I Never Know What Will Happen When I Call Him Daddy.

It felt like the distance from my head all the way over to him spanned acres. I couldn't see him because I was lying on my back and I couldn't touch him because he was sitting on a stool placed between my legs. The only part of him that touched me was the tip of his thumb when it accidentally landed alongside the belt on my thighs. Each time that happened, I moved my right hand around on the very ugly but extremely cosy turquoise quilt that came with this room, hoping that somehow I would find his fingers. I could feel him watch my fingers, and I could hear him think about them. He didn't mention them, of couse, but each time I moved them around, he beat me harder until I stopped. I find that surprising, honestly. I have been with men without mercy, but they didn't care for me at all. Their lack of mercy wasn't a choice, it was their personality. That's not the case with him at all. 

He's a kind, compassionate man. He'll tell you a long story about the dog, the climax of which is that they cuddled on the couch and she put her chin in the nook of his neck, wearing the expression of absolute glee. He'll fuss over me frequently, and no one in my life has ever shown me as much physical affection as he does. He'll put my shoes and socks on for me, because I refuse to do it for life, and tie the laces. It's not entirely like him to recognise that I am seeking affection, and not only pull away, but hurt me for doing it in the first place. It's not who he is. That's a choice he makes and he knows what he is doing. It's not mindless or thoughtless, it's deliberate, and that's why it's surprising. Also, no matter how often he does it, it can never be as frequent as how often he adores me, and that's why it continues to be surprising each time. 

I don't know why I was reaching out like that. I don't often do that, but I have to admit, I do it more now than I ever have before. I don't try to hold hands or touch him or really do anything sensual or spontaneous during sex, that's not what we do together but there's another side to that. Sometimes you compromise your heart just a little bit when you're trying to give your sexuality everything you think it needs, and sometimes compromising your heart a little bit is what it needs. Our sexual relationship is so different than the rest is our relationship. It is regimented, roles are clearly defined, it's almost cold in the way we interact with one another (or at least, in the way he interacts with me). It's predicated on ordeal and acceptance, and in it, I don't move a finger that goes unnoticed, or unpunished. I cannot move of my own accord. I cannot just speak whenever I want to. I cannot ask. I cannot just reach out and touch him. Sometimes I think about that until it makes me sad, but it's a sadness that makes me feel dirty and wet. It's a sadness that makes me aware of this great distance between us, and then test it to make sure it is still there, even when the test hurts. 

Sometimes I want to close the distance, just for a moment. So even though he hit me harder each time I searched for fingers that were too far for me to hold, I let myself continue. It was more important for me at that moment to show him I craved some warmth and maybe even his tenderness. The focus of his belt shifted from my thighs to my cunt and while the first few blows were gentle enough not to warrant a response, the ones that followed in quick succession were not as gentle. I may have cried out, or sighed, I don't really remember. What I do remember is that when he landed a particularly thoughtless blow, I opened my mouth and said one word. 

"*Daddy.*"

I call him daddy all the time, but very rarely (and only in specific situations) when he's beating or fucking me. It's not that he doesn't like it, it's that he enjoys forbidding it more. It makes sense, or some kind of sense if you think about it from his perspective. I have associations that I make with that term, and I think of it in many ways like a warm and comfortable place where I will be protected. It's more enjoyable for him to forbid me access to that safe and warm space, it hurts me more. It makes my body more pliant when I know I cannot appeal to his humanity or tenderness. I enjoy the emotional state of being pliant and knowing there's no way out. So I try, I try my best to never say the word when I know it shouldn't. 

That being said it acts like something of a safeword between us. Sometimes when I say it, he does stop. Sometimes he understands that when I say it I mean that I cannot take it anymore and if I feel any more unloved, I will cry the bad tears. Sometimes it is okay that I don't cry and he just puts down his weapons and holds me instead, but it doesn't always mean stop. Sometimes, it means I want him to get on top of me and fuck me like a human being instead of a doll of rags bend over at the hip. He makes me beg him to get on top of me and I never know if he will ever comply. Again, it's not that he doesn't enjoy that, he just enjoys denying me that privilege more. He will not let me feel human when he's inside me, and because I made the associations I did years ago, the only way I feel it is if he's on top of me, looking at me, and kissing me intermittently. I never desired this until I was with him and I never had it taken away from me until him either. 

He makes me *beg* for it. He makes me admit my vulnerabilities and cry from my soul as I explain to him how much I need to feel like a woman sometimes when he fucks me, how much I need to feel his weight and warm on top of me, and he holds me as he listens and kisses me, and then he doesn't do it. For months, he'll make me feel like he might, and then in the moments when I have most hope, he turns me over and fucks me like a hole that doesn't matter at all. He uses it to break my heart over and over and over again. It's surprising because I cannot ever think of him as this person either, it's another deliberate choice he makes. A choice I cannot reconcile at all with who he is, yet he makes it all the time, and he does it with such ease. He just ignores my pleas, and continues to let me cry my most intimate needs into the silence. Of course there are those rare moments when he indulges me, I call him daddy, and he makes love to me in a way that doesn't make me cry in pain and shame (and only in gratitude instead). It's so incredibly short-lived and hard-got that I cannot believe it when it does happen, and by the time I do, it's already over. Sometimes I use it to hold me over for a year until he does it again. I do try though, it's not conscious, and often in moments of pain when he is being particularly harsh and I feel particularly vulnerable, I call out to daddy. 

I don't do it often. 

I don't because I never know what will happen. He could stop or he could ration some tenderness out of the seemingly small repository he keeps inside his sexuality or he could ignore my pleas for warmth, but those aren't the only things that could happen. Those aren't the worst thing that could happen. 

The worst thing that could happen was what did happen. He heard me call him daddy. He stopped for a moment. He got up from the stool and walked over to my face. Amazingly, having him closer did not close the distance between us. He picked up his dirty underwear from the floor and roughly shoved all of it into my mouth, telling me simultaneously to keep my fucking mouth shut. It made my cunt radiate sorrow and my heart exude arousal. He turned me over and beat my cunt again. Harder. Much, much harder. Reminding me with every blow that I shouldn't have called him daddy. Telling me that daddy wasn't there. Daddy wasn't coming. Daddy was dead. He pulled my hair, telling me to pay attention to the consequences of expecting tenderness and mercy. And then when I couldn't think through the tears anymore, he fucked me in a way that couldn't make me feel less like a human being. When he finished, he went right back to beating me. Sometimes that is what happens when you ask for daddy. 

I never know what will happen when I call him daddy, but I no matter what it is, I know it will break my stupid, little heart.