“You look fucking lost. You look like a girl...” He hesitates, nostrils flaring on a breath. “No, not just a girl. An offering. An innocent, who doesn't know what she does to men.”
“And what do I do to men, Uncle Rye?” I meet his eyes, daring him to say it. “What do I do toyou? You are a man after all, tell me, what. Do. I. Do?”
He growls. “I’m going to show you a little bit of it right now. But you agreed to the dare, so from now on, I’m Daddy, now, follow me.”
He spins on his toe, one hand darting back to pinch at the fabric of my dress at my waist, dragging me stumbling behind him. The brace on my shoulders digs in, turning my shoulders in order to move through the crowd without knocking someone in the face with my helpless, outstretched hands.
I’m wildly off balance, which, as a classically trained dancer, hasn’t happened in longer than I can remember.
What does it say about me that I like it?
Rye receives nods and respectful smiles from a lot of the other mentor guides in the crowd as we pass, and yet still none of them put even an eye on me.
It's all as though I am simply an extension of him. It should annoy the hell out of me. It smacks of sexism, but somehow it doesn’t feel like that. It feels safe, like being next to him is some sort of shield.
Or honor.
I could be stark naked, and only one man in this room would be looking at me.
“Do you worry about all the girls that come in here like this?” I ask.
“No. That's not my job. They come in here willingly, and if they don't know what they’re agreeing to with a lot of these men, that's not my problem.”
He leads me to the back of the cavernous club, where there are several doors along a dark wall. Large windows look inside small rooms as an enormous, black-suited man nods at Rye as he approaches one of the closed doors.
Uncle Rye swings it open, tugging me inside as it closes behind us with a hard click.
I’m panting from being paraded through the crowd with the arm bar and collar in place. The sudden vacuum of silence inside this small space leaves me with just my own heartbeat as he turns, reaching to the back of my neck, working the snaps of the collar, then unclipping the cuffs on my arms, and within a minute, I am free again, my arms falling to my sides, my chin dipping to my chest my body feels warm and pliant, moldable almost.
As my eyes dance around the room, I notice in the corner a short wall forming a boundary around what I can only call a ball pit, like at one of those pizza places where all the kids come for their birthdays. There’s a mirror above it, but no windows.
On hooks against the opposite wall, there are various pink and black leather straps, gags, and blindfolds. There’s a short, white little-girl nightgown, and what I think are onesies...
There are also coloring books on a low wooden table with child sized chairs, and about ten stuffed animals in a basket in the corner.
Rye heaves an exhale from behind me. “Are you ready for your dare?”
I whip back around to find him staring. There’s a challenge in his eyes, like he still thinks I’m about to chicken out and run sobbing for the front door.
Would he be relieved if I did?
Or would he run after me? dragging me back, forcing himself on me, the weight of his body pinning me down as I struggle and scream.
I’m curiously annoyed with the idea that I won’t know his reaction to my imaginary escape attempt but in another way, I just want to crawl in his lap and take a nap.
The way he gives me the hard stare the way his voice takes on that stern hardness his chest puffing up and down as he looks at me, I'm ready for whatever is coming in this unusual but oddly comforting play space. “I'm here, aren't I?” I say, keeping my chin raised, voice neutral.
“You are.” He steps up to me, and I’m suddenly very aware of the difference in our heights. Even in these ridiculous high heels, he towers over me. “Call me daddy”, he demands.
My insides start to ripple that he’s just thrown a boulder into the center of a still pond.
I know this man would never hurt me. I’ve known him my whole life.
But do I really know him?
Because he has the face of my Uncle Rye, and a body identical to my father’s, but he’s not the man I thought he was. Or maybe this person I’m with now, is more him than I ever realized.
When he finally steps back, it’s impossible to miss the tent on the front of his slacks. I'm giving up control, and yet clearly there is something about me that controls something inside of him.
