Alasdair Ch. 01

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.

If you want to take things further, let's chat. No question is off-limits here. I do hope you decide to take what I assure you is no gamble. Yours, Kindly_Meister xxx

And with a click of the mouse, that little bird had flown.

It took her two days to reply. This was no surprise; a treasure like her was worth pursuing, and it was unlikely that Alasdair was the only person thinking that way. It was, however, his absolute conviction that he was the one to help her; indeed, that meeting him was a natural next step for her. He took his role as dom in unashamed earnest, viewing himself both as educator and liberator.

When had taken his first steps on the path from monogamy to fully initiated dungeon master, he had briefly wondered whether it was at odds with his politics. As a 1970s vintage Socialist Worker who had manned the barricades against Thatcher, albeit inevitably fuelled not just by his passion but by whisky too, he couldn't help suspecting that there was something amiss with putting newly liberated women into chains. However, he had rationalised and condoned it to himself often and steadily - why, he maintained, he had seen the freedom in the eyes of the women he had taken into the zone - and was no longer troubled by doubts. He had also learnt that even socialists, brothers and sisters alike, tended to drop the bullshit when drunk enough and reveal themselves to be ordinary human animals who simply liked fucking.

It was a Sunday evening when she next replied. He knew she'd been out at a munch, a casual social gathering for those in the BDSM world, the night before, in a small village just south of Norfolk. There was, it seemed from her page, a small but highly active older crowd there who met, shared snacks and learnt the fine arts of knot-tying and whip-wielding, before some retired to the backrooms, while others stayed to trade philosophies and anecdotes.

From his casual perusing, he learnt that LittleGirlLost (real name Tamsin) had gone out at 7.34pm on Saturday with a sub friend, a slight young guy a few years older than her, planning to have a few drinks before moving on. It was appalling form to pitch up at a munch the worse for wear (as he well knew). The photo of the two of them about to leave simply showed their legs, from the knee down: her in the most delightful lace-up navy-black platform boots, and him in something remarkably similar. He supposed they looked quite charming, and smiled benevolently as he stared at the screen. Sweet young things.

Her return time was indecipherable, and these gatherings are distinctly selfie-free zones, so there was nothing from the venue itself, but her posts the following afternoon indicated an evening of low-key fun. She truly needed guidance, he thought, imagining her face clearly as he demanded she get on her knees, unzip his fly, and suck.

It was time to head to the local supermarket to get some provisions for his regular Sunday evening meal with Lyall. Alasdair's main priorities in a store generally lay in the liquid aisles, and he wasn't a particular fan of food in general, but he made a point of buying fresh, high-quality ingredients for the occasions when his son visited. Not so long ago, he had enjoyed cooking, searching out recipes to produce such exotic delights as baba ghanoush for committee meeting lunches at his local dungeon in Edinburgh, which had since gone on to house the munches he now regularly attended. These days, though, ease and practicality were his guiding principles, and he left the supermarket with a pot of premium-blend hummus, a packet of sweet-potato falafels, six pittas, some vine tomatoes and lettuce, and a carton of orange juice.

He walked briskly home through the park, which today was populated mainly by children and their dads. He remembered those times well, not from his 1950s childhood, when children roamed like wolves, lone and in packs, but from his fathering days, thirty years ago, when Sundays with his son had been a regular thing. He reflected on how familiar it all was, walking past the same old sandpit, with newer shinier, doubtless safer play equipment, mostly in the shape of various woodland creatures, dotted around it. It was cold and getting darker, and the families were beginning to head home, with all the childish protests that entails.

Alasdair glimpsed a girl, maybe three or four years old, red-faced, lashing out and screaming that she hated the dad who was fishing her from a small enclosed badger-shaped swing, which had lost a lot of its black colouring, while he promised her the world if she would just behave like his little princess and hush it down a little. "And thus it begins," Alasdair thought, having been the daddy to many a woman, both young and middle-aged, searching for an hour or two back in the role of brat, being coerced into pleasing him through the use of language and the promise and delivery of special treats.

