Back to Vanilla (2 page)

Aw fuck… He had no
idea where he had been or what he had done, whether he made it home
or not; and then he remembered in stark, vivid flickers a roaring
conversation with a cab driver, a queue for a train, and somewhere
in the fog in his head he was sure he recalled buying or giving at
least a flower to a young girl, barely out of her teens, standing
in line. Such a pretty wee thing.

A larger older woman,
dark blue uniform, came over briskly as she saw the waking man
chatting. “Now, Mr Hammond,” she said, “you mustn’t fret yourself.
You’re perfectly healthy, though why a man of your… maturity… would
think he can down alcohol like that, I’ve no idea. I’ll phone your
charming young son. He’s been here every day, hours and hours. What
a relief.”

Well, that answered
some questions. But days? Jesus, how must Lyall have felt? This he
pondered knowing he never wanted to hear the answer. He sank deeper
into the two pillows behind his head and noticed the drip in his
arm; the dam burst, the familiar toxins of guilt and shame flooded
over him and, eyes firmly closed, he relaxed into them.

“Well, no one can
doubt your stamina, Da’,” and Lyall was there, looking down,
smiling, with eyes that showed how scared he’d been, worry rather
than disapproval. “I can take you home in the morning, they say,
but I want you to come and stay with us. No quibbling. Just come.
But now, you sleep.”

He kissed his father
on the head and Alasdair was instantly dormant, a strange scene
like Prince Charming in reverse, with not a princess in sight.

********************

There was no way
he was about to inflict himself on Lyall and his wife Lorna’s
already complicated domestic universe. With three girls under ten
and a mother-in-law living around the corner and prone to “dropping
in” with little, if any, warning, an extra presence in the house
would only make things harder for them all. More selfishly, he
truly didn’t like the idea of having to deal diplomatically with AA
leaflets placed helpfully, and with the sweetest of intentions,
around the house, waiting to be picked up by their resident needy
alcoholic; there had been such subtle hints before, but he wasn’t
up to deflecting them now.

It was time for him to
get his act together unaided and Alasdair prayed that his boy would
forgive him for not texting him, simply calling a black cab
immediately after being discharged, with a return address of his
own home. After nodding his way politely through lectures from the
doctor and matron, and feeling considerably older than his 66
years, he received a slightly more supportive arm squeeze from the
little bird nurse as she helped him into the taxi, and he sank back
into the dark vinyl of the car seat and stared purposelessly
through the window as the world flew by.

Grabbing his small
plastic bag of accumulated belongings, Alasdair paid the cabbie,
included a fair but modest eight per cent tip, and lugged his
aching bones towards the main door of Fairbrooke, the block of 47
“semi-independent” flats in which he was the youngest resident. The
skies were grey and spitting a little and he tugged his jacket
tightly around him, although it might have been easier just to
close the zip.

He didn’t have his
key. Normally this was not an issue, for, although it never
happened during sober times, Alasdair was prone to leaving many of
his possessions – including his key – in many different places,
some retraced, others forever lost or gone to new homes, on his
more crapulous days. The staff kept a spare and were used to
helping him out. Feeling like a sheepish child, he rang the
doorbell and counted on the gods smiling on him sufficiently to
ensure that it was not Sheila who answered his call. It was.

“Ah, Mr Hammond,” she
said, shaking her short blonde bob despite her best efforts to
remain professionally distant, using the formal style of address
even though she’d been calling him Alasdair for the six years he’d
been there. The two even had what could be described as a slight
history, having shared the occasional bottle of wine, several
curries and the odd tipsy fondle down the years.

“Have you got even the
slightest clue how much trouble you’ve caused us all? Oh Alasdair,
your boy was just distraught. You can’t keep doing that to him,”
and as her guard dropped along with the feigned distance, she
hugged him and reached out for the carrier bag. She grabbed a key
from a rack in a cupboard in the front office, and they walked
silently along the corridor, the sight at the end of which
rekindled his shame and added a tinge of disbelief.

