I Call Him Mama

She stood looking at her closet, awash in a sea of pink, and red, and sometimes black but always short and tight, or frilly or sequined, or simply way too revealing. There was not a single pair of trousers, no sweatshirts or comfortable old tees, this was her wardrobe now.

If only it hadn't been for his waterfall of inky black hair, his shapely, endless legs, and that face, too beautiful too perfect, she would have been able to resist. She'd been utterly smitten, if she was honest with herself she still was.

She could leave anytime she wanted, go back to baggy t-shirts and comfortable old jeans, chop off the cascading platinum blonde locks he loved to play with, but then she would have broken the rules, his rules, and then she wouldn't be allowed to worship at the altar of his body any longer, and that was unthinkable. He was impossible to resist.

His skin was gorgeous, tattoos showing up bright against the flawless paleness of his alabaster flesh. His hands were long fingered, slim and graceful with perfectly manicured nails, and all in all he was too beautiful to be real, but looking in the mirror left her conflicted, she was beautiful like this, the tits he'd bought her too big for her willowy frame, making her waist look even tinier and complementing the roundness of her hips, her lips pouty, her cheekbones high and her eyes a brilliant shade of deep blue. She looked like rock n' roll barbie.... and it sent a hot surge of humiliation through her seeing what she'd become, seeing what he'd made her.

There was no mistake there, he had made her, which was the crowning humiliation. He ran the house, he bought her clothes, told her what she could and could not wear, how she was allowed to wear her hair, even what she was allowed to eat... though that was mostly because he bought the groceries and did the cooking. She remembered how he'd first claimed the title she was now required to use, she'd been sitting at her dressing table, and decided she'd had enough of the stupid perfect wavy blonde mane he'd refused to allow her to cut, and she'd picked up the nail scissors (another tool not to be used without his permission, as the long hot pink talons she now sported showed) intending to hack it all off, and somehow he'd known, he always seemed to fucking know. He'd been there within seconds, grabbing her wrist and twisting it till she dropped them.

"Just what do you think you're doing, missy?" he'd demanded, hands on hips. His nails were blood red, always rather long, always perfectly varnished. He was always immaculate, exquisite, flawlessly dressed, beautifully made up, and now thanks to him so was she. He'd been in the process of dressing, sheer stockings, heels, and a lacy garter belt, barely there underthings, lithe and androgynous and absurdly glamorous. How was it that he was always so goddamned glamorous?

"I'm sick of my hair," she'd whined, holding up a lock for inspection "It makes me look like a fucking disney princess... or some stupid porn barbie."

He'd given her a look that could freeze vodka.

"Trix, if I've told you once I've told you a thousand times about using that kind of language in my house, and we've talked about your hair too, and I thought we'd decided that you'd let it grow out for me, it suits you so much better long, sweetie."

She'd been in a foul mood, not in small part because she was embarrassed to be caught being insubordinate, and humiliated by how he was treating her, lecturing her as if she were a wayward teenager.

"Fine, whatever, mom," she'd snapped, rolling her eyes. On some level aware that she was just playing into the role he'd placed her in. To her surprise he'd smiled.

"What did you just call me, Trix, love?" he asked, raising an eyebrow, almost daring her to answer.

"I called you mom, because you sound like my mom," she replied, her voice less sure now than it had been a second ago.

"Mom..." he'd repeated, that smirk never leaving his lush, perfectly painted lips, "you know, darling, I think I rather like that, though I think mom is a bit...flippant, don't you? Maybe something more formal.... mother, perhaps? Or... no, something more affectionate, mama. Yes, mama, that's just about perfect."

She'd stared at him, almost believing he was kidding, but there wasn't a trace of humor in his voice.

"You can't be serious," she replied, and he just laughed.

"Trixie, darling," he said, "look in the mirror, you'll find your reflection to be evidence of two things, firstly that you never could say no to me, all I have to do is tease you a little bit and you melt like butter, and secondly that there's hardly a trace of what you were before me left. You're my creation, cheri, from that long blonde hair, to those over inflated lips, to the absurd fake tits I made you beg for, to that tiny little waist, to your heart shaped ass, right down to your pedicure and designer stilettos, I made you what you are, I even renamed you, and I think I deserve some credit for that. Besides, if you're going to act like a petulant teenager I'm going to treat you like one, and frankly I just couldn't stomach a lover calling me daddy."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" she'd asked, incredulous. Yes, she'd let him transform her, take her from unadorned tomboy who absolutely loathed anything resembling feminine frills and furbelows, to this sultry sex kitten, who draped herself in silk and lace, sashayed on stiletto heels, and allowed him to primp her to perfection, although really she still stomped too much when walking and had an unfortunate propensity for wolfing her food and slamming doors.

