Part 2

“And dragged by the nose as asses are.”

 

I was sitting there in a sea of fifty chairs, listening to the lecture given by Dr. Clark. The first week of class I had committed his scent and physical details to memory. He was a shade under six-feet tall. His eyes were this shade of blue-green that flickered when he laughed. He was career US Navy from Annapolis. I bit my lip when we he talked. I heard sparks of his drawl when he explained the syllabus. “We will do two Blue Book exams, and two papers. Minimum five to ten pages.”

He was talking about Othello the second week of class meeting. Discussing why we were doing this play first. I started doing Kegels. I mean, I loved Othello. And I had never encountered any instructor like him. Passionate. Hot. Charismatic. He was well-read and just someone I knew if I got office hours with? I’d end up naked.

I thought about him for two months after the registration with Ms. Harrison in October.  I thought about sitting on his desk in his office. If it faced the window, how far it was from the elevator. I thought about if his desk was crowded or could I sit on it with my legs on his shoulders. I thought about how his bottom lip tasted.

I wanted him.

I chewed on the end of my pen looking at the cognac colored Cole Haan shoes he wore. He still walked like he was still military, and talked with his hands. He was funny. And I moved close enough now the rows of desks to catch wafts of his cologne. He went from Armani Mania to Polo Black.

I closed my eyes this time and thought was it must have been like to have been with him while he was younger. All fresh and uniformed and available.

I was chewing my Pentel pen, grateful for the distraction. I had counted my Kegels, I was up to 40–counting a 3-beat before going to the next number. “I’m almost always available in my office in the morning. My best access to my students–you my friends, Romans and countrymen–is in the morning.”

Mornings are always best. My Cancer horoscope for the month of January, according to Cosmo, said that the ‘stars are aligning  for optimum encounters with a special someone.’ I stretched my seat, saw his face turn my way, hoping that he caught my breasts and pretty lacy white bra that I knew peeked out of it.

I wanted him to see me. It thrilled me last class when he stayed on the left side of the room where I sat, always sat, and I could see and study just how in shape he was. As he leaned against the door jamb explaining his  grading system. I thought about if I rode him, like I wanted to, if he would like me calling him “Daddy,” or did he prefer ‘John’ while he impaled me over and over again.

Pantysoaker Clark was going to be mine. And I was going to leave my white lacy panties with my number in his mailbox with the pink gift box in my red backpack. Let’s see if I could grab his attention by the throat. His cock would be next.

 

A Teacher’s Pet, Part 1

 

I think that I fell in love with him the moment he opened his mouth.

I sat in my Psychology class that I was probably not supposed to be in yet, but I needed something to offset the rigor of my Biology program. I found this class through the genius of my academic advisor. “You’ll like this class,” she said. She had short brunette hair and purple cat-eye glasses. Her crows feet broke through the veneer of her smile. Susan Harrison had been doing advising for lost, academically lusting people of the College of Arts and Sciences for better than twenty years. “It’s Shakespeare, and I think you’ll like it. Dr. Clark is one of our best instructors.”

My mouth had gotten dry, and my ears popped. It was how she said instructor that caused this whole body flush to go through me. I licked my MAC glossed lips and took the schedule she handed to me so I could leave her office. I smoothed my jean jacket and black Maxi dress. “Thank you, Ms. Harrison.” I smiled, adjusting my purse on my right shoulder before leaving.

I left UM-St. Louis’s College of Arts and Sciences and headed to the bookstore to price my book for my Shakespeare class. I walked at a brisk pace, happy for the warm breeze to disperse the heat which was overwhelming me. I just needed to price my book and leave campus.

I made it to the campus bookstore and all but sprinted to the English section. I gathered my box braids to one side and put them in a loose ponytail. I needed every possible avenue for this heat to be gone from me. I thought about Dr. Clark. I had hoped I would have gotten Dr. Gaston for this class. I had a crush on Dr. Clark since I saw him at the Shakespeare festival last Spring. He was standing by the other faculty, all tall and with his fresh haircut.

