A Controlled Descent Ii

My world now is cleaved surgically into two separate but distinctly unequal halves. On the one side, there is my new life as property; on the other, there is every excruciating second spent waiting to see Jack again. It's only been two weeks since he collared me but suffice it to say my work has suffered. I can't seem to focus and catch myself daydreaming when I should be doing my job. Twice in staff meetings, I've been asked direct questions and not responded to my own name. I'm behind on multiple projects with fast-approaching deadlines but can't bring myself to care. On Friday of the second week, Andrew Torres, the congressman's chief of staff, gives me a grim talking to in his office with a warning to shape up. It barely registers and when I get back to my desk I spend the next fifteen minutes touching my collar while squeezing my damp thighs together.

From the outside, I probably look like a girl in love. I'm not. What I am is an addict. A junkie waiting for the man. A man who has been out of town since Monday on business. It's been torture, but his plane lands tonight at 7:20, and my instructions are simple: go straight home after work, eat dinner, shower, wait for his call. Not so long ago, I would have laughed at a man expecting me to sit at home on a Friday night waiting for him. Now I wouldn't have it any other way.

Somehow I make it to the end of the day and slip out of the office without any more lectures. I get home just before the clouds open. My apartment windows are black with rain, and I just want to curl up and watch the summer storm. Instead I follow my instructions to the letter. A useful trick I've discovered is to imagine that Jack is always watching. I catch myself - that's not his name, not to me anyway. To me he is Daddy. The name I chose. A name that sends electricity through me every time I say it to him, but that I find hard to even think when we're apart. When I'm at his feet, calling him Daddy is the most natural thing in the world. It feels so right, and I don't question it for a second. But when I'm alone, the word sounds strange and even a little silly. The thought of explaining any of this to my friends makes me cringe. Imagining what they would say causes doubt to creep back into my mind, and I begin to ponder what a ridiculous human I am. That's not how I want to feel though and resolve to practice thinking of him only as Daddy until it stops ruffling my stubborn little feathers.

I'm primping in the bathroom mirror when the phone rings. Do I shriek a little in excitement? Who the hell am I turning into? It's not quite seven, so his plane won't have landed yet.

"Hi Daddy," I say happily. "How's your flight?"

"Delayed. Apparently huge storms are blanketing the Midwest, and we're still sitting on the runway waiting for clearance to takeoff from the tower."

My heart sinks. He's in St. Louis and even if he took off right this minute he wouldn't land until nine. I try to keep the disappointment out of my voice. "Do they have any idea how much longer?"

"The pilot has been saying we're about to take off for the last two hours. My guess is it will be awhile, so I'm going to make an executive decision and say I won't see you tonight."

My head droops. "Yes Daddy."

"I know you're disappointed."

"I'll be okay," I lie - tonight is going to be a misery.

"Good girl."

"Am I allowed to go out," I ask, my mind scrolling through the invitations I turned down tonight.

"No, I need you well rested. We still have a busy weekend ahead of us."

My shoulders droop even further - no Daddy, no going out. This sucks. "Yes Daddy."

"Are you going to anyway?" he asks.

"What? No!" My outrage matched only by my guilt, because it definitely just crossed my mind.

"Why not? I'll never know."

"Because," I say sullenly.

"Because why?"

"Because Daddy said no."

"So?" he persists. "You're a grown women living in the capital of the free world. Aren't you capable of deciding for yourself?"

"No Daddy."

"Why not?" he asks again.

"Because what I want doesn't matter."

"Why not?" he presses.

"Because I'm worthless," I say, my face reddening in equal measure to how wet my pussy gets.

"Says who?"

"I do."

"Good girl," he says. "So, assuming we get out of Lambert tonight, I'll pick you up tomorrow morning at ten."

That brightens my mood a little. "Yes Daddy. Where are we going?"

He ignores my question. "Lights out by eleven. Get in a run before I pick you up. Goodnight."

"Yes Daddy. Goodnight."

I realize as I hang up that I didn't ask for permission to masturbate tonight. Glumly, I clean up the bathroom and go look for something mind-numbing to watch on television.

◊◊◊

I like running the monuments early in the morning before the tourists descend. I make three laps around the Mall, stopping halfway for a water break at the Lincoln Memorial. It's supposed to be up in the nineties later today, and I can already feel the humidity in my lungs. Still it's a pretty morning, and the Potomac sparkles in the morning sun. I dawdle longer than I should, watching the volleyball over on the Parkway Drive courts before working up the willpower to finish my jog.

