Chapter 1: Introduction
I sit in my old worn leather chair in the living room, A gift from my late wife Alice over 20 years ago, staring down at my coffee. I sit in a dirty undershirt and boxers unable to fins the will to get dressed, my face course with scruff, I haven't shaved since the funeral eight days ago.
The house is quiet, too quiet. It's always been a big house, but now it feels like a fucking cathedral. I can hear every creak, every groan, every goddamn tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway. It's like the house itself is mourning, echoing the emptiness inside me.
The door swings open and in walks May, my daughter. She's got her mother's fiery hair, wild and untamed, falling in loose curls around her shoulders. But her eyes, they're mine. Piercing blue, sharp as a hawk's.
She's got that same look my mother used to give me when I was being an idiot. Which, let's be honest, was most of the time. But May, she's different. She's got a strength about her, a confidence that's new. Or maybe it's just more visible now that her mother's gone.
"Morning, Dad," she says, her voice clear and bright, like she hasn't just lost her mother. Like she hasn't spent the last week watching me fall apart. She's wearing one of her mother's old dresses, a soft yellow thing that used to make my wife glow. On May, it looks like Alice did back when we were young.
Before the kids, before the business took off, before life got... complicated. It's strange seeing my daughter in her mother's clothes, but there's something comforting about it too. Like a piece of Alice is still here, in this house, with us.
May crosses the room, her bare feet padding softly on the hardwood floor. She picks up the remote from the coffee table, turns off the news I've been half-watching, half-ignoring. "You need to get up, Dad," she says, her tone matter-of-fact. No sympathy, no coddling. Just a statement of fact.
Like she's telling me it's time for dinner or that I left the iron on. I look up at her, this girl who's suddenly all grown up, and I feel a pang of something. Pride? Fear? I'm not sure. Maybe both.
"I don't want to get up, May," I say, my voice gruff. I run a hand through my hair, realizing too late that it's probably greasy. When was the last time I showered?
May rolls her eyes, a gesture so familiar it almost makes me smile.
"Well, you're going to anyway," she says, pulling me to my feet before I can protest. I stumble, caught off guard by her sudden strength. She's always been a strong-willed kid, but physically, she's got her mother's slight build. Or so I thought.
"You're not going to mope around this house all day, Daddy," she continues, pushing me towards the staircase. "You need a shower, and then we're going out."
I dig my heels in, literally and metaphorically. "Out where?" I ask, my voice laced with skepticism.
The last place I want to be right now is out in public, surrounded by people who'll either pity me or avoid me because they don't know what to say.
May stops, turns to face me. Her expression is serious, her eyes steady. "We're going to the club, Dad," she says, like it's the most normal thing in the world.
I blink at her, taken aback. "The club?" I echo, my brain trying to catch up. "What club?"
May smirks, a mischievous glint in her eye. "you are taking me dancing, we are going to the city so no-one will know you there and they will just see you out with something young and pretty.
You need to get out of this house, you need to live again."
I stare at her, dumbfounded. "May, I'm not going to a club," I say, my voice firm. "I'm not ready to... to move on." The words leave a bitter taste in my mouth. How can I move on when Alice is barely cold?
May's expression softens, but only slightly. "I know, Dad," she says, her voice gentle. "And you don't have to. But you can't stay cooped up in this house forever.
You need to start living again, even if it's just one step at a time. And besides," she adds, a playful twinkle in her eye, "when was the last time you had fun, Dad?"
I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. I can't remember. Not really. It's been years since I've done anything remotely resembling fun. Work, grief, responsibility - those have been my constants. Fun? That's a foreign language.
May must see the struggle on my face because she sighs, her expression turning serious again. "Look, I know this is hard.
I know you miss Mom," May says, her voice softer now. She sits down on the arm of my chair, her hand resting gently on my shoulder. "But she wouldn't want you to stop living, Dad. She loved you too much for that."
I look away, blinking back tears. May's right. Alice was always the life of the party, even when it was just the two of us. She'd drag me out to dances, concerts, even stupid carnivals just because she knew I'd enjoy myself once we were there. She'd want me to keep living, to keep experiencing joy.
Even if it's just a dance in some random club. So, I take a deep breath, steeling myself for whatever this night might bring.
"Alright, May," I concede, running a hand through my hair again. "Let's go to this club. But I'm not making any promises about having fun."
May grins, her eyes lighting up. "That's the spirit, Dad!" she exclaims, clapping her hands together. "Now, go shower. You smell like a brewery."
I chuckle despite myself, shaking my head as I make my way upstairs.
May's always had a way of cutting through the bullshit, even when she was just a kid. I guess that hasn't changed.
The hot water of the shower does wonders for my mood, washing away some of the grim that's settled over me these past few days. I stand under the spray, letting it pound against my skin, until the water starts to turn cold.
I enter my bedroom where may has laid out a steel grey dress shirt and nice black pants with a belt and and crew socks she stands holing a brush looking at me despite me wearing only a towel.