I remember I bit my lip as I memorized his hair color. Blond, no. Strawberry blond. Beard neatly trimmed and wearing a black Polo shirt. He was laughing with Dr. Schreyer  and Dr. Vega–all of them retired US Navy.  Dr. Schreyer and Dr. Vega looking like everything tall, dark and handsome. My friend Brienna told me they all took turns teaching the 4,700 Shakespeare classes.

All of them handsome as hell.

I had watched them talk, how they were so regular and easy together. His voice sent ripples through me. Brienna, the reason why I was there, and the reason why I wanted to stand behind Dr. Clark and see what cologne he wore, smiled at me.

“Oh, you found the love the my life, Dr. Clark,” her laugh resonate and knowing. I grinned at her, sure my walnut brown face was turning red. She smiled at me, her green eyes in her light brown face flickering. I licked my lips and looked  back over at Dr. Clark laughing again, touching Dr. Schreyer’s shoulder. “Girl.” I looked over at him, and could only think of being pinned to his office door. With his hands everywhere.

I knew that he was a Southern gentleman. Brienna had told me as much, which let me know that he knew how to eat a peach: Knows how sweet they are, when they are ripe…and how best to eat them. I thought how his mouth would taste. “He wears Polo Black too.” I looked back at her, and we laughed. Loud. Maybe a little too hard.

I looked up from my inappropriate giggle to see Dr. Clark looking at us and smiling. I smiled back like the polite girl I am.

From that festival, to registration, to finding these books, I was about to find out why Brienna, Jasmine and Halle nicknamed the accomplished Dr. John Clark ‘Pantysoaker.’

Even Up-Lana’s Story

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Think of the most painful thing, and push past that.

 

That’s what I was told.  In order to break a mated bond, you have to associate them, from their scent to their name, with pain. It is the worst type of conditioning. I don’t recommend it. Worst part? I thought it worked.

I really thought it worked.

I associated Nathaniel with the death of my mother. Of losing a limb. Losing my hands or my sight as an artist. I held on to that pain. I nurtured it, grew it like a magnolia tree. I had no choice. He left me no choice. Think of the most painful thing, and push past that. I thought of my best friend dying in a fire. I thought of Nathan dying–of just ceasing to be in the world. The thought, the mere thought of those bottle green eyes eyes and his six-foot-two frame was too much! I remember being in my dorm bathroom and screaming before I passed out in the white-tiled room. It was a Friday night when that happened, the first official night of Spring Break. I opened my eyes, facing the white cabinet doors below the sink. My face was wet, my dark hair a veil and covering my face. My red shirt sticking to me. Think of the most painful thing, and push past that.

It had been four years since that day on my suite bathroom floor. I lay there, grateful for the quiet. I broke the bond. I broke it. Alone. You weren’t supposed to be alone with the bond broke! I remember weeping, loudly. I couldn’t feel him.  I couldn’t hear his thoughts. This feeling of relief, regret, and complete loss. I remember when I researched this during this faithful Spring Break week. I remember Nate and I had this huge fight. “You’re mine, why would you want to leave!” I remember putting my finger in his face and said, “I didn’t ask to be bonded to you! You told me that I was all you could imagine, yet, I found you with a woman not even half of me!” I had seen his eyes grow gold. His wolf nature about to answer me. I heard his thoughts. You belong to me and with me. My eyes were watering, and I bit my lip. You wanted her. Not this! Not us! I’ll get free. Watch me! 

He had reached to touch me, and I turned my back as I walked back into my newly deceased mother’s two story house. The same house I was showering in. The same house that Nate walked me home to years ago. The same house my husband, Johnathan, proposed to me in. Nathan found me. The caveat on the site read:  It is the depth of a trauma that breaks a lupine bond. It is recommended The Breaking take place with witnesses or possible medical assistance. 

Four years I beat him back. Every thought and memory locked away. But when I smelled his soap when I was alone a year ago, I tried The Breaking again. I did it with my best friend Andrea. I remember her cupping my face, willing back to consciousness to breathe. “Lana, wake up! Wake up!” Her sweet brown face, and smooth hands pushing life force back into me. When I came back to consciousness, she said I asked for him. Johnathan was downstairs making tea for me. Andrea sat on my bed, smoothing my dark hair. I couldn’t breathe, heart in my ears. “It didn’t work, Lana.” I closed my eyes, tears leaking down my cheeks. “You have done this twice, if you try to do this again, it might kill you.” She leaned closer, her brown eyes and short red hair super bright. “And Nathaniel.”

