Trained By Daddy by Ava Sinclair
Chapter Three
Lila
In all myyears of writing under the pen name Delila Thorn, I’ve never done anything like this. I’ve never put someone I personally knew into a story. Well, not as a main character. There was that one time I modeled an antagonist after the homophobic aunt who wouldn’t shut up about her political views at Thanksgiving dinner. Aside from that instance, my leading characters are always written with no one in mind.
But this isn’t for publication, so I tell myself it’s okay when I begin to write about a woman who goes to the local fitness club and meets a man named Gabriel. Of course, I’m self-inserting into my own story as the main character I’m calling Delia. She’s not a Mary Sue. I’m not idealizing my image. In this story, the Rubenesque girl will end up getting the sexy man, who demands she call him Daddy as he spanks her ass.
Since this is just some personal writing, I title it “Gym Daddy.”
Some of my writer friends have joked about having to stop writing a scene because it was too intense, too hot. Up until today, I never fully related. But as the words stream onto the page, I feel my arousal spiking by what I’ve written. I stop long enough to read back what I’ve written. Holy shit. Would my readers even recognize this? My books are erotic, but the sex always has a soft sweet edge. I scan the page, re-reading a passage in which Gabriel is fucking Delia from behind. I describe the sounds, the smells, how she revels in the soreness of being pounded hard by the gym trainer’s thick cock.
What am I doing? I look up at the clock. I walked through the door three hours ago and ever since have been writing like a woman possessed. Okay. This is wrong. I shouldn’t be doing this. Gabe Hampton is a nice man with the body of a Greek god who is probably complimentary to everyone. He probably has a girlfriend who can crack walnuts with her thighs. He’s a professional, and here I am writing smut based on him. And on me.
I close the file and hover my finger over the delete button, but I can’t make myself send Gym Daddy to the trash. Not yet. I’ll do it later. Right now, what I need is a bubble bath. A bubble bath and The Little Mermaid.
I’m the only person I know who has a television in her bathroom. No matter what’s bothering me, Disney movies almost always help. They offer the guarantee of a happy ending, which I sometimes worry will never be in the cards for me. I have bad luck with men. Really bad luck. The stuff I write springs from a well of deep submissive tendencies, and my relationships so far have all gone south thanks to my remarkable talent for picking men whose sexual dominance was just a disguise for abusive tendencies. I know I’m not the only submissive woman who has fallen for predatory men who say all the right things at first. I know I’m not the only woman whose self-esteem was chipped away by men who took advantage of her desire for control.
My last relationship felt like Groundhog Day. It was my third time desperately trying to please a man who used his dominant status as a cudgel. I knew the warning signs all too well with my ex, Robert. The late-night texts, the lies about where he was and who he was with. When I questioned him, I was told I wasn’t a good submissive. When I confronted him with evidence of his cheating, he told me I’d brought it on myself for failing to please him. That final straw relationship was two long years ago. That’s when I started writing Daddy books. If I couldn’t find the perfect man in real life, I could at least create infinite versions of him. And I did. Their stories fill my Delia Thorn Web site, each one culminating in a happy ending for some lucky fictional woman.
I shouldn’t complain. I make a good living and am able – for a time - to get lost in the stories I create. When I emerge, though, I’m left longing for a man I don’t think I’ll ever find – one strong enough to be an authority but caring enough to nurture the little girl who suspects she doesn’t deserve the love she craves.
On the small screen mounted in the corner of my bathroom, Ariel is singing a song about wishing to be part of a world she longs for. When the song ends, I reach for the remote and turn the movie off. I hardly ever do that, but I can’t bear watching Ariel walk off with Prince Eric. Not today. Fairy tales don’t really come true. A mermaid has more chance of marrying a human than I do of finding a Daddy Dom.
I think back to the story I’m writing. I close my eyes. It’s wrong, I know, to fantasize about Gabe. It’s wrong to imagine his huge hands squeezing my ass, his hot mouth closing onto one of my nipples. It’s wrong to move my hands under the bubbles until my finger finds my clit. It’s wrong, but without the relief, I won’t be able to sleep. I come quickly with Gabe’s image in my mind. The currents of pleasure ripple through my body, but when they subside, I feel only regret for my weakness. I feel shame, too. I feel dirty for getting off thinking about a man who probably hasn’t given me a second thought since I walked out of that gym.
This stops now, I tell myself. When I see him tomorrow, I’ll keep it one hundred percent professional.
