Perspectives

We sat down, did the traditional small talk about being hungry and the menu. By the time our meals arrived, which were delicious, I'd already had two glasses of wine, which is a lot for me. I didn't lose track of my main objective, however.

"You know," I said, putting on my podcast voice yet again, "I did a lot of research on you, but there's almost nothing about your childhood or family."

"Family is an easy answer. My mother passed when I was about your age, and my father right before I left for the states. Loved them both, although they were different than you might expect. I grew up a bit more street than most people think," he said with a laugh.

"Oh? What does that mean?"

"My accent…well I have to change it all the time now, anyway. But it used to be thicker, and rougher. Not quite so classy, which is what most directors expect."

"So you were like, what, a ‘proper gangster'?" I said the last two words in my best-worst fake British accent and he chuckled.

"Nothing that interesting. Just working class with some criminal activity on the side. I did a bit of theft as a very young man, may have used some illicit substances. I was fortunate in that I had influences around me who made me better as opposed to worse."

"You had a bad boy reputation for your first years in L.A."

He smirked. I was getting addicted to his expressions.

"I was mostly honest by then, I just enjoyed the occasional party. The only crimes I committed were against my own mind and body. And I gave up drugs pretty early. I just couldn't work under the influence, and I found out that acting was its own motivation. I wanted to be better than I was. I wanted to learn and be busy. I wanted money, of course, but to my own surprise, I cared less about it than making sure I did the utmost to give the audiences an enjoyable and emotional experience."

"Thanks for putting up with my questions," I said, expressing real gratitude. All of that fit. I knew that my mother had been a wild girl before she had me and fully embraced her career. I knew that my father had been a bad boy, but she had refused to tell me much else, insisting that meeting him wouldn't be worth the drama involved. I suspected that cocaine had, in part, fueled their affair. My mother just stopped using before he did. He paused for a moment, sipped his wine, then surprised me a bit.

"Can I ask you a question I'd typically never ask a woman on the first date?"

"Ooh. Intriguing. Go ahead."

"When I first saw you I put you in early to mid-twenties. After the podcast I thought you might be as young as eighteen. Seeing you tonight makes me think you could be almost thirty. I'm intrigued."

I laughed.

"Feeling a bit guilty, perhaps? Like you might be robbing the cradle?"

"I'm not too worried about it. To be honest, I'm impressed. I've seen professional makeup on sets that were far worse than yours. How old are you, really?"

This would have been a good chance to alter the conversation. It wasn't quite flirting. Or at least not heavily so. I could have told him my exact age. I could have let him know that my mother was a make up artist. He might have even been able to draw his own conclusions that I was his daughter. I chose not to. The play-acting of being on a date with my own father suddenly became a reality.

"How old do you want me to be, Michael?" I said, managing to sound both sultry and sensual. I suspect that the wine helped.

He paused, blinked, and I realized for the first moment that he was truly affected by me, too. He felt the same attraction. He was just older, more composed, and a far bettor actor than me.

He paid quickly, tipped well, and led me out to the car, where he held the door open. I slinked into the passenger seat as he closed the door behind me like a gentleman. I only wobbled a tiny bit.

"Hmm, Layla. What now?"

The wine gave me courage, and my desire outweighed my shame. I gave him my best wide-eyed impression of innocence before answering.

"Well, Michael, you're the driver, so I'm at your mercy. I suppose the destination depends on where, and how, you want to take me."

He did not answer, but even before he left the parking lot I knew where we were headed.

Michael - Broken Boundaries

I drove back to my apartment a bit too fast, but I hadn't been this eager to be with a woman since I'd first met my wife. It was a nice change from the purely physical distractions of some of the one night stands I'd had. Even though she was significantly younger, I'd already felt a deeper connection with Layla than I'd expected. She reminded me of something. A place, or a time or a person. I couldn't quite place it, but I didn't need to. I should have been a little more clear-headed about the whole thing, I suppose. I normally would never have slept with someone who had just interviewed me. Nothing personal, was just a good way to get bad press.