I  knew then it would be a matter of time. If the bond hadn’t broken, if The Breaking hadn’t worked, my heartbeat was an antennae. He would either kill John and take me. Or just come and take me. Closing my eyes, I counted my breaths.

And I prayed.

*****

I didn’t know if Johnathan kissed me good-bye when he left for is ER shift. But I laid there in this king-sized bed, with the morning sun invading through the crack in the blackout curtains. “He’s coming!” I got up and put on my hoodie and shorts to go run. I was hot. I was cold. I was sweating. I didn’t want to be here when John got here, or when Nate got here. My mind raced as I slipped on my blue Nikes with my shorts and one of his John’s white shirts. I looked in mirror at the foot of my bed.

I heard a heartbeart. Louder and close. My mouth went dry, I couldn’t think. I went down the stairs as if a fire was behind me. The heartbeat was louder, stronger. Nearer then. I got to the bottom of the stairs, and touched the doorknob. I turned it, and saw him. He was on the sidewalk, heat washing over him and through me. It was pulling me towards him. I walked to him, remembered how his kisses made me forget time existed. That it still passed when we were together.

I got to within a breath of him all tall and golden, in a red hoodie and jeans. He wrapped his arms around me. I put my manicured hands through his dark strawberry blond hair. I cupped his face, and kissed him. I forgot I was married. I forgot I promised God and family I would love, did love, someone else. He kissed me, and–I pulled together again. I pulled into him, and there was us again.

I wept and hung on to him. From wall to floor. And to bed. I was in my marital bed. I was fighting to snatch him from his clothes. Memories flooded my mind, as time stopped for me. For this. This kindness of giving him back to me. He growled in my ear as he pinned me against the wall. Pictures rattled as he entered me, and grabbed my hair. Why? I asked. Please. He answered. I heard my shorts and the black panties hidden in them rip.  He kissed my neck, and slid into to me. As he growled, he bit my shoulder. Opening the old mark. I felt my body meld into him. I opened, and sang.

Now here I was, showering and quiet. Could feel him in the next room. Hurry up and get back in here. I miss how you taste.

No you don’t.

You’re mine. 

You’re mine too.

I’m hungry.

So eat. I turned the water off to find him in my bathroom door, leaning against the door jamb. I held my breath, feeling him count water beads over my lips and chest. I stepped out of the shower stall. I looked at the floor and smirked and my pink painted toes. He tipped my head to face him, eyes gold again. “I will.” he nipped my ear, licking it. “And I still lick my plate clean.”

Even Up-Nathaniel’s Story

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Poor bastard.

I told him not to try and take her from me. She was mine. Deeper than a ring. Stronger than a vow. She had may mark. My scent. She was more mine than she was ever her mother’s daughter. He never should have tried to stop her from coming to me. From coming back to me. She never belonged to him–was never made from him. I know God created Eve for Adam, from him-out of him.

But mates? It is deeper than any rib. It is your flesh in the outermost form. You, peering into you, definite and resounding. I knew her, before I saw her.  After phasing for the first time? I saw her. She went to my high school, glasses and caramel tone. She was quiet and timid. It was her eyes. They drew me. They sent me. It was her.

I had bumped into her outside her English class, she adjusted her red Jansport backpack our Junior year. I bumped into her because I was late to class, trying to get away from a girl that tried to ask me to take her to Prom. It would be the Equinox, I didn’t need to be out and around her. Lana, her name was. I bumped her, outside the S Wing of our high school. “I’m so sorry.” She said, adjusting her glasses. It was warm outside, but she had a big dark denim jacket. Lips and face bare. Eyes big and brown. I heard her heartbeat. Counted her breaths.

