Princess, Daddy and the Dope Fiend: A Love Story

Content warning-Drug use

She tells me she loves me even when she’s dope sick.

I hear her teeth chattering over the phone and close my eyes.

I remember in our huge empty apartment her quaking clenched body next to mine, her shaking bony fingers stroking me.

“I love your skin. I love your body. I love your skin. I love your body.”

She chanted in my ear while her fingers ran across my stretch marks then the stubble on my belly.

I have to come back to listen to her talking.

“Please, please come home. Daddy will buy you a plane ticket. I need you. I can’t without you.”

Daddy, of course Daddy factors in.

“I haven’t seen Daddy in a while how is he?”

Her voice loses the desperate edge and she replaces it with the horny Lolita tone that made me fall for her in the first place.

“He asks about you all the time. He misses us. He says I’m such a good girl with you. Come home baby. Please come home Princess. I bought you-“

she edges towards mania again. She’s for herself. For us.

“Stop. Go get straight. I’ll come home. Tell Daddy.”

I hang up. I knew before I put the phone down that I am fucking up.

Home is the apartment, it’s huge and on a middle floor of a high-rise full of urban assholes. And us.

Daddy is our patron, our Daddy, the man with the money. We met him when we were 23 and have been his and not his since. He likes to stay at our apartment when he’s in town, he likes to watch us play naked house.

He rarely has sex with either of us; he is a voyeur and a director. He likes to arrange scenes for us, give us new toys. Occasionally he brings us boys to abuse or other women to play with.

I’m going home.

I struck out on my own because of her habit. I sat Daddy down at a fancy lunch and explained everything. I sat there in pearls and a pale pink twin set talking about how much of a junkie our girl is and why I just couldn’t stay anymore.

Daddy only wanted to make it all okay.

He promised me that after some time away everything would be okay, he promised me an apartment and plenty of pocket money. I promised to be only a phone call away and when at said apartment ready to turn on the fancy web-cam he favors.

Outside of the fancy restaurant he held me and I cried openly against his jacket. Sometimes, after months of not seeing him physically the nearness of him, the tobacco smell of his coat is just too much.

And now this.

Now I promised I’m coming home and I don’t even know what to do with myself. She must have called Daddy to report because my phone starts ringing not even ten minutes later.

“Hello?”

“Hi. Do you want a plane ticket or do you want to take the train?”

I am not sure. I can’t make decisions right now beyond what panties to put on when I get close to home.

“Okay, I’ll get you a train ticket. Everything will be arranged, I promise everything will be fine.”

Daddy’s voice is so smooth and calm, I close my eyes and picture his stubbly face and deeply bowed mouth.

“Yes Daddy. When am I leaving?”

Sometimes I balk at how much control Daddy has over my life. I tell myself I’m going to quit. I won’t be his girl or anybody's girl. I’ll go out and get a job like a normal person and all that.

Then there are times like this when I need someone else to be in charge. When I need the auditory equivalent of his arm around my shoulders, holding me through my loud embarrassing tears.

Things are settled and Daddy instructs me to pack my bag take a pill and go to bed. Of course I do as I’m told.

As promised everything is okay. I print out my electronic ticket, I repack my few belongings and my laptop after having a quick call with Daddy. Gift cards in hand I go out to pick up sundries, snacks and the other assorted things I always forget to buy when traveling.

I’m looking forward to being anonymous and alone for three days, I have a private car, snacks and pocket money. I don’t bother to do anything with my hair except wrap it up in an ugly scarf. I wear cut offs and a ratty old t-shirt. I’m ready to hunker down for my journey home. I need to get my head straight. I need a plan.

After a couple of hours on the train I’m so sleepy, I find my tacky fleece drugstore blanket and curl up to watch the country pass by. My eyes drift. Inside the blur of the landscape I see her.

I remember her the day we met; she was as pale and translucent as milk glass. Her lips were chapped and we almost bumped foreheads. We came so close to kissing I squealed and she smiled. She gripped my shoulders with her long bony fingers and apologized in that raspy whiskey and phone sex voice.

She was my first girl. The first to eat my pussy, the first to roll me beautiful smooth joints and indulge my nascent feederism fetish. I remember her giggling as she spooned rich food into my mouth, one hand against my crotch so she would know what I really liked. When I was full she would rub my belly then put her ear to it.

Now there are tears. I cry ugly, rocking back and forth in my berth and snotting all over my blanket. I want so badly for things to be like they were. I want us to frolic naked for Daddy, I want to lean her over the desk so he can look in her eyes while I fuck her from behind until she's drooling and crazed.

I can't let myself hope. I have to prepare myself. The reality is that she is probably at home running around after popping a few uppers, she's frantically cleaning and looking for empty pill bottles to throw away before I get home. Or she'll be overwhelmed and weeping, ready to confess how may roxies she took or bought.

I have to realize that this time, this time it is probably it. I will stay for a while, listen to her cry and moan. Feel her clutching me and telling me how much she loves me when she's dope sick and too freaked out to do anything but cling to me.

At some point there are no more tears. I can't cry for us anymore. I steel myself as a night and day pass. I know I should shower; I stink and forgot clean panties. I smell like fear and mourning. I convince myself of my own impending widowhood.

Daddy picks me up at the station. I know how ugly I am right now. My hair is a mess, I reek, I look as strung out as she's likely to be. Daddy knows, he holds me tight and kisses me gently. He chuckles at my ashy knees. I am escorted into his car and he turns the radio on to spare me any small talk.

Backpack in hand I kiss him goodbye at the door and ready myself for anything.

The door opens and there she is, too thin and milk pale. She pulls me inside by my waistband and falls to her knees in front of me burying her face in my crotch. I feel her inhale deeply; she has a thing for my special stink. The apartment is clean and airy, the sun is shining inside and I am afraid to hear what she's going to say.

I close the door and back away from her, I'm shaking and crying.

“I'm home.”

She stands up and tilts her head until we're eye to eye. Her hands are warm as they snake into my shirt to feel my belly.

“You lost weight Princess.”

I clear my throat.

“Are you high?”

I close my eyes; I know she won't lie so I wait.

“No Princess.”

Her lips touch mine and I inhale her breath. There's no stink of hunger or vomit, no taste of snorted coke. I open my eyes and hers are clear, her lips are moist and soft. She pulls me to the pile of cushions we keep on the floor and strips me. She strokes my skin and intones,

“I love your skin. I love your body. I love your skin. I love your body.”

The desperation is gone. The brittle edge of dope sickness is gone.

“I love you Princess, even when I'm not dope sick.”