By nine, I'm home and showered, sipping on a protein smoothie I made with my new blender. I'm still wrapped in a towel because I won't know what to wear until Daddy emails. One of his first assignments was to photograph all of my clothes, so he could select my outfits. When his email arrives, I put on what he wants me to wear- pale blue panties and bralette, jean shorts, and a cropped t-shirt. My new hobby is trying to guess what Daddy has planned based on the clothes he picks, but I am drawing a blank.

I'm on the sidewalk outside my building at 9:55. Daddy's black SUV pulls up at precisely ten as if he's been lurking just up the block to make a timely entrance. I get in, and we take the 9

th

Street tunnel and merge onto 395 to Virginia. He has me recount my week, but it takes a minute to gather my thoughts. I've been attracted to Jack since that first night I got into his car, but since he became my Daddy his effect on me is overwhelming. Being around him now is like climbing a mountain that's summit is shrouded in clouds, and I always feel short of breath until I adapt to being up this high. When I'm not too stupid to talk, I give him the rundown on my week and answer all his questions until he's satisfied. If I maybe skirt around my recent stumbles at work, it's only because Daddy made it very clear that my job is off-limits.

At Shirlington we get off the highway and follow the GPS to a residential neighborhood. I think I deserve a medal for not asking where we're going because the suspense is killing me. That Daddy slows down to read the house numbers makes me think it might be his first time here, too. Consider my curiosity piqued. He pulls into the driveway of a brick Colonial with white trim. As we go up the walk a dog starts barking. By the timbre I am guessing it is the size of a baby rhino but upgrade to full grown rhinoceros when the dog loses its mind after we have the temerity to ring the bell. We hear a man try to hush his pet tyrannosaurus to no discernable effect. The door opens a crack, and he suggests we meet him at the garage.

"Jack?" the man says as the garage door finishing rolling up. "I'm Bill."

Daddy confirms that is his name and shakes the man's hand. "What kind of dog do you have?"

"Sorry about that. She's a Saint Bernard," Bill says with a rueful chuckle. He's in his early thirties but already looks to be settling contentedly into his dadbod phase. "I know, I know but my wife grew up with the damn things. Didn't know what I was getting myself into."

"The things we do for love."

"Amen," Bill agrees, looking from Jack to me and back again. I can feel him trying to guess our relationship. Daddy is old enough to be my father after all.

"This is Mackenzie. My assistant," Jack explains.

I wave shyly at Bill who looks dubiously at the girl in the jean shorts and tank top.

"Assistant, huh?" Bills says, clearly contemplating the nature of my assistance. "Need to get me one of those."

"Can't recommend it enough," Daddy says with an assured smile. "So, shall we take a look?"

"You bet. It's back here," Bill says and leads us into the two-car garage, half of which is in use as a storeroom.

The garage stinks of damp fur, and in the middle is a large metal dog crate with a removable black plastic tray for a floor. If Jackson Pollock painted in slobber then that tray would be a priceless work of art. I frown. Is Daddy thinking about getting a dog? I feel a twinge of irritation and jealousy. Sharing him with Chloe is bad enough. Isn't two pets enough for one man?

"Meant to rinse it off before you got here," Bill says apologetically. "If you want to wait, it'll only take a minute."

"No need," Daddy says. "That's what assistants are for."

Bill shoots me a curious look, and I can almost read his thoughts:

why is a man with the money for a personal assistant buying a used dog crate

? Good question, Bill. Good question.

"So what are you getting?" Bill asks. "Got your eye on a breed yet?"

"A mongrel actually," Daddy replies, staring me dead in the eyes. "I've always had a soft spot for strays."

I'm grateful that the gloom of the garage hides how hard I blush.

"You're a good man," Bill replies. "I tried to talk the wife into a pound puppy, but she worries that with a rescue you just never know what you're getting. She couldn't live with herself if it bit one of the kids."

"I totally respect that," Daddy says. "Rescues can come with all sorts of bad habits. You really have to have the time to dedicate yourself to retraining them. Fortunately, no wife or kids here."

"Good call, my friend," Bill says with a women-am-I-right chuckle. "So you think they can all be fixed?"

"Probably not all, but I can tell this one wants to be a good girl. I can see it in her eyes. She just doesn't know how yet."

Bill nods approvingly. "So what size we talking?"

"Hundred and thirty pounds give or take."