I couldn’t feel my knees and my mouth was dry. She smiled, eyes shiny and bright. If she spoke again, I didn’t know if I would keep my hands off her. It was her. I had only seen her, this exact way, a year ago. I let her pass, and I went to my math class as a lit match. I had her scent. I could find her after dismissal, and never be without her again.

******

What, how did she get around this mark? You can’t remove a mark. You can’t cover it up. I didn’t know how she did, I don’t know how I lost her…or she lost me.

I watched the backyard, and smoked. I smoothed my cut hair, and heard the water from the upstairs shower running. I inhaled again, letting my eyes adjust to the dark around me. I inhaled again, held it, remembering how I held her again. How I made her put her veil on as I reclaimed her body. As I entered her again, on this bed not ours, and demanded she open to me. Reopen for me. I had seen her a week before, and waited for this imposter to leave her.

I exhaled the drag of my cigarette, and licked my lips. I tasted Lana. She was still a fresh and sweet as when she was 16, untouched and open. I pinned her to this bed, not ours, and reclaimed her. With her hands above her head, I looked at her, face unchanged by the almost decade apart. I relished those eyes rolling in back of her head, fluttering and lips quivering. Her wrapped her legs around me, clenched my hands in hers.

I thought about how she looked in her veil. “Keep your eyes open.” I leaned to her right ear, and growled as she came again. I felt the familiar flutter through her, and rushing into me. I felt whatever was broken meld, and shift to bringing us together again. I nipped into her shoulder, all of me incessant and needing all of her.

She couldn’t be a wife if she had a mate.

She couldn’t stay with him, not any more.

 

I stood up, adjusting my jacket and putting out my cigarette on the blue porch railing. I could hear her thoughts again. I knew he would come for me. I  can’t be here one second longer! I hadn’t, I had forgotten how good he tasted. How he felt–and, for a minute. I thought he forgot how I liked it.

She was giggling, oblivious that I had taken her ring as watched her sleep. I never wanted to see the damn thing on her again! Mrs. Lana Kenne was leaving. With me, tomorrow. No note. No nothing. As I went back onto the house, to wait for her again, naked and slick. I walked through the kitchen. Seeing the pen and pad there on the refrigerator, I left the good Doctor Kenne this note.

She’s leaving.

She’s gone.

If I see you again, I’m ripping your throat out with my teeth.

-Nate

 

I went to the staircase, taking three steps at a time. I had to remind myself not to phase, there was no need to be in a protector capacity for her right now. I wanted more of her. I shed clothes by the bed and watched the bathroom door. Delighted she was on the other side of it. I would make her remember that I knew her better than he did. And I knew her well enough that she would let me. Over and over again.

He Worships…Me.

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There is nothing that he won’t do for me, if I just whisper it.

 

I have become something else beyond beautiful

and woman and feminine.

I have become something more divine

simply by being all that I am to him.

Full, supple and in vision unfiltered.

 

He drinks the sunlight off my skin,

careful and cautious as to where and

when to apply his lips to chosen skin.

When my mouth opens to greet him

with such gratitude, his eyes memorize me.

 

Almost as if I will fade away as ghosts and hants oft do.

 

His hands on me are home.

Welcoming and quiet at first.

The need of me, without me near

or inside me, overwhelming.

 

The divine of our together so potent

that he pulls me often from my seated

perch between the power of the manhood

unsheathed and hidden inside me, to sit

where he calls ‘my throne.’

 

The suckling of sweeter flesh,

with my thighs fixed to his cheeks

all of me opens and floods his mouth.

Moans as song, echo from wall to wall.

My hands on the top of his head guiding

his mouth to all his tongue found to be

treasure.

 

Enjoy, he said.

Let me please all of you, he said.

I need you, he said.

I cannot die without knowing how you taste, he told me.

 

He told me I was his ache.

His cure.

A goddess housed in melanin.

 

How could  I deny one so intent on being in love with me?

 

There is nothing that he won’t do for me, if I just whisper it.

 

He has decided to live at my feet…and I will let him.

 

(c) Janelle Fallon, 5.13.2019

 

[image from Pintrest]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Perfume & Windows

Image result for Handprints in steamy windows

 

I can still smell her when she leaves.

