It is always a pleasure to both my literary and switchy senses to read a collection curated by D. L. King. She finds and selects only the best erotica to suit the anthology—in this case a master collection of domination. The Big Book of Domination (Cleis Press) will leave Dominants, slaves and the rest of us on that spectrum twitching and trembling with desire. It includes some of the hottest work I’ve read so far this year, with many standout stories.
Enjoy this excerpt from “The Work” Andrea Zanin.
I knew it the second I laid eyes on him. That energy. That vibe. It’s hot and it’s dangerous. And it rarely shows up for me with men.
Oh, I’m careful. I don’t do a damn thing without getting the go-ahead. I didn’t get this far by lacking self-restraint and discipline. I get what I want because I’m smart and I’m patient, not because I reach out and take what’s mine before it’s freely offered. But make no mistake about it, that boy belongs to me. From the tips of his lily-white toes to the top of his shiny shaved head, he’s mine. Doesn’t matter that he’s gay and I’m a dyke. Doesn’t matter that he lives in a different country or that he’s ten years older than I am. Doesn’t matter that he’s never sucked any kind of cock that didn’t grow on its owner. I’m his daddy, and he knows it, and the fat head of my dick is going to find a very warm, wet, happy home a few inches down his sweet little throat someday very soon indeed.
We met at one of those stupid contests. You know, with all the weekend warriors wearing exactly the same expensive cow. A fucking herd, I’m telling you. I heard dykes were welcome at the after-party. Ha! Like they were doing us a favor or something. No wonder barely half a dozen of us showed up. I’da left except we saw each other across the room. Locked eyes. You can always tell when they’re hungry. Didn’t take long before he was buying me a beer and listening all attentive-like. Fine by me. I’m not rich. Plush hotel bars don’t sell cheap drinks. He’s some sort of big-shot American lawyer. This shit was pocket change to him. Wonder what his lawyer friends would say if they knew he was all tatted up under that Gucci suit, had a PA hanging like an anvil in his pants? Wonder what they’d say if they knew he flew to big cities all over the world on the weekends, trying to find a daddy who could fill him up and take him down? Wonder what the guys in that bar woulda said if they knew what was really going on between him and me?
But good daddies don’t fuck on the first date.
We kept in touch some. He wrote me the other day to say he was having a rough time. Had just come home from the hospital. I can read between the lines. Stupid, lying little sack of shit. “Accident” my ass. He tried to off himself. Do you know how hard that is for me? What the fuck was he thinking, the little punk? No, I didn’t want to go take care of him, hold his hand, make sure he felt okay. Hell no. It was all I could do not to hop on a damn plane, find my way to his swanky New York apartment, and bang on the door ‘til the maggot let me in.
And then, you bet your ass that Daddy wouldn’t be offering cuddles and cookies. Nuh-uh. This Daddy woulda given him exactly what he deserves: a right sound ass-whipping. No warm-up. Take his damn fancy jeans down to his knees, bend him over at the waist, and let loose on that pale, muscled little bubble butt ‘til it’s striped good and fair. After that, a lecture. Standard style, the kind that’s best aimed at someone whose ass is already smarting, but not hurting so bad that he can’t still feel the crack of my hand on his face too, while I hold him steady with a fist around the collar of his polo shirt. “You will never, and I mean NEVER, try to take what’s mine away from me, ever again. Is that clear, boy? IS THAT CLEAR?”
Then, I’d wait. Wait for the apology, for him to drop to his knees and blubber some. Push his nose into my crotch the way a good little boy does when he’s been taken down a peg or two. And then, do you think I’d let him get his mouth on my dick? Hell fucking no. My hard-on’s too good for a little fuckwad who can’t even be trusted to take care of his damn self. Not to mention that was a damn long flight. I’d throw some blankets on the floor for him if I was feeling real nice, lie down in the bed and have myself a deep long sleep. The next morning, the work would begin.
Yeah, I said work. What, did you think this Daddy shit was all fun and games? Did you think it was some sort of erotic role-play thing, that you flag hunter green for a few hours ‘til you get your dick sucked and then drop the hanky on the floor next to your boots at the end of the night? Well, you got another think coming. Oh, I sure do like getting my rocks off, don’t you worry, and there’s plenty of it that comes with the territory. A boy needs to know his place, and the simplest way to do that is to let him know just whose fun comes first and who has to work hard to get who off before anyone else gets off. That, and some good old-fashioned discipline. None of those pretty toys. My belt does the job just fine.
Yeah, sure, I get off. But mostly, I make sure that pansy-ass little shits like this one do the right thing in the world. The right thing, in this case, is some serious therapy. Progress reports. Maybe some happy pills to get him through the rough spots. Visits to the gym five days a week. Jerking off every Wednesday and Sunday. Vegetables. You heard me. Actual green ones, from a market, not a fucking can. Yes, every day. And a plane ticket after six months to come get a treat for good behavior.
What do you mean, what do I get out of it? You serious?
Okay, I’ll lay it out. All this stuff I’m talking about? This is foreplay. The day my boy is a man? Can stand on his own two feet? That’s the biggest fucking come of all. Cocksucking is fine and good. But this? This is sex.
You don’t have to get it. I do. He does.
But like I said. I’m a patient kind of gal. When my boy needs his daddy, he’ll call. Just like boys have been doing since pay phones cost a dime—since when there were pay phones. Since forever.
I can wait. Won’t be long now.