"you need to shave" she says pointing at my face. I look in the mirror and see the scruffy face of a man who hasn't cared about his appearance in days. I nod and grab the razor and shaving cream from the bathroom cabinet. May watches me as I shave, her eyes following the blade as it moves across my jaw.
"you look better already" she says smiling. I roll my eyes at her but can't help but smile back. Once I'm done shaving I put on the clothes she picked out and look at myself in the mirror.
I look... presentable. Not great, but not like I've been living in a cave for the past week either. May nods approvingly when I walk back into the bedroom, her eyes scanning me from head to toe.
"Much better," she says, gesturing at the bed wielding her hairbrush. "now sit."
May commands, patting the edge of the bed. I comply, feeling a bit like a child being told to sit for a haircut. May stands behind me, her fingers combing through my damp hair, detangling it with surprising gentleness.
"So, tell me about this club," I say, breaking the silence. "What's it called? What kind of music do they play?"
May pauses, her fingers stilling in my hair. "It's called 'Ink & Vinyl'," she says, resuming her brushing. "They play everything - rock, pop, even some oldies.
But mostly, they play what gets people moving," May replies, her voice thoughtful. She's sectioning off my hair now, her movements precise and practiced. I wonder how many times she's done this for her friends, for Elizabeth maybe.
"And what about you, May?" I ask, changing the subject. "What do you like to listen to?"
May smiles, her reflection appearing in the mirror as she leans down to meet my gaze. "I like it all too, Dad. But my favorite is probably alternative.
You know, the stuff Mom used to listen to when she was younger."
I nod, a small smile playing at the corners of my mouth. Alice was always into the alternative scene, even when it wasn't exactly mainstream. She'd drag me to concerts, make me listen to bands I'd never heard of, and before long, I'd be hooked too.
May finishes brushing my hair, her fingers lingering on my scalp for a moment before she steps away. I stand up, running a hand through my now-tame locks, and turn to face her.
"Thanks, May," I say, meaning it. It's been a long time since someone took care of me like that. Since Alice...
May just smiles, tucking the hairbrush under her arm. "No problem, Dad," she says, turning towards the door. "Come on, let's go. We don't want to be late."
I follow her downstairs, grabbing my wallet and keys from the bowl by the front door. The house feels different somehow, lighter. Maybe it's just the fact that I'm finally leaving it after days of being cooped up, but I think it's more than that.
There's something about May, about her determination to pull me out of this funk, that's starting to work.
As we drive into the city, the streets filled with neon lights and bustling crowds, I can't help but feel a spark of excitement. It's been so long since I've felt anything but numbness and grief that this tiny ember of emotion feels like a bonfire.
May directs me to a parking garage near the club, her eyes scanning the street signs with ease. She's always had a knack for directions, even as a little girl.
I remember when she was just five, she'd insist on navigating our family road trips, her nose buried in the map, her tiny finger tracing routes with unwavering confidence. Alice used to joke that May would make a better cab driver than a lawyer someday.
The club is nestled in a narrow alleyway between two towering buildings, its entrance marked by a simple black sign with white lettering: 'Ink & Vinyl'. There's a line outside, a mix of people in jeans and t-shirts, others in dresses and suits. I glance at May, raising an eyebrow.
"You sure about this, May?" I ask, gesturing towards the line. "We could always find somewhere less... crowded."
May rolls her eyes, looping her arm through mine. "Don't be such a party pooper, Tom," she teases, pulling me towards the bouncer. "Besides, I know the guy working the door. We won't have to wait."
I follow her, feeling a bit like a fish out of water. The last time I was in a club like this, I was May's age. And even then, I was dragged by Alice.
She was the social one, the life of the party. I was just the guy who tagged along, content to watch her shine. The bouncer, a mountain of a man with a shaved head and a thick beard, nods at May as we approach. "Hey, May," he rumbles, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Long time no see." May grins up at him, her eyes sparkling. "Hey, Jake," she says, giving him a quick hug. "This is my date, Tom." Jake turns his gaze to me, his expression serious.
"Take good care of her, Tom," he says, his voice low. "She's special."
I nod, feeling a swell of pride. "I will," I promise, putting a protective hand on May's lower back.
Jake steps aside, unclipping the velvet rope to let us pass. The bass of the music hits us as soon as we step inside, a pulsing rhythm that seems to vibrate in my chest. The club is dimly lit, the walls adorned with vintage album covers and neon graffiti.
Strobe lights flicker across the dance floor, illuminating a sea of writhing bodies. I scan the crowd, feeling a mix of awe and apprehension. It's been so long since I've been in a place like this, surrounded by so much energy, so much life.
May, however, seems right at home. She tugs at my hand, pulling me towards the bar. "What do you want to drink, Dad?" she asks, her voice barely audible over the thumping bass.
I hesitate, considering my options. I have gone through so many beers since Alice passed.