There is nothing like her, no one that I would rather call mine. It’s deeper than anything a ring or paperwork could give. I know it’s hard for your to understand. But there is, can’t be anyone like her. Like my Ava.

We call it swimming, the depth we feel for one another. This need to know more, push more, have more of each other. It’s…a need now. I  need her. I have her,  I know. But, I need her. As air. As water. I mean, the way I can feel her when she’s not even in the room? My mother, an old mystic, explained that love like this is possible. And she told me that would have it. “Mijo,” she told me. “I did your cards.” I couldn’t have been more than seventeen, fresh from becoming a man with my high school sweetheart in my black Mazda that I saved 2 summers for.

I remember I walked in the front door, damp from sweat and sex. She was at the table and called my name. “Michael.” I heard the methodic placing of cards on the table, her dark hair up in a bun. “She is not it, mijo.” She didn’t look up at me. No anger in her voice. No rise, no aggravation. I huffed, running my hands through my cut dark hair. I adjusted my jacket, heading towards my room. I wasn’t in the mood for a sermon from the spirits she spoke to while at the kitchen table.

“She isn’t it, Michael.” There was a dark chuckle when she said my name. I turned around to sit across from her, wanted to smell the comfort of her soap and rosewater she used. I made it to the back of her head before she spoke. “No need to sit, Miguelito.” The cards shuffled again. “This girl, you are,” she coughed. “taking, because you aren’t making love to her. You don’t love her.” My throat was dry. “But this one.” The cards flipped, and she hummed. “This one?” She hummed. “You will ache for her, whenever she is not near you. You will know her, by what she wears.”

You will know her by what she wears.

I took a shower when she left, like always. The water, hot and slick over me just like her when she last rode me. I could feel her body, taut and warm as she pulled me deeper inside her. I held on to her hips, spreading her wider. Fuller. I needed more of her. It was deeper than cumming insider her. I was filling her. I was filling all of the pieces of her that I felt cry for me when I wasn’t in the room. I wanted to soothe her. Completely.

I leaned against the shower door, soothed by the strength of the glass. I felt her. I felt her hands over my back. My neck. Her lips on my ears, just like I loved her to do. “Ava.” She always showered with this soap her grandmother taught her to make. It had orchids and jasmine in it. The first time I made love to her, it–it bound me to her.  My mother’s words were in my head were in time with my own heartbeart. You will ache for her.

I stood in the shower, the water running over me. I thought of how she rode me. How I took her from being impaled to sitting on my mouth. I drank from her, licked faster as she screamed. I heard the headboard rattle as her thighs found my cheeks.

Never, ever had I done that for anyone. No other woman.

She was sweet, like raspberries. My tongue swirled around every portion of her that she shifted into my mouth. I needed to know how she tasted. Kisses deeper than I could ever give to the plump lips on her caramel brown face. When she climaxed again, there was a note that she released that was something a siren would have hit. This honey, thick and sweet, flowed into my mouth. I sucked on her clit, this button that gave more her honey.  I needed more of her.

I moaned, opening my eyes again. Smelled her. My cock twitched, throbbed, then. I beyond loved her. I needed her. I had to have her again. “Dammit.” Hot tears leaked from my eyes, and I wiped them away. Frustrated at this affinity we had. My mother was right. I ached for her. I felt her. Even when she was not in the room.

It had been a year since we had been seeing each other. But, I knew she was mine. Could, would never belong to anyone else. I couldn’t stand it. I wrapped the towel around my waist, making sure the faucet was off.  I walked to my bedroom, heart as a war drum in my ears. I walked to the dresser and stared at myself in the mirror. I saw her behind me, supple and unclad. She held her breasts, moving over to the bed, laying on her back. Just like the last time I saw her. The last time every inch of me that was male impaled her to my King sized bed. I smiled, and watched that vision fade of her playing herself faded in the mirror. I closed my eyes, biting my lip. My mother was right–she was unlike anyone. Could not be anyone elses. She was mine. All mine. If this was what I suffered without her, I could only hope (and imagine) what felt apart from me.