My eyes narrow murderously. Call me a mongrel rescue all you want but don't fucking exaggerate my weight. Daddy just winks at me.

Bill whistles. "That's a lot of dog, but Betsy is one-fifty give or take, so yours will fit comfortably no problem."

Daddy doesn't haggle and pays in cash. Bill shows us how to collapse the cage then helps load it into the back of the SUV. They shake hands in the driveway like old friends. Daddy's charisma doesn't just work on girls apparently. I get in the car without having said a single word. I find that hot. I find a lot of weird shit hot these days.

Daddy waits until the stop sign to ask what I think.

"Of what?" I ask innocently.

"Your new bed."

I had just stopped blushing but now my face is bright red again. "I have to sleep in it?"

"Only when you spend the night."

I stare grimly at the dashboard. Sleeping in Daddy's bed, curled up against his warmth is one of my favorite things in the world.

"Don't like that idea?" he asks.

I shrug and don't look up. Daddy pulls the car over sharply and throws it into park.

"Unzip your shorts," he orders.

There is an edge to his voice that makes my eyes go wide, and I fumble to do what he wants.

"Legs apart," he says when I finish.

My legs snap open, and he reaches over and shoves a hand unceremoniously into my panties. Involuntarily, I reach up and grab the headrest as if we're about to be in a car crash. His strong hand gropes my pussy, pressing not one but two fingers up into me. It should be a lot, but they slide right in.

"Riddle me this, Mackenzie. If you don't like the idea then why are you so wet?"

Even if I could form words, I have no good answer to his question.

"Do you want a say in where you sleep?" he asks.

I shake my head violently from side to side.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't matter," I moan feeling every emotion simultaneously - anger, joy, embarrassment, sadness, terror.

"Are you sure? Because you're pouting like someone who thinks they do. If deep down, you want to mean something then we need to start over, you and me."

"No Daddy. I don't want to matter." Combined with his fingers, my words are like gasoline on a fire, and I hear myself moaning like bad porn.

"Then why do you sometimes behave as if you do?"

"I don't know," I say. "I'm afraid."

"To let go all the way?"

"Yes Daddy."

He studies me thoughtfully while working his fingers inside me. "Do you wish you were dead?"

It might be the most intense, unexpected question of my entire life, but it is intensely thrilling that he knew to ask. I answer without hesitation. "Everyday."

"Would you like me to kill you?" Daddy asks, voice calm and clinical.

I glance out the tinted window at a mother and child walking hand in hand. Thank god for tinted windows. "Daddy, I need to cum."

"Dump your body in the woods where no one will ever find it?" he asks, fingers curling up around my pelvic bone like it's a handle.

"Daddy please," I whine, grinding up into his palm.

"No one will miss you."

"Daddy," I wail. "Please, please, please."

"No," he says curtly and snatches his hand away. "Cuming is for girls who know they are worthless without having to be reminded."

I let out a tortured groan, legs curling up around my frustrated pussy, and I wrap my arms around my ankles, rocking forwards and back. "Yes Daddy."

Daddy sits in silence until I come to a standstill like a slutty pendulum. My brain is grey static. I've never told anyone that. It's my most closely guarded secret. Part of the real me that I never meant for anyone to see.

"How did you know?" I whisper.

"What? That you fantasize about being dead?"

There's no judgment in his voice just a statement of fact. I nod, struck dumb at the bluntness of his question.

"Call it intuition. A lucky guess."

I doubt very much that luck had anything to do with it.

"Have you ever tried to kill yourself?" he asks.

"No, never."

The answer seems to make him happy. "So you wouldn't describe yourself as suicidal?"

"I don't want to die. I just want to be dead."

He nods as if that makes perfect sense.

"I just wish I was gone," I say, surprised by my own willingness to say any of this out loud. "Somewhere quiet where no one cares."

"I feel that way sometimes," he says.

I squint narrowly at him, thinking he must be patronizing me. "You do?"

"I think we all do from time to time. People just aren't usually brave enough to admit it."

I find that oddly comforting. Tears well up in my eyes. "You promise?"

"It's hard work being alive," he says. "Come here."

I unbuckle my seatbelt and crawl across the console into his lap. His arms incircle me, and I cling to him while he pets my head. To my surprise, I don't cry but still feel a lot better. I don't know how long we sit there like that only that I wish it would never end.

"By the way," he says. "The reason you're so wet is because the less you like something the more you want it."