The ones I kept in the fridge, the ones I bought on impulse at the store, the ones I drank alone in the dark. But tonight, I don't want beer. I want something stronger, something that might help me forget, if only for a little while.
"Whiskey," I say, leaning into May's ear. "Neat."
May raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment. Instead, she orders herself a vodka cranberry and pays the bartender before I can reach for my wallet. I make a mental note to reimburse her later.
We carry our drinks to a high-top table near the edge of the dance floor, the music throbbing beneath our feet. I take a sip of my whiskey, feeling the burn as it slides down my throat. It's been a long time since I've had anything this strong, and I can feel it already, warming my belly, loosening my muscles.
May watches me, her eyes curious. "So, what do you think, Tom?" she asks, swirling the ice in her glass. "Not so bad, huh?"
I look around, taking in the scene.
The club is packed, a sweaty mass of bodies grinding to the beat. Strobe lights flash, casting eerie shadows on the walls covered in band posters and neon graffiti. The air is thick with perfume, sweat, and the faint tang of weed. It's overwhelming, but there's an energy to it, a pulse that's contagious.
May's watching me, waiting for an answer. I take another sip of my whiskey, feeling it loosen my tongue. "It's... different," I admit, my voice barely audible over the music. "I forgot how...
alive it feels," I finish, gesturing vaguely at the crowd. May grins, taking a sip of her drink. "Different good or different bad?" she asks, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.
I consider her question, swirling the amber liquid in my glass. "Different good," I decide, surprising myself. "It's feels like a long time since I've felt... this." I wave my hand around, indicating the noise, the chaos, the sheer energy of the place.
May nods, satisfied. "I thought you might like it," she says, her voice smug. "Mom used to love places like this.
Remember?" May asks, her voice softening as she looks out at the dance floor. I follow her gaze, remembering Alice's face, flushed and laughing as she danced, completely uninhibited.
"Yeah, I remember," I say, a small smile playing at the corners of my mouth. "She'd drag me to these kinds of places all the time. Said I needed to loosen up."
May laughs, a sound that's both familiar and new. It's the laugh of the little girl who used to chase fireflies in our backyard, but also the laugh of the woman she's becoming.
I look at May, really look at her, and realize that she's not just Alice's daughter anymore. She's her own person, with her own experiences, her own desires. And she's determined to help me find mine again.
"Dance with me, Tom," May says, draining the rest of her drink and setting the glass down on the table with a decisive click. Before I can protest, she grabs my hand and pulls me onto the dance floor.
I stumble after her, feeling clumsy and out of place among the gyrating bodies. May doesn't seem to notice or care.
She spins around, her fiery hair whipping through the air, and grabs my hands, placing them on her hips. She starts to move, her body swaying to the music, and I can't help but follow her lead. It's been so long since I've danced with anyone, since I've touched anyone like this, and the contact is electric.
"Just relax, Tom," May says, her voice close to my ear. "Feel the music."
I try to do as she says, focusing on the beat pounding through the soles of my shoes, up my legs, into my chest.
I move tentatively at first, my body stiff and uncoordinated. May rolls her eyes, grabbing my hands and placing them firmly on her waist.
"Like this," she says, demonstrating with her own hips. "Loosen up. Let the music guide you."
I take a deep breath, trying to ignore the stares of the people around us. I'm sure we make an odd pair - the middle-aged man and the young woman, dancing together in a club filled with people half my age. But May doesn't seem to care, and slowly, I find that I don't either.
I focus on the music, on the feel of May's body moving beneath my hands, and let everything else fade away. The strobe lights flash, painting our faces in stark whites and blacks, and I can't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.
May grins up at me, her eyes shining with approval. "That's it, Tom," she says, her voice barely audible over the music. "Let go."
And so, I do. I let go of the grief that's been weighing me down, the guilt that's been gnawing at me. I let May in to help fill that gap that has been hurting so much I cant function, She wont ever replace Alice but maybe I can go on for her.
I can live again.
The song changes, the beat slowing down, the tempo becoming more sensual. May's hands slide up my arms, her fingers linking behind my neck. She presses closer, her body fitting perfectly against mine. I can feel her heart beating against my chest, her breath warm on my neck. I wrap my arms around her, holding her close, and we sway together, lost in the music, lost in each other.
"See, Tom," May murmurs, her lips brushing against my ear, "this isn't so bad, is it?"
I shake my head, unable to speak.
It's not bad at all. In fact, it's... exhilarating. Being here with May, dancing, laughing, it's like a part of me that's been frozen for months is finally thawing out. I feel alive again, and it's terrifying and wonderful all at once.
May pulls back slightly, her eyes searching mine. "You okay, Tom?" she asks, her voice soft. I nod, swallowing hard. "Yeah, I'm... I'm good," I manage to say, my voice gruff with emotion. May smiles, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Good," she says, her voice barely audible over the music. "Because I have a surprise for you."