“What happened?” He
hated to ask, but this was beyond his ability to work out and
better he found out from her than have to wait and ask Lyall.

“When young Lyall got
no response from his texts and his repeated calls after 24 hours,
he called the police, who didn’t wait for the spare key, Alasdair…
didn’t even ask. They just kicked at the door and the lock went
straight away. We just heard this almighty cracking noise and ran.
Dougie tried to patch it up for you – you must thank him for it, as
it’s not really part of his job – but this was the best he could
do,” and she gripped his upper arm a little tighter, before
unlocking the door, around which lay splinters of the cracked wood
the caretaker had tried to fix up.

Walking in, he no
longer felt like the sprightly elderly chap who’d taken early
retirement when his mother’s death left him the owner of two flats,
but rather, like an old alkie who was lucky to be alive. Alasdair
closed the door, leaving Sheila on the other side. He threw his bag
and coat on to his bed, slipped his toes out of his shoes and back
into the comforting grey of the worn-out slippers, and thought
about the bottle of whisky in the cupboard next to the fridge.
Disgust wiped away this idea, and he negotiated past the old bikes,
the magazines and associated junk, now added to by splinters of
door wood, and into his kitchen.

Having filled the
kettle, lit the gas and got out a large mug, he walked into the
living area, where he perched on his large swivel chair, flipped up
the lid of the still-on laptop and reached frantically out for his
other addiction.

Megan. What a
pretty wee name – Irish, I think? Good to connect with a fellow
Celt. Sorry not to get back to you earlier, but I’ve been out of
town on business. Tell me, did you read the stories anyway? You can
be truthful… remember, Daddy knows when you’re lying. K_M XXX

He made a strong cup
of tea (small drop of milk), switched Radio 4 on to reconnect with
the outside world, and sat down at the four-person dining table,
staring out at the car park where a day or two back he had watched
the seagulls flocking. The phone started ringing at precisely the
same moment the laptop alert pinged, and he stared helplessly from
one to the other before choosing, and, shuffling, he crossed the
seven feet to the gentle glow of the computer.

Blocking out the
plaintive wail of Bagpipes Brave, a default ringtone set as a joke
by Lyall when he’d prepared the phone for his father simply to
click and go, Alasdair logged back into PhetX, where the message
flashed up immediately.

Daddy, you’re
right. I know I could never lie to you. I read “A Week at the
Cabin”, “Decently Indecent Proposal” – the bit where the husband
helped tie her up before he left the room, God, Daddy, it just had
me in floods – and “A Moment in Time”. I loved them. You have a
real talent, especially, I feel, when it comes to understanding
women and how we think. Have you had much published in other
places? Out of town on business? Is it okay to ask what you do…? I
know some people don’t like to share their personal lives, but I’m
so very glad you contacted me.

You’re right, your
writing makes me feel like I know you and I have to be honest, as I
promised myself I always would be, I like what I see. Are you the
young man in “A Moment in Time”, I wonder? Or the mature figure in
the cabin? Like I say, “Indecent Proposal” was the tale that hit me
most. I guess it relates to where I am on my journey right now, in
terms of me and my husband. I want to be that tied-up dirty girl so
badly, her husband giving her permission the way he did – well,
that has to be true and unconditional love, and that’s what I
need.

I have so many things
I want to ask, but I think maybe I’ve asked enough. I must say,
though, that I’m unsure what you’re looking for. Your profile says
you are a dom, I know, and I do so lurve to please, but are you
actively looking? My own profile gives you the bare bones of my
story, but it doesn’t say that I’m married and wishing to explore
polyamory alongside my husband. He’s not so keen, but I feel like
it’d be good for both of us and he’s open-minded. I’ve done a
little playing, but, Daddy, I so much want to explore the ropes of
convention and see who I truly am…

I could go on, but I
want to hear back from you first. Do tell me if I’m boring you; I
know I have a tendency to pour everything out – that honesty thing
again – but if I’m too full-on, just say.