He'd shaken his head. "No, Trix, darling, I'm quite serious," he'd said, that smirk back on his face,"clearly you're in need of a... feminine role model."

It still irked her to know how right he'd been, to feel the chill of forbidden pleasure that had raced along her spine at the word.

"And if I don't?" she asked.

"Well as long as you're in my house, I make the rules," he replied, knowing well enough she could easily leave whenever she wanted, and knowing just as well that there was not a chance she would, "and if you refuse I'm going to punish you."

"How?" she asked, testing his resolve, did he want her resistance or did he mean it.

"Cold showers for a week," he said, the punishment she hated and he did not enjoy. He meant it.

"Yes... Mama," she managed, surprised by how the word felt on her tongue. It didn't sound childish so much as it sounded southern, where she'd grown up most of the girls addressed their mothers that way. She'd stuck to mom, and they hadn't been close. It felt like... a kind of loyalty she'd not realized she had in her.

"That's my good girl," he purred, leaning down to offer a languid, intoxicating kiss on the mouth, and as she always did, she melted at his touch, hands burying themselves in his long hair.

It shouldn't have turned her on, but she could feel the heat at the apex of her thighs, feel herself soaking wet for him, for mama.

He pulled away slightly, and slapped her, lightly, still smirking.

"Why, you like it don't you, you filthy little slut?" he said, shaking his head, even as he grinned, "I suppose this means I'm going to have to find some other way to punish you. Hmmm."

He seemed to think for a moment, before coming to a decision, sauntering efficiently over to her closet, clickity clicking in his stilettos on the spot where the rug met the wood floor, slim hips swishing from side to side as he walked, with all the grace she'd never possessed. He'd made her practice with a book on her head, till she could imitate that sinful walk, and made her practice more till it became instinctive. She still forgot herself now and then, and sat with legs sprawled apart, which always garnered a sharp look of disapproval from Adrian.

But in that moment, she watched him, as he went through her clothes, selecting a set of black and pink lingerie, leopard print, expensive but over the top slutty, the sort of thing some chick with tattoos would wear in an old glam metal video, bra, garterbelt, and... no knickers.

"No knickers for a week," he purred, "and if you don't want to be a princess... or as you said so prettily 'some stupid porn barbie' well, I suppose then we'll have to find a look that suits your... individual personality, I'm thinking... groupie whore, because I do know your tastes, Trix, love."

"But Mama," she protested but, he just held out the selected lingerie along with sheer stockings and she sullenly nodded. Well groupie was at least a little better, it at least had an edge to it, didn't it?

She was utterly sick of nothing but kittenish, oh so girly pink. Even if on some level dressing up felt... well, fun, natural, nice and kind of hot. Even if she caught herself admiring her new, pretty... feminine reflection in the glass now and then.

He selected a little pink dress for her, a tasteful sheath, the sort of thing a Kennedy would wear, along with a set of pearls.

She arched an eyebrow.

He smirked. "I have plans, love," he replied, as he selected matching pumps, and nude stockings.

He did her hair and makeup. He usually did, he was better at it, though he'd been making her practice. He used a light hand, which surprised her. Normally he liked her to look a bit much, a bit too glamorous, a bit too slutty. This nude lip, taupe eyeshadow look puzzled her. What was he playing at?

Her hair went up in a sleek chignon, and she looked every inch the debutante, except perhaps for the excessive and unnatural poutiness of her mouth, and the far too large for her slim figure swell of her chest.

"You didn't think it was going to be so straightforward, did you?" he said, and she sighed. With him it never was.

He went to dress and she followed as she always did, still fascinated by watching him get ready. First he shot off a couple of texts, which he made an ostentatious show of not showing her. Today it was a 1950s style sundress with a full crinoline, halter neck, floral print, and his own pearls. He arranged his hair in an elaborately pin curled updo, and spritzed himself with Shalimar, and finished the look off with an elegant vintage hat.

Except for the ink, and his obvious gender he was the image of an elegant woman of a bygone era. He collected his matching bag, checked his reflection in the mirror and turned to her, arching a perfectly arched eyebrow.

"Now, we're going to play a little game, and you're going to play along, and don't forget what you're to call me."

"Yes, Mama," said Trixie, and he smiled.