Before I can ask what she means, she takes my hand and leads me off the dance floor, weaving through the crowd with ease. I follow her, feeling a mix of curiosity and trepidation. What could she possibly have planned next?
We push through a set of heavy velvet curtains, stepping into a quieter, dimmer space. It's a lounge area, filled with plush couches and low tables. A few couples are scattered about, engaged in hushed conversations or intimate embraces.
May leads me to a couch tucked away in a quiet corner, far enough from the main room that the music is reduced to a dull throb rather than a pulsating heartbeat.
"What's going on, May?" I ask, sitting down beside her. I can't help but feel a sense of unease, a prickling at the back of my neck. This feels like more than just a dance, more than just a night out. This feels significant.
May turns to face me, her expression serious. She takes a deep breath, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her dress.
"Tom, I need to talk to you about something important," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. I raise an eyebrow, surprised. This isn't like May to be nervous. She's always been the kind of person who speaks her mind, no matter what the consequences.
"What is it, May?" I ask, my voice gentle. I reach out, covering her fidgeting hands with mine. She looks up at me, her eyes wide and uncertain. "I've been thinking a lot lately, about Mom, about you..." she trails off, her gaze dropping to our entwined hands.
I squeeze her fingers gently, encouraging her to continue. "About what, sweetheart?" I prompt softly.
May takes a deep breath, her eyes meeting mine again. "About how you've been coping since Mom died," she says, her voice steady now. "And how I think I can help."
I lean back against the couch, surprised. "Help?" I echo, my brow furrowing. "What do you mean, help?"
May shifts in her seat, turning her body to face me fully. "I mean, I think you need to start living again, Dad," she says, her voice firm. "Really living. Not just going through the motions," May clarifies, her eyes locked onto mine. "And I think I know a way to help you do that."
I raise an eyebrow, intrigued despite myself. "Oh yeah? And what's that?"
"You need someone to hold your reigns, and that is me."
May's voice is steady, her gaze unwavering. I blink, taken aback by her boldness. "Excuse me?" I ask, leaning back slightly. May rolls her eyes, her expression turning impatient. "You heard me, Tom," she says, using my name instead of 'Dad' for emphasis. "You've been lost since Mom died. You need someone to guide you, to help you find your way back to yourself." I stare at her, speechless. This is not the conversation I expected to have tonight.
I thought we'd dance, maybe have a drink or two, and then call it a night. But May has other plans, it seems. Plans that involve her taking charge, guiding me back to some semblance of a life. I'm not sure how I feel about that.
"I appreciate your concern, May," I begin, choosing my words carefully. "But I'm not sure I need someone to 'hold my reins.' I'm a grown man, capable of making my own decisions."
May sighs, her shoulders slumping slightly. "I know that, Tom," she says, her voice softer now.
"But sometimes, even grown men need a little guidance. Especially when they've been through what you have." She reaches out, her fingers brushing against my cheek. "You've been stuck in this cycle of grief and guilt for over a week now. It's time to break free, Dad. And I want to help you do that."
I look into her eyes, seeing the sincerity, the determination there. She genuinely believes she can help me, that she can pull me out of this darkness I've been drowning in. And despite my reservations, I find myself wanting to believe her too.
There's something about May's conviction, her absolute certainty that she can help me, that makes me want to trust her.
"But how, May?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. "How do you propose to help me?"
May smiles, a slow, secretive curve of her lips that sends a shiver down my spine. "Well, for starters, I will be in charge, Tom," she says, her voice low and sultry.
I blink, taken aback.
"In charge?" I repeat, my voice barely audible over the dull throb of the music from the main room. "What do you mean, May?"
May leans in closer, her eyes gleaming with a intensity I've never seen before. "I mean, I'll be the one calling the shots, Tom," she says, her voice low and steady. "You'll do what I say, when I say it."
I stare at her, shock coursing through me. This is not the May I know, the sweet, fiery-haired teenager who loves alternative music and has a penchant for bossing her friends around.
This is a woman, confident and assertive, who knows exactly what she wants and isn't afraid to go after it. And right now, she wants to help me, in whatever way she thinks is necessary.
I swallow hard, my mind racing. "And what happens if I refuse, May?" I ask, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me. "If I don't want to do what you say?"
May's smile widens, a hint of challenge in her eyes. "Then you'll lose the privilege of having me help you at all, Tom," she says, her voice cool. "I lost mom too, not just you." May's voice is firm, her eyes flashing with unshed tears. "And I've watched you suffer for weeks, Tom. I can't stand by and do nothing anymore."
I look at her, this young woman who's become a stranger to me in the past few weeks. She's always been strong-willed, but this... this is something else entirely.
"And what if I don't want your help, May?" I challenge, my voice low.
"What if I want to figure things out on my own?"