He knew that Lyall didn't like him to drink alcohol, hence the orange juice. It was almost an unspoken agreement, although Lyall hadn't actually said anything about it since he was 14, more than 20 years ago. Even then, it had been more in desperation than judgment, after his father showed him up in front of several of his friends, having come home after a "pint or two" at the pub. In truth, Alasdair was never too sure exactly what crime he'd perpetrated, but he remembered vividly his son's adolescent mortification at what he himself perceived to be no more than his extra-loud voice.

His laptop lid was closed, and he resisted his natural craving to flip it open before unpacking the shopping bags and putting the evening meal items on to a tray ready for heating later. That done, he poured himself a crafty whisky, then perched down on his chair and opened her response.

Hello Kindly_Meister

Age is, they say, but a number. I'm not sure to what degree I agree with this, but I do think that age is no indication of a necessary connection, and I am, therefore, not putting any barriers in the way of my search. I read, as you suggested, some of your works. Skim read a few and then got really gripped by "Her Master Shows the Way" - honestly, it really turned me on.

Did that really happen? I mean, that girl was just so totally like me, without giving too much away, and when she curled up at his feet and he stroked her head and just kissed her at the back of the neck... does that really occur? I've read about subspace before, and, a bit like squirting, it strikes me as physically nonsensical, but with Lila, I just got it. I mean, I could see how that might happen, and, if it exists, I just want that.

You say you've helped women take that next step. What do you mean? What can you offer that other men can't? Have you been in the scene long?

And an old socialist, you say... what do you do for a living? From your stories, you could be a bus driver or the managing director of a multi-million-pound conglomerate.

I need sleep. Work tomorrow and last night was a late one. I went to a munch not far from home, but that wasn't the lateness. Afterwards I walked the three miles back with a mate, and we ended up sitting in a field swigging whisky from a hip flask and then two cans of cider we'd bought at a late-night garage. Putting the world to rights, I guess you could say. He split up with his boyfriend two days ago, and mine's a good shoulder to cry on. So, yeah, I need sleep.

'Night, LGL

And that was that. Alasdair didn't count how many times he'd involuntarily licked his lips while he was scanning her message, but as he finished reading, he was conscious of the fact that he was using his upper incisors to nibble his lower lip. Such interest, all those questions; he had to reply immediately this time - couldn't stop himself - but first he would turn the oven on to gas mark 6, ready for the falafels.

In the kitchen, as if on autopilot, he got out two plates and accompanying cutlery, and wrapped the pittas in foil, having first sprinkled a few drops of water over them. And then back, agitated with desire, to his swivel chair.

Ah, wee lassie, it happened just as I wrote it and not too long ago at that. You remind me of her, very much in fact. She was a little younger, but there's a look in your eye that made me think of her. I assure you that both squirting and subspace exist; I know because I've been witness to them both, and beautiful sights they are. Most people focus only on the physical in BDSM scenes, but there's so much more for us to explore. You know when you've been sucked into a book or a film and you suddenly come to, with the realisation that the world has gone on, but you've been away for a while? You've been so focused on one thing that your state has become trancelike, and you slowly snap back into awareness wondering what happened in between. That's how subspace was described to me by that girl.

As a submissive, you become so entrenched in the play, in the feelings of that moment, that the world simply evaporates. Your cares drift away and the moment, with its powerful rush of endorphins, is everything. But with that comes great responsibility. Aftercare is a speciality of mine. And the ability to hit that spot, and to help you deal with the drop afterwards, is what I can offer. As to how long I've been in the scene - why, it's a lifetime and a tear in an enormous ocean. At core, I've been training for it my whole life. In reality, I've been active on and off since my divorce, 19 years ago.

Ach, the ordinary world. Yes, I live there too. A journalist for most of my life, but my politics have always been important to me, and I've tried to stay as true to them as I can, hard as that's been on occasion. Father of the NUJ chapel at a few papers over the years.