"There's my good girl," he said, stroking her cheek gently, as he lead her to the car, a beautiful old vintage caddy. He turned on the stereo, and out poured the sweet voices of The Crystals.

They drove away from the big old Queen Anne Victorian house on the hill, down through shady lanes and into the city, and she couldn't help but but smile. She knew he had some humiliation planned, but she didn't mind that, frankly in the end she ended up enjoying it. His cruelty was all play acted, and she knew it. If she'd asked him to stop, looked unhappy, he would have stopped, but he knew she loved the punishment.

She couldn't help but think how different he was from her real mother. He was glamorous, her mother had been aggressively opposed to such things, an academic whose short utilitarian haircut, lumpish sweaters and glasses had all been intended to give her an aura of asexual, aphysicality, trying to project that she belonged to the life of the mind rather than that of the body. He on the other hand, he was carnal in the most exquisite way, and not any less intellectually rigorous for it.

His knowledge of everything from literary analysis to physics, to cosmetics, to world politics was incredible, and his charm and ready wit merely accented how sensual, how beautiful he was.

She was nervous, and to her shame she found herself reaching for his hand for comfort. Her own mother had never been very good at giving comfort, pragmatic, and impatient most of the time, Adrian on the other hand despite his strictness and his peccadillos (which frankly she begrudgingly admitted to sharing), listened and gently reassured.

Still, she felt a mixture between terror and excitement as he parked near Pins And Needles, a charming tattoo parlor and piercing studio run by his friend Luke and his wife Yvonne.. Luke slender with tumbling waves of auburn hair, a beautiful face and vivid blue eyes, his wife was tall and slim with candy colored hair and a ready smile.

When they walked in Luke smiled graciously. "You must be Mrs. Harding," he said addressing Adrian who grinned and extended a white gloved hand, which he shook before turning to Trixie, "and you must be the daughter."

Adrian slid an arm around Trixie's shoulders. "Yes this is my Virginia," he said, with a smile, as Luke looked thoughtfully at her.

"Yes, I see what you mean," he said with a nod, Trixie looked between them confused, knowing better than to interrupt what was starting to look like an interesting bit of play, "so she disgraced herself in the tabloids did she?"

"Yes," said Adrian in his best imperious southern society matron voice, "and I intend to teach her that if she's going to act like a whore and not a Harding, that she's going to look like a whore and not a Harding. As you can see, we've already availed ourselves of the assistance of a plastic surgeon," he added waving a hand over Trixie's very obviously silicone enhanced figure, and collagen plumped lips.

Luke nodded, as Yvonne sauntered in, all gleaming cotton candy pink hair and long legs, eyes flicking over Trixie, who felt her cheeks burn as she began to understand the meaning behind her outfit.

She found herself practically hiding behind Adrian who gave her a sharp look. "Now you get out from there, you weren't so shy in front of that damned photographer were you?" he said, voice still coming out in that gardenia scented lilting way that reminded her of the way other girls' mothers had sounded during her childhood in Mississippi.

"No, mama," she said softly, his imitation bringing out a trace of the accent she'd done so much to erase in her own voice, as she slunk out from behind him.

"So what are we doing today?" asked Luke giving Trixie the once over.

"Well, I thought something on her lower back, you know, what they call a tramp stamp might be just the thing, and if she's going to violate her body that way regardless of what I tell her we might as well stick some metal in her, don't you think?" Adrian purred. Trixie blanched, she had her ears pierced and not much else. Rowdy little butch that she'd been she'd had a few tattoos planned that she'd never gotten around to getting, claiming quibbles over placement as her reason for putting it off when really she'd been scared of the pain.

"What kind of metal were you thinking, ma'am?" asked Luke, arching a shapely brow, a playfully challenging smile on his lips.

Adrian smiled back, an expression that started as one of those languidly wicked vulpine smirks of his which was then quickly rearranged into a dazzling expression of charm and graciousness, fully befitting the role he was currently playing to the hilt.

"I suppose I was thinking her navel, and a few extra in her ears, that tongue of hers and why don't we do the little tart's tits too," he suggested, idly brushing a hand over one of her breasts, which made her shiver slightly.

Luke nodded appraisingly, and smiled. "I think we can manage that, how is she with pain? This is a lot for one day."

Adrian's eyes gleamed sadistically, "marvelous," he purred, "she's just marvelous with pain." Trixie bit her lower lip. She knew perfectly well she handled pain better than most, but this sounded more hardcore than anything she'd done before, still though, she felt herself aroused at the thought.