It's so succinct and obvious. I'll have to remember that. "Yes Daddy."

"So say thank you for your new bed."

"Thank you, Daddy."

"For your new bed..." he prompts.

"For my new bed."

"All of it for fuck's sake," he says with genuine anger in his voice.

"Thank you for my new bed, Daddy," I repeat quickly.

I feel him relax a little. "Like pulling teeth with you sometimes."

"I'm sorry I'm so stupid."

"You're not stupid," he says. "Just worthless."

I smile and agree wholeheartedly. "Thank you, Daddy."

He kisses my forehead and lifts me back into my seat. "What do you say to lunch? I'm starving."

"Whatever Daddy wants."

"Good answer," he says, pulling away from the curb.

◊◊◊

When we get back in the car after lunch, the car smells like a big, wet dog with halitosis. We drive back into DC with the windows cracked. At the house, Daddy sets up the dog crate in his backyard. He goes into the house and returns with a bucket of cleaning supplies.

"If this is coming into the house I want it like new," he says. "The only bitch I want to smell on it is you."

I grin at him in the sunshine. "Yes Daddy."

He confiscates my phone, which will go in a cubby inside. I'd be lying if I said it didn't drive me crazy living without it, but rules are rules. At least that's what Daddy says. He tells me to get to work and goes back inside.

I start by rising off the crate with the garden hose. It's a start, but Eau de Saint Bernard is pure evil and won't give it up so easily as that. Next I attack the black plastic tray with Clorox and a rag, scrubbing it from top to bottom. The cage is a latticework of metal bars, and it's slow, fiddly work cleaning between each link. Even in the shade, I am a sweaty, sweaty mess in no time.

The backdoor opens sometime later, but instead of Daddy it's just Chloe.

Wonderful

. Daddy has been very clear that he expects me to play nice with his other sub though, so I fix a pleasant sort of smile on my face. We're both required to be naked indoors, and she's thrown on an oversized t-shirt that falls to the tops of her thighs. It might conceal her nakedness from the neighbors, but the t-shirt hasn't been made that can hide the slutty sway of her hips. She comes down the steps carrying two glasses of water and offers me one. I take it gratefully -- the day is every bit as hot as the forecast.

"What's this?" she asks, sitting on the bottom step.

"A dog cage," I say stating the obvious.

In the two weeks since Daddy collared me, he's mostly kept me away from Chloe. This actually might be the first time we've ever been alone together, and I don't really know how to talk to her. Other than both belonging to the same man, I don't know the first thing about her. I think there is a part of me prefers it that way - the less I know, the easier it is to hate her and hang whatever judgments I want around her neck. There is another part though that is dying of curiosity and wants to ask her about a million questions.

"Is Sir getting a dog?" she asks with a puzzled expression, using her name for Daddy. There is overlap, but our rules are not identical. Daddy has taken pains to remind me that Chloe and I are different girls with different goals.

"Daddy already did," I explain. "I'm the dog."

Chloe's mouth makes a deceptively innocent O, and she takes a sip of water instead of saying anything. I like that she knows when to keep quiet, so tell her about buying the cage and being called a mongrel.

"That's really hot," she says when I'm finished.

"Yeah it was," I admit.

"Can this girl help?" she asks, keeping the formal phrasing she has been trained to use, another difference between us.

"I think I'm supposed to do it myself."

She nods as if that makes perfect sense and starts to rise.

"Did he send you out here with water?" I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.

"No, he's upstairs on a work call. This girl just thought you looked thirsty."

"You can hang out though and keep me company," I say, surprised as anyone to hear the words come out of my mouth.

She sits back down, pulling her t-shirt down over her knees. There's an awkward pause as we both realize we don't know what to talk about. With nothing to say, I get back to work. There's more than half the cage left to do, and my hands are already sore.

"So is this girl allowed to ask you questions?"

I pause, mid-bar, to look at her. "I have no idea."

We laugh at the strangeness of the situation. My new structure has been unexpectedly freeing for the most part, but whenever I come upon a situation not explicitly covered by Daddy's rules it feels paralyzing. Does the absence of a rule mean I am allowed to do as I want? Is it an oversight that needs correcting? It can be something as small as which drinking glass to use, or as big as whether conversations with his other girl are permissible. I don't entirely like the feeling of not being able to think for myself and my conversation with Daddy in the car comes to mind. Do I secretly want to matter, or is this another sign that I am afraid to let go all the way?