Daddy’s_BiGal
xxx

Alasdair was a
quick yet meticulous reader. Where some people might ponder and
read and reread an email or letter repeatedly, looking for nuances,
he had mastered the art during his journalistic career of speedily
and systemically hunting out the information he needed. This girl
was ripe, he knew it, and this girl was perfect for purpose. His
job was relatively simple, but still required a degree of care and
empathy; qualities that he believed came naturally to him and made
him the adept dom he was, qualities of which he was proud and which
formed part of his own scrupulous moral code in these matters.

His fingers twitched
with his desire to respond immediately, but this was not best for
either of them. She needed to be aware of who was in absolute
charge, and to want more, but it was important for both of them
that she did not get too attached. His moral code extended to her
relationship with her husband and this would be threatened if she
spent her life waiting for instant replies; it was his job to look
after her safety and that meant emotional as much as anything
else.

Besides, it was wise
to keep everything as simple as possible. Alasdair had done his
share of complicated during his two marriages, and the recent messy
business with Ella had left him more fragile than he elected to
permit. The drinking was testimony to that whole wreckage. Never a
sipping man – it came with the territory in the old days at work –
he had begun to glug it down with a frightening passion when Ella
took the plane back to Cape Town to rekindle life with her husband
and kids, and he knew it was for the last time.

********************

It had been five
weeks and four days since he’d last been truly sated, and God, she
had been a true delight. Twenty-four years old, she had joined the
site back in November, and he had devoured her details and watched
the groups she signed up for from the moment he spotted her. He had
known instantly that he wanted her; however, she had a way to go,
he knew, before she was ready to hear from a randy old pensioner
wanting more than anything to spank her naughty arse, tie her to
his bedposts and make her piss for him.

Katy_Katty had
evidently keyed in the terms “geek”, “youth” and “emo”, as the
groups she joined and friends she made over those first few weeks
all had those things in common. He followed her posts in Emos With
Kinks, and studied her interactions with late teens and early
twenties in Young Norfolk Kinksters.

But life had taught
him patience, and when she slowly drifted into the daddy/daughter,
submissive/dominant scene, he continued to wait with fortitude,
tracking her progress towards realisation that what she needed was
more mentor than boyfriend.

About me:
LittleGirlLost
(Previously known on here as Katy_Katty)

Gender:
Female

Age:
24

Sexual orientation:
Fluctuating/Evolving

Role:
Curious and want to try

How
active you are:
I live this lifestyle when I can

Looking for:
Playmates/Friends

I am a very
naughty girl, who has done a lot of decadent and, to some eyes,
unsavoury things since joining PhetX and embracing the lifestyle.
But don’t mistake my dirtiness for stupidity, for behind this dark,
cool exterior lies a gentle, sensitive soul with a fairly decent
set of qualifications to her name. I’m totally single and looking
to play with a proper old-school dom – a real master, firm but
fair. That’s the next step in this forward-moving odyssey of
mine.

If you want to find
out more, do feel free to contact me. However, I do demand a degree
of respect, literacy and wit, so, please, don’t get in touch if
text-speak is the limit of your communicative skills.

And with that came
the freedom for Alasdair to pounce. It was all but an invitation
and, he fancied, it would have been churlish to refuse.

He waited a few
more days. Her progress along the way was clearly signposted on her
page, as most people’s tended to be – lovers, friendships,
fallouts, it was all there – and so he’d never considered this as
stalking or been uncomfortable at his actions. He’d watched with
dispassionate interest as she was wooed by several young men, not
much more than boys, he’d thought, all played out in a series of
likes of the one of two pictures she had posted, and effusive
messages, but he knew his advantage, and it was time to take
it.

Dear
LittleGirlLost,

I believe I
may well be able to help you on your quest. A long-time dom, with a
socialist background, I understand the needs of young lassies like
yourself, and have helped several take that next step towards
sexual enlightenment. I know my advanced years may well put you
off, but I have lost none of my prowess and have, indeed, learnt
many a handy wee trick along the way. Think about it. Take a look
at my photos, and do feel free to read some of my writings. They
tell you much more than a few words on a profile page ever
could.