May's expression softens, but her resolve remains unchanged. "I understand that, Tom," she says, her voice gentle yet firm. "But sometimes, we need a little push in the right direction. Sometimes, we need someone to show us the way when we can't see it ourselves."
She takes my hand, her fingers intertwining with mine. "I want to be that person for you, Dad. I want to help you find your way back to the light. Without me, you are just going to keep wallowing in your own filth."
I look down at our joined hands, her skin warm and smooth against mine.
Her fingers squeeze mine gently, a silent plea for understanding. I take a deep breath, considering her words. Part of me wants to reject her offer outright, to tell her that I don't need her help, that I can handle my own grief. But another part, a smaller, quieter part, wonders if she might be right. Have I been stuck in this cycle of grief and guilt for too long? Have I been so focused on my own pain that I've forgotten how to live?
I look back up at May, her eyes searching mine.
"Why do you want to do this, May?" "Why do you want to help me like this?"
May's expression softens, her fingers tightening around mine. "Because I love you, Tom," she says, her voice steady. "And because I know what it's like to lose someone you love. I don't want you to suffer any longer."
I stare at her, taken aback by the raw honesty in her voice. This is not the same girl who used to roll her eyes at my lectures or sneak out to meet her friends.
This is a woman, fierce and determined, who's seen her fair share of pain and is ready to fight her way out of it. For me. "And what does this entail, exactly?" I ask, my voice measured. "What kind of 'help' are you offering?"
May's eyes gleam with a spark of excitement, a hint of the old May peeking through the serious facade. "Well, for starters, you'll do what I say, when I say it," she repeats, her voice firm.
"No questions asked."
I raise an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. "Is that so?" I ask, my tone playful. "And what if I happen to disagree with your orders?"
May's eyes flash with a challenge, her lips curving into a confident smile. "Then you'll face the consequences," she replies, her voice low and sultry. "And trust me, Tom, you won't enjoy them."
I feel a shiver run down my spine at the promise in her voice, a mixture of anticipation and apprehension coiling in my stomach.
I've never been one for games, especially not ones that involve power dynamics and consequences. But there's something about May's confidence, her unwavering belief in her ability to help me, that makes me want to play along. At least for now.
"So, what's my first order, May?" I lean back against the couch, crossing my arms over my chest in a display of casual nonchalance. May's eyes narrow slightly, as if she can see right through my act.
"First, you'll stop drinking," she says, her voice firm.
"No more sneaking beers in the middle of the night, no more using alcohol as a crutch to cope with your grief." "That's it?" I ask, a hint of skepticism in my voice. "My first task is to stop drinking?"
May nods, her expression serious. "Yes, Tom. That's where we start. No more numbing your pain with booze.
You're going to face it head-on, with me by your side."
I raise an eyebrow, surprised by her demand. "And what if I refuse?" I ask, testing her resolve.
May's expression doesn't falter. "Then you'll spend the night cleaning the house from top to bottom. Every room, every surface. And you'll start tomorrow morning."
I chuckle, shaking my head. "You're serious, aren't you?"
"Deadly," she responds, her eyes unwavering. "I won't let you use alcohol as a coping mechanism anymore.
You're stronger than that, Tom. You deserve better than self-destructive habits."
I look at May, her fiery hair cascading over her shoulders, her eyes burning with determination. She's right, of course. I've been using alcohol as a crutch, a way to numb the pain of losing Alice. But it's time to face my grief head-on, to truly mourn her and move forward.
"Alright, May," I concede, my voice steady. "No more drinking. I promise."
May's face breaks into a wide smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Good boy, you earned a treat later." May's voice was playful, but there was a steeliness underneath that made it clear she wasn't joking. I raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.
"A treat, huh?" I teased, leaning back against the couch. "And what exactly does that entail?"
May's eyes gleamed with mischief, her lips curving into a wicked grin. "You'll have to wait and see, Tom," she said, her voice low and sultry.
"But trust me, you'll enjoy it."
I couldn't help but feel a flicker of anticipation at her words. Despite the gravity of our conversation, there was something undeniably exciting about this game we were playing. I found myself looking forward to whatever 'treat' May had in mind.
"Now, onto the next rule," May continued, her expression turning serious once more. "You'll start eating properly again. No more skipping meals, no more living off takeout and coffee."
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "May, I'm not a great cook.
You know that," I protested, but May was having none of it.
"That's why I'll be cooking for you," she replied, her voice firm. "Every meal. And you'll eat what I make, without complaint."
I raised an eyebrow, surprised. "You're going to cook for me?" "I am," May confirmed, her eyes steady. "And in return, you'll eat three healthy meals a day, no excuses."
I leaned back against the couch, considering her demand.
"And what if I don't like what you cook?" I challenged, a smirk playing at the corners of my mouth.
May rolled her eyes, a hint of the old her shining through. "Then you'll learn to appreciate it, Tom," she said, her voice firm. "You're not a picky eater, and I'm not going to let you turn into one now."
