A quick author's note:
When I wrote this, it was designed to be stand alone if people hated it or just ignored it. But if a few people liked it and the reviews were kind, I had more stories I could tell with these characters.
There is no way I would have predicted it would get such a high rating, that so many people would comment, and that they would say such kind and encouraging things. So thank you. I'm genuinely floored.
I've already started work on Chapter 3, although maybe don't expect me to turn out 19,000 words in a week like I did with this. I've notes on Chapter 4 and beyond. I don't know how long it will run, but I promise it will have an ending.
One minor note. In the last story I said Ashley goes to Laval. Turns out Laval has a design school, but it is graphic design. Further research turned up LaSalle, which is a fashion design college in Montreal. Going forward, that's where Ashley attends school.
Because we all know how important accuracy is in pornography.
Onwards.
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Ashley
I sat by myself in the train, enjoying the luxury of not having someone sit next to me. I normally get stuck sitting next to someone who views a tiny person as an opportunity to expand their personal space by moving into mine. I often bundle up in puffy coats or hoodies on public transit and keep to myself which, I dunno, seems to signal to a certain kind of person that what I really want is for them to get as close as possible and give me an anxiety attack.
But it was my lucky day as nobody sat next to me. I had a puffy coat on the seat next to me, but that rarely worked as a deterrent. And I doubt my outfit was scaring anyone off - I had on a black baseball hat with a bat symbol on it, a black mini-dress with red trim and mostly black thigh high socks with red stripes at the top (daddy likes me in thigh high socks, daddy's getting me in thigh high socks). I looked pretty cute if I do say so myself.
My red hair might scare some off. You know what they say about redheads. But if I had to guess it was likely the frantic energy radiating off of me. Some might say I was giving off a crazy lady vibe. Which was fine with me if it meant I didn't have someone with a "wide stance" in the seat next to me. Because soon I would see my daddy again and that meant I didn't have the brain power to deal with creepy assholes.
Well, that and I had been edging since Wednesday to get myself ready for the weekend. I was already super horny and struggled to focus in classes this morning. I warned him that I needed my daddy this weekend and I was probably going to be little for a lot of the next couple of days, if that was ok. He said he'd take good care of me.
Over the last two weeks we'd texted back and forth on how our daddy-little girl relationship was going to work. He was big on making sure we were on the same page which, after years of being talked to it was nice, although a bit intimidating sometimes. I did tell him that I often needed to be little when I was either really stressed or really horny.
That led him to ask how school was since I came back from comic con and I told him it was fine. But even as I texted that to him, it felt like something a kid in Grade 7 says when a parent asks how their day went. It wasn't fine, but you're not telling mom and dad that because you don't want them involved in your drama. Fine covered a wide range of sins. Were my classes fine? Sure, I was getting good grades and I enjoyed what I was learning. Things were fine.
Were my classmates spectacular assholes determined to bully and torture me? Why, yes they were. But things were fine.
I thought Heather and Lesley would be bad after we returned from the con; I just underestimated how awful the reality would be. When I got to class the Monday after the con I discovered they'd started a rumor that I'd whored myself out to a creepy old dude at the comic con for some geek stuff I wanted. The fact I was still wearing daddy's collar with the lock on it only made things worse. For a lot of the last two weeks I was getting stares, people whispering and pointing, and laughter behind my back on a regular basis.
Some part of me knew I should fight back, find that anger I had at the con when I told them to fuck off and leave me alone. But I just couldn't locate it. I had always avoided the queen bitches in high school. I just couldn't sustain the viciousness and delight they seemed to take in trying to ruin people's lives. I could sprint; they ran marathons.
I remember being told it would be different when I got to college. That all the pettiness and drama would get left behind. Then I went to fashion school. All it did was level up.
I kept thinking if I could just cosplay in class I would be ok. I could pretend to be Batgirl or Black Widow and give them a look that let them know I could kick the crap out of them anytime I want. I could pretend I was strong.
That didn't happen. However, I did start wearing the Batgirl t-shirt I "borrowed" from daddy to go to sleep at night. That helped. It made him feel closer.
At least I had my roommate, Gillian. We had little in common, but when I answered her ad looking for a roommate we hit it off immediately. I was doing fashion design, she was studying video game design. She had a good 6 inches on me and buzzed her hair. She had no concept of fashion and didn't care much for anything not on her computer. She was also, proudly, a dyke. But we'd both grew up in small towns - me in Saskatchewan, her in Northern Ontario. We'd both been picked on for who we were. I was a weird geeky kid who made early bad choices with drugs, alcohol and men because I needed to be loved. Gillian didn't talk much about what had happened, but I saw scars on her body one time when I walked in on her getting out of the shower. So it wasn't good.
She had zero tolerance for bullies and assholes, which made video game design an interesting career to pursue, but she lived for a good online brawl. So when she found out what Heather and Lesley were doing to me, she was ready to go and beat the shit out of them. I had to talk her down from it.
"I know they're being bitches," I started.
"Fuck that. Some of my best friends are bitches. They are cunts," she said, her jaw snapping hard on the last word, to emphasize the point.
I laughed. Gillian loved the word cunt. She'd read online that the Scots viewed the word as punctuation. She liked that line of thought and immediately subscribed to it. We were sitting in the tiny living room, chatting to each other over our laptops. I was looking at cosplay from the con on Instagram and making notes for future costumes. Gillian was multitasking between studying, Twitter fights, and porn.
"Seriously, what kind of cunt does that? Making someone feel like shit just because you think it makes you look better? Fucking people like that need a good shitkicking."
"Daddy doesn't have much time for bullies either. If I told him what was going on, he'd lose his shit."
She nodded her head approvingly. She'd obviously noticed the collar when I came home and pumped me for information, which I gave up quickly. She was skeptical about the kind of man interested in a 19-year-old girl, but when I told her I'd thrown myself at him, she just thought I was nuts as opposed to him being a total scumbag.
She didn't get the daddy thing, but she was gay, so that was a given. I told her to imagine being with an older, successful woman who would take care of her, let her zone out when things got too stressful, and she would get to have spectacular sex with this woman and in return all she had to do was call her "mommy". The dreamy look in her eyes said it all. After that, she at least understood the appeal so she didn't give me any more crap about it.
"You should still tell him," she said, turning her attention back to her screen. She was definitely watching porn. "If he cares about you, he'll help you figure it out and not just rush up here to kick the shit out of them, as much as the cunts deserve it."
I said I'd think about it. And now, here I was, minutes away trying to figure out how to tell him what was happening that didn't involve him driving to Montreal and yelling at people. I knew how hard the last two years had been for him. I just wanted to make him happy, not give him more problems.
Plus, there was a lot going on this weekend. The con was one thing, this was an entire weekend of just the two of us. I was pretty sure things were going to go well. Almost certainly they would. So maybe I'll wait until the next time before talking to him about it. Just to take a little pressure off.