I know you'll not be reading this till tomorrow, so I hope you've had a good night's sleep by the time you get here. Me, my lad is coming round for his tea in a bit, though not such a lad anymore, with a family of his own. Yes, I've got grandbairns.

You take care, K_M xxx

He deleted his own name, Alasdair, a few times, before deciding to stay with his tag a while longer. He wanted this girl, but the power was entirely hers for now, and it was imperative that when she elected to yield this to him, coercion wasn't a factor. With this objective in mind, he pressed the send button and flipped down the lid. He unplugged the computer and carried it through to his bedroom, aware of the fact that its presence might be disconcerting for his son.

Lyall, using the spare key since reclaimed from his care, had recently walked in on his father grazing the live cams on some dirty site or other (a relatively minor offence, considering what he might have stumbled in on, Alasdair had afterwards reflected) with his zip down (again, that he had walked in at that precise point, rather than 30 seconds later, was an absolute blessing). The result was mutual pretence for both; Lyall, that he hadn't seen anything, Alasdair that the internet wasn't really important to him.

Alasdair put on his slippers in his bedroom and returned to the living room, where he switched on Radio 4, turned up the heating in the flat, and moved through to the kitchen. Humming quietly, to a backdrop of a documentary about mental health care, he sliced the tomatoes and mixed a dressing, then swigged a tot of whisky from the cap of the nearby bottle. If it wasn't in a glass, he thought, it didn't count.

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

Lyall's visit was a relatively predictable monthly routine. They also saw one another in between, but this was a chance for both of them to relax away from the usually ever-present family gaze. The son got to miss the hectic scene that was a Sunday evening with three young girls and a habitually stressed-out mother, who, if he were there, would release on him the tension that seemed to dwell just beneath the covering of perfect motherhood that otherwise encompassed her.

The father got an excuse to cook and potter and steer clear of the online fixations and offline addictions that mostly consumed his thoughts. And for both, there was a semblance of a regular father-son relationship, and, although not strictly a pretence at normality, it was a comfortable reminder that, once away from everyone else, they had something uniquely their own.

That particular meal, before the alcohol-poisoning incident, had been a congenial one.

Alasdair had been a little twitchy at first, desperate to get to the laptop in the next room, but did his best to focus entirely on his boy. The more the young man spoke, the easier it became. Disconnected from family and old friends, Alasdair sometimes believed that his main priority now was himself and the pursuance of self-gratification. With his son in front of him, this became increasingly difficult. He relaxed, popping into the kitchen every now and again, turning on the oven, preparing their meal in the background while they talked.

Lyall spoke about his youngest girl, Maidie, just a little over three years old and not yet speaking, and how he and Lorna - a remarkably Scottish name for so English a lady, Alasdair reflected - were fretting about what might be the issue.

"Lorna says it's a youngest-child thing, possibly, and really common. She lets her sisters do the talking, and I can see that, Da', but even she's starting to worry now, as the girls are at school, but Maidie still won't talk when she's at nursery. Of course her ma understands her, most of the time, but even I struggle sometimes. And anyway, her key worker has suggested we get her referred to a hearing specialist and take it from there."

Alasdair briefly felt his son's anguish, and assured him he was taking all the right steps, although at first he had bitten his tongue to avoid remarking on the lass's ability to hear a sweet wrapper being unfurled from 10 paces away. They settled down at the table, Cream's Strange Brew playing gently in the background on the MP3 player Lyall had got his dad three years previously, now connected to some old speakers from his recently upgraded computer. Lyall was privately pleased to see no evidence of the laptop for which his father seemed to have abandoned the real world over the past four years.

They smeared hummus into the pittas, and, in a moment of total peace, Lyall asked if his dad had a beer, because the orange juice wouldn't quite hit the spot at that moment.

"You're sure?" Alasdair asked, squinting one eye gently, to show his son that this was not necessary, although the fact that he trusted him enough to ask was appreciated.

"Sure," he replied, and the two cracked open a bottle of lager apiece, Lyall swigging from the neck, while his father poured his into a pint glass, adding some token lemonade, and sipping.