I chuckled, shaking my head. "Fine, fine," I conceded. "Three square meals a day, cooked by you. I can handle that."
May nodded, satisfied. "Good.
Now, onto the next rule," May said, her voice taking on a more serious tone. "You'll start exercising again. Regularly."
I groaned internally, already dreading the thought of early morning runs or trips to the gym. "May, I'm not exactly in my twenties anymore," I protested. "I can't just jump back into a rigorous exercise routine."
May waved a dismissive hand, her eyes narrowing. "I'm not talking about marathon training, Tom. Just a simple walk or jog every other day, something to get your blood pumping and your endorphins flowing.
It'll do you good, trust me." Her gaze softened, a hint of concern in her eyes. "You've lost weight since Mom passed, and not the healthy kind. We need to get you back on track."
I sighed, knowing she was right. I hadn't been taking care of myself, not really. I'd been existing, going through the motions, but not truly living. "Alright, May," I agreed, my voice resigned. "I'll start walking again. Happy?"
May's face lit up, her eyes sparkling with triumph. "Very," she said, her voice smug.
"Now, last rule. You'll start seeing a therapist."
I raised an eyebrow, taken aback. "A therapist, May?" I echoed, my voice skeptical. "You think that's necessary?"
May's expression turned serious, her eyes imploring. "Yes, Tom, I do," she said, her voice steady. "Talking to someone professionally can help you process your grief, work through your feelings. It's not a sign of weakness, it's a sign of strength."
I looked at May, her fiery hair framing her face, her eyes filled with concern.
I knew she meant well, but the idea of spilling my guts to a stranger felt daunting, to say the least.
"I don't know, May," I hedged, running a hand through my hair. "I'm not really the therapy type."
May's expression didn't waver. "And what type are you, Tom?" she challenged, her voice firm. "The type that bottles up his emotions until he explodes? The type that uses alcohol to numb his pain? the type that abandons his daughter when she need him most?
Is that the type you want to be, Tom?"
Her words hit me like a punch to the gut, a harsh reminder of the man I'd become since Alice's passing. I'd been so consumed by my own grief, so focused on my own pain, that I'd neglected May, pushing her away when she needed me most.
I looked at her now, her eyes flashing with anger and hurt, and felt a pang of shame. She was right, of course. I hadn't been the father she needed, not since Alice died. But I could change that. I wanted to change that.
I wanted to be better, for May, for myself. And if that meant seeing a therapist, then so be it.
"Alright, May," I conceded, my voice steady. "I'll see a therapist."
May's face broke into a wide smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Good boy," she said, her voice softening. "I'm glad you're willing to try, Tom. Really."
I reached out, covering her hand with mine. "Thank you, May," I said, my voice sincere.
"For everything. For being here for me, for pushing me to be better."
May's smile softened, her eyes warming. "That's what family is for, Tom," she said, her voice gentle. "We're in this together, remember?"
I nodded, squeezing her hand. "Together," I echoed.
May glanced at her watch, her expression turning thoughtful. "It's getting late," she said, her commanding. "you are going to drive me home now." May's voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. May's eyes narrowed, a hint of challenge in their depths.
"Then you'll spend the night sleeping on the couch, Tom," she replied, her voice cool. "And trust me, you won't enjoy it." "Fine, fine," I conceded, standing up and offering her my hand.
"Let's get you home, then."
May smiled, taking my hand and allowing me to help her up. As we walked towards the exit, I couldn't help but feel a sense of unease. This new dynamic between May and I was both intriguing and unsettling. I wasn't used to being told what to do, especially by my daughter. But there was something about her confidence, her unwavering belief in her ability to help me, that made me want to trust her.
As we stepped outside into the cool night air, May turned to face me, her expression serious.
"Remember, Tom," she said, her voice low and steady. No more late-night binges. You promised."
I nodded, holding her gaze. "I remember, May," I said, my voice firm. "I won't drink tonight. Or any other night, for that matter."
May's lips curved into a small smile, a hint of approval in her eyes. "Good boy," she said, her voice softening. "I'm proud of you, Tom. For trying, for agreeing to this... arrangement."
I chuckled, running a hand through my hair.
"So, what's next, May?" I asked, as we pulled out of the club parking lot. "Any other rules I should know about?"
May turned to face me, her expression thoughtful. "Well, there is one more thing," she said, her voice hesitant. "But it's... different. More personal."
I raised an eyebrow, curious. "More personal than ordering me around and dictating my diet and exercise routine?" I teased, glancing at her out of the corner of my eye.
May rolled her eyes, "you are new to this so I will forgive the sass, when I call you tom you are to listen, if we are discussing things you can be dad." She paused, "but when I give you an order, you will address me as Mistress."
I nearly choked on my saliva, "Mistress?" I repeated, my voice laced with disbelief.
May nodded, her expression serious. When I'm giving you orders, you will address me as Mistress. It's a sign of respect, and a way to establish our dynamic."