I parked quickly, and led Layla to the elevator. She was giggling the whole way. We kissed for the first time in there, and I found myself pressing her hard against the cold metal, her hands running over my back, eagerly, mine on her arse. Her scent was intoxicating, and I could tell that she was already quite excited.

"Come on," I said leading her out and down the hall, holding her wrist perhaps a little too hard. Her laughter told me that it didn't bother her. I let us in, and, naturally, the first thing she noticed, looking past the couch and the desk, was the view. The lights from downtown were sparkling and in the distance, there was a bit of a storm, high up, the lightning flashing at intervals, followed by a very soft thunder.

"Wow," she said, sounding young again. "Your place is amazing."

"Oh?" I said, walking up behind her, putting my hands on her shoulders and running them down her arms. "I like the view from here, too."

She laughed, this time a little bit nervously. I wasn't sure why, but I kissed her on her head, and then moved down to her neck. I kissed and nipped and finally bit her.

"Fuck," she said, voice barely over a whisper, as I pushed first one strap of her dress off one fine shoulder, and then the other. The garment fell to the floor, and the reflection in the glass of the window showed me a gorgeous chest unencumbered by a bra, and a skimpy set of lace panties. I held her breasts, firmly kneading them before tweaking her nipples, already pert and ready. She moaned, and leaned back into me. "Not fair, Michael. That's…not fair…"

"Oh really? What would be fair?"

"I…um…I can't…think right now."

"Do you want me to stop?" A question I already knew the answer to. I was being a merciless tease.

"N-no! Da—um…Sir…please keep going…"

"Only because you asked so nicely," I said, but then I was anything but nice.

I spun her around and kissed her again, this time crushing her against me. She kissed me back and what she lacked in experience she made up for with eagerness.I pushed her back until she ran into the sturdy glass desk behind her, and she gasped in surprise. I swept it clean of everything. Pens, papers, even my laptop and desk lamp. I pushed her onto her back on it. I saw in her eyes the arousal and fear of being my prey and it only made me more excited.

I mauled her breasts. I forgot how to be gentle, although I wasn't truly rough. I kissed and nipped and she writhed under my affections. I ripped her panties off, heedless of her little yelp of surprise. I threw her thighs over my shoulders and explored her swollen, needy pussy with my mouth. God, the scent of her drove me mad, past desire, into something deeper, almost feral. I licked and sucked and tasted her, but without any particular skill or technique. It was simply the need to do so, beyond anything rational.

"Oh fuck, Michaeellllll…." My name in her voice ended in a deep, long, moan.

That moan made me act more precipitously then perhaps I would have otherwise. I stood, threw my jacket off to the side, and unzipped, but stayed dressed. Although she lay on her back on the desk, thighs spread, her eyes stayed glued to my cock as I pulled it out. I did not even consider pausing to get a condom. As positioned myself to enter her, her eyes shot up and locked with mine.

I thrust into her, and though I was not careful like I should have been, nor was I brutal. That came later. Layla cried out. Again I put her thighs up on my shoulders, eager to go as deeply as I could within her. There was no build up or preamble of slow movements. I was vigorous and fast from the beginning. I think I heard her make a noise between pleasure and pain and then her body shuddered and thrashed in the telltale signs of orgasm. That was when I really knew that she enjoyed a little force from her men, and I did not let up. We did not say anything more, only moans and groans and the sound of our flesh meeting filled my apartment. She mewled and whimpered as she came again, and I pinned her wrists to the desk above her head as we shifted to be nearer to one another. I was close and she knew it. She gave me the slightest of nods and wrapped her legs tightly around me, wanting me deep inside before I let go.

Our eyes met again as I came inside of her, grunting and groaning loudly. Her back arched and her body went rigid and shuddered one more time as an orgasm shook her, before she went limp.

That was the first time I had her.

* * *

I took her to bed, and we had sex again, this time more slowly, her riding me. Again, no condom was used, and again, we both came. She slept on my chest or spooned in my arms, practically glued to me the entire night, unwilling to let even a bit of space come between us. I should have been a bit worried about her becoming overly attached, but instead I was just enchanted by her mix of innocence and sensuality.