I shook my head, still struggling to wrap my mind around this new development. "I'm not sure I can do that, May," I admitted, my voice hesitant. "It feels... strange."
"You will do it and you will like it, Tom" May's voice was stern, brooking no argument. "It's part of the process, part of submitting to me. You'll find that it helps you let go, gives you permission to surrender control."
I took a deep breath, considering her words. I'd never been one for power dynamics, never been interested in the whole BDSM scene. But May seemed to know what she was talking about, and I trusted her. I wanted to trust her, to give this a real shot. "I'll try it.
For you, May," I said, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me. "I'll call you Mistress when you give me orders."
May's face broke into a wide smile, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Good boy, but next time remember to call me Mistress"
We drove the rest of the way to May's apartment in comfortable silence, the radio playing softly in the background. As we pulled up to my house.
May turned to me, her eyes serious. "Remember, Tom, no alcohol tonight. I'll be checking in on you later."
I nodded, "I remember, May. I won't drink."
May's lips curved into a small smile, "Good boy. Now, come inside. We have some things to discuss."
I followed May into the house, our footsteps echoing in the quiet halls. The once grand Victorian mansion now felt cold and empty, a stark reminder of the void left by Alice's passing.
May led the way, her heels clicking against the hardwood floors, her fiery hair cascading down her back. I followed, my footsteps heavier, my heart pounding in my chest.
We entered the study, a room that had once been filled with laughter and warmth, now shrouded in a thick layer of dust and sadness. May turned to face me, her eyes scanning the room, taking in the disarray.
"This place is a mess, Tom," she said, her voice firm. "When was the last time you cleaned?"
I shrugged, running a hand through my hair.
"I haven't really felt like cleaning, May," I admitted, my voice soft. "Everything just feels... pointless, somehow."
May's expression softened, her eyes filled with sympathy. "I know, Tom," she said, her voice gentle. "But that's exactly why we need to start making changes. We can't let this house, this life, fall apart any further."
She turned to face me, her eyes determined. "So, here's what we're going to do. Tomorrow, we'll start cleaning this place from top to bottom.
You and I, together," May declared, her voice resolute. "We'll tackle one room at a time, and we won't stop until this house looks and feels like a home again."
I looked around the study, the dusty bookshelves and cobwebbed corners, and felt a pang of unease. The thought of spending hours cleaning, of confronting the ghosts of my past that lurked in every corner of this house, was daunting.
"And what about today, May?" I asked, my voice hesitant.
"What do we do tonight?"
Mays eyes are lit up looking right through me. "Tonight you are going to follow me to my room." I raised an eyebrow, surprise etched on my face.
"And why would I do that, May?" I asked, my voice laced with curiosity.
May's lips curved into a small, mysterious smile. "Because I said so, Tom," she replied, her voice steady. "And because you promised to follow my rules."
I hesitated for a moment, considering her words. I had promised to follow her lead, to submit to her guidance. And while this particular request was unexpected, I trusted May. I wanted to trust her.
I wanted to believe that she knew what she was doing, that she had my best interests at heart. So, I took a deep breath and nodded, following May up the creaking staircase to her bedroom.
The room was much as I remembered it - a chaotic mix of teenage girl and adult woman. Clothes neatly laid across the bed, books piled high on the nightstand, and posters of indie bands and feminist icons adorning the walls. But there was also a new addition - a large, ornate wooden trunk sitting at the foot of the bed.
It was intricately carved, with brass hinges and a heavy lock securing its contents. I raised an eyebrow, my curiosity piqued.
"What's in the trunk, May?" I asked, nodding towards the mysterious piece of furniture.
May turned to face me, her eyes gleaming with a hint of mischief. "That, Tom, is where I keep all my... tools," she said, her voice low and sultry. "for now, have a seat on my bed." May gestured towards the neatly made bed, her eyes never leaving mine. I hesitated for a moment before doing as she instructed, perching on the edge of the mattress, my back stiff and my hands clasped tightly in my lap.
May watched me, her expression inscrutable, before turning her attention to the trunk. She knelt down in front of it, her movements graceful and fluid, and began to fiddle with the lock. After a few moments of tense silence, the lock clicked open, and May threw back the lid, blocking me from seeing what is inside. "Sit still tom." May commanded, her voice firm. I shifted uncomfortably on the bed, my eyes darting from May to the open trunk and back again. What was she planning? What did she have in there?
May reached into the trunk, her arm disappearing up to her elbow as she rummaged around. I heard the rustle of fabric, the clink of metal, and then, finally, she emerged with an object in her hand.
It was a pair of silk scarfs one red and one dark blue, both semi transparent. May held them up, letting them dangle from her fingertips, a small smile playing on her lips.
"These are for you, Tom," she said, her voice soft. "one is a blindfold." "Blindfold, May?" I echoed, my voice laced with skepticism. "That's Mistress, Tom" May corrected, her voice stern. "And yes, a blindfold. It's important for you to learn to trust me, to surrender control completely. And the first step in that process is to trust me with your sight."
I hesitated, considering her words. Trusting May was one thing, but trusting her with my sight, my vulnerability, was another matter entirely. But I had promised to follow her lead, to submit to her guidance. And so, I took a deep breath and nodded.
"Alright, Mistress," I said, my voice steady despite the butterflies churning in my stomach.
May—no, Mistress—smiled, her eyes softening for a moment before she regained her composure.
"Good boy," she murmured, standing up and approaching me. She held out the red silk scarf, her fingers brushing against mine as I took it from her. "Put it on, Tom. Tie it securely around your eyes."
I hesitated for a moment, the soft fabric a stark contrast to the rough texture of my calloused hands. Then, with a deep breath, I brought the scarf up to my eyes and tied it securely behind my head. The world went red, I could still see shadows of the room around me and could make out May-Mistress's silhouette. "Mistress I can still see." I say cautiously.
"I can still see outlines."
Mistress May chuckles, a low sound that sends shivers down my spine. "That's alright, Tom. For now, just focus on what you can hear, what you can feel." She takes the second scarf, the dark blue one, and gently ties it around my wrists, binding them together in front of me. The silk is smooth against my skin, the knot secure but not too tight.
"There," she says, her voice satisfied.
"Now, lie back on the bed, Tom."
I hesitate for a moment, my heart pounding in my chest. I'm blindfolded, my wrists bound, and I have no idea what Mistress May has planned. But I trust her, I remind myself. I trust her to guide me, to help me through this.
So, I take a deep breath and lean back, feeling the soft mattress beneath me, the cool cotton sheets against my skin. I hear Mistress May move around the room, her footsteps soft on the carpet, the rustle of fabric as she moves.
I strain my ears, trying to pinpoint her location, but she's silent, her movements deliberate and calculated. I take a deep breath, focusing on the sensation of the silk scarf against my skin, the cool air against my exposed arms.
Suddenly, I feel a warm, soft touch on my forehead, tracing the line of my eyebrows, the curve of my cheekbones. I flinch slightly, caught off guard by the sudden contact, but Mistress May's touch is gentle, soothing.
She traces the line of my jaw, her fingers light as they brush against my skin. I can feel my body beginning to relax, my muscles uncoiling as I surrender to her touch.
"Shh, Tom," she whispers, her voice low and calming. "Just feel. Don't think."
I take a deep breath, focusing on the sensation of her fingers against my skin. They're soft, almost delicate, but there's a strength underlying them, a firmness that belies their gentleness.
They trace the line of my throat, the hollow at the base, the dip between my collarbones. I can feel my heartbeat quickening, my breath coming in short gasps as her touch ignites a fire within me.
"Breathe, Tom," Mistress May whispers, her voice barely audible. "Just breathe."
I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart, to focus on the sensation of her fingers against my skin rather than the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions swirling through my mind.
Mistress May's touch is maddeningly slow, infuriatingly deliberate, as if she's teasing me, drawing out the anticipation.
She traces the line of my sternum, her fingers dipping briefly into the dip of my belly button before continuing their journey south. I can feel the heat building in my core, my cock twitching in response to her touch. I shift uncomfortably on the bed, my bound wrists twisting as I struggle to maintain some semblance of control.
"Stay still, Tom," Mistress May commands, her voice firm.
"Don't fight it."
I take a deep breath, trying to obey her command, to still my restless limbs. Her fingers continue their torturous path, circling my navel, dipping briefly into the waistband of my pants before retreating again.
I can feel the heat building, my cock straining against the confines of my clothing. I bite back a groan, my hips lifting involuntarily as I seek out her touch.
Mistress May chuckles, a low, sultry sound that sends shivers down my spine.
"Impatient, aren't we?" she teases, her fingers dancing along the edge of my pants, never quite touching where I need them most. "Patience, Tom. Good things come to those who wait."
I grit my teeth, Mistress is my daughter, I shouldn't be responding to her like this.
But my body doesn't seem to care about the taboo, it's reacting to her touch, to her commands. I take a deep breath, trying to regain some semblance of control. "Mistress, please," I beg, my voice ragged.
"you will get your treat soon for being a good boy" mistress says while she slowly undoes one button on my shirt.
My breath hitches as her fingers graze my chest, sending electric shocks through my body. She continues this agonizingly slow process, undoing each button with meticulous care, her knuckles brushing against my skin.
I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, my breath coming in short gasps. I'm acutely aware of every inch of my body, every nerve ending alive and tingling. I'm completely at her mercy, bound and blindfolded, and it's both terrifying and exhilarating.
Finally, she reaches the last button, and my shirt falls open, baring my chest to her touch.
I can feel the cool air against my skin, raising goosebumps, but it's nothing compared to the heat building inside me, fueled by her slow, torturous exploration.
Mistress May runs