The morning after was just like many other I'd had, save that we were far more comfortable together. Although neither of us said anything particularly deep or important, it felt like we had known each other forever. She walked around adorably in one of my shirts, I made her breakfast, and then I had to go, so I offered to drive her home.

I made sure she got home safely, dropping her outside her apartment complex. She kissed me before she got out of the car, but didn't say anything. I watched her sway in her heels, all the way inside. At that point, I wanted to see her again, but I wasn't sure what the previous night had represented for her. Was it just a night of fun with an older man? A realization of a long-held crush? Or something more?

I couldn't stop thinking about her all day. I was supposed to be in meetings. Discussions of upcoming roles, schedules, and travel, including filming on location in Ireland. I had difficulty focusing. Layla didn't make that any easier with her texts.

The first one was simple:

I had a good time last night.

I replied simply:

I did too.

There was a break, and then a nice mirror pic of her, topless, the light bruises I'd left on her breasts were barely visible. I winced, just a little. Not that she had complained, but I should have had more self-control. Another text:

I love all the marks you left on me. I just keep looking at them, thinking about how primal you got with me. I've been wet all day today, daddy. I think you should take responsibility for that, don't you?

It was the first time she'd ever called me daddy. I could almost hear her hesitation through the text. I didn't normally mind being called that, but nor did it do a lot for me.

There was something quite different about Layla using the word, and it affected me.

Be careful what you call me, or you'll get more marks than you want, young lady.

A long pause then. I smiled. I knew that my words had shaken her more than she'd expected.

You wondered how old I was, last night. What if I was lot younger for you, tonight? Would you come over and be my daddy?

Well, I didn't take long to think that over.

Too right I will. I'll bring dinner, too.

I was answered with a picture of her biting her lip, a slight upturn indicating a naughty little smile. And then one more text:

Perfect. See you at eight.

And then she'd sent me her address, with a few hearts after it.

Things were moving quickly, now.

Layla - Middle Space

The previous night weighed on me like a physical thing. Part of me wanted to call Michael and confess everything to him. Part of me wanted to hide it, to keep the shameful secret inside of myself forever. Both parts wanted to beg him to fuck me again. I spent most of the day in a daze, just trying to get a few simple chores done and writing for the podcast, but eventually, I just gave up and started sending sexts to my father.

In my messages, I had acted like it was Michael's fantasy that I was catering to, but it wasn't. I didn't even bother trying to fool myself like I'd fooled him.

I'd always wanted my dad around when my mom and I had major disagreements. I guess that led to…different ideas, when I'd grown into my sexuality. I'd fight with mom, and then I'd storm off to my room. I'd need to relax, and I'd start fantasizing about running into my father's arms. He'd always be understanding, always take my side. He'd take me into his lap and I'd tell him what was bothering me. He'd be a great listener. I'd feel him stroking my hair and slowly, I'd relax.

For a long time that was where my fantasy ended. But, as I found the internet, and the idea of taboo fantasies, my imagination added more. As he stroked my hair, I'd fall into a drowsy state, not quite awake or asleep, then his hands would move. He'd touch me all over my chest and legs. His hands would travel up, between my thighs, until he reached my panties. He'd take them off, slowly. He'd leave me sitting in his lap, but he'd spread my legs to the outside of his. Then he'd tell me what a pretty little pussy I had, before he started fingering me.

The first time I let myself have this fantasy, I came so hard I almost blacked out. That changed my perspective. I had never shared this with anyone, but…it was in the back of my mind when I was getting ready for my second date with my own father. At first, for obvious reasons. I'd just had amazing sex with him the night before, after all. But then, as I started working on my makeup, I sort of felt my mind regress a little bit.

You see, I was always the same in my fantasies, even though I'd grown older. There was a part of my mind that ached to get the kind of validation and treatment that girls only got at a certain age. I wanted him to think I was smart, and pretty, of course, but I also wanted him to be indulgent of my immaturity, and my inappropriate flirtations. I wanted him to be too protective, not wanting me to date. I wanted him to get angry about how I dressed. I wanted him to lose control, and teach me a lesson about what happened to little sluts like me who got men all worked up. Then I wanted him to comfort me and tell me I was his good girl.

That was the fantasy I was working toward that night, but, like before, as I played him, I played myself. I took my time picking out the right clothes. Just the right blend of fun and slutty and slightly trashy. The kind of thing I had thought was sophisticated and sexy when I was younger.

I put on my makeup, going for the sexy gothic look that I'd perfected with my mother's help so long ago. But when I looked in the mirror, I didn't look right. I looked too…too old. Even though I risked being late, I cleaned it off, and started over.

As I applied my makeup, making my eyes look big and innocent, I started fully descending back into that idealized time that I'd never truly had. I thought about the kind of man I wanted as a daddy, and how much my actual father had turned out to fit that role. I emphasized my cheeks, just a bit more than normal, making myself look more youthful. And lastly, I made sure my lips were just a slightly too-bright shade of red.

I stood back and took in the whole picture. That's when I really knew what I was doing. I was a lure. An invitation. A younger man might find me hot, but an older man would know exactly what a girl like me wanted. What I needed. And maybe, if I was lucky, he wouldn't show me any mercy when he gave it to me.

I was in a mood. I took down a few framed posters and put up some other ones. Things that fit my younger frame of mind — loud pop art and posters for MCR and Type O Negative. I threw some gothic plushies around my small living room. Lastly, I grabbed a lollipop and smiled at myself, completing the scene.

I took one more look around, this time, much more carefully. In my excitement I had forgotten the most important step. I took down the picture of my mother that I kept at my bedside. Similarly, I grabbed the pictures on the fridge — they were of her when she had been younger, working on the set of various movies. Lastly I removed the collection of images and notes I had on the wall of my bedroom. They were of Michael, and were less of a shrine to him than an investigation file. Everything went rather carelessly into my bedroom closet. I finished closing it just in time. The doorbell rang.

I walked to the door, took a deep breath, and waited for him to ring the bell again. It wouldn't do to look too eager. On the second bell, I smiled and opened the door for my father.

"Hey, daddy," I said, before putting my lollipop back in my mouth and sucking on it audibly. My eyes were pools of innocence, but I was already soaking through my panties just standing under the fire of his gaze. Had he asked me, I would have begged him to wear what he already was: a black, three-piece suit, professional green tie, white shirt. All of it tailored precisely to the lines of his body that I was far more familiar with than I should have been.

I knew right away that we were going to fuck again, but I didn't suspect how it would make me feel, nor how far we'd go.

Even if I had, even knowing where it would take me, I don't know if I'd even be capable of making different decisions. All I can really be sure of is that I finally got what I deserved.

"Afternoon, Layla," Michael said, following me inside. He set a bag down that smelled amazing on my kitchen table, took off his suit coat.

For a long time, Michael just looked at me. He didn't leer. He simply looked. I stood still, as he walked a full circle around me, like he was evaluating a new piece of art for his living room, or a horse. I couldn't even breathe. I felt his judgement.

He touched me lightly on the small of my back. I gasped, but I knew what he wanted. I didn't need to be told. I stood up straight, arched my back a bit, thrusting my chest out. I forced myself to stand still. I wanted to shift from foot to foot. I wanted to turn and beg him to tell me what he was thinking. I wanted to just get on my knees. I felt so helpless and young in front of him.

It was exactly what I wanted.

When he finally stood in front of me again, one corner of his mouth rose in a wry smirk. He knew what he was doing to me! He knew that I needed more of…of last night and all he would do is give me a light touch on the back? It was so frustrating. I felt myself regress just a bit more. I'd been so self-assured just a few minutes ago, but now? Now I was just a brat who wanted attention from her daddy.

I let my posture slouch to one side, crossing my arms across my chest before sucking on my lollipop loudly and rolling my eyes dramatically. He knew what I was doing, and immediately played along. Or at least I thought he was playing.

"Do you have something you want to say to me, young lady?"

"As if you're even going to listen. You just showed up and already you're acting like a…"

"Like what, exactly?"

His tone was lower, almost a whisper. It was so threatening. I shivered, uncontrollably, but I wouldn't be intimidated.

"Like a fucking jerk! You think you can just come in my house and walk around like…ahhh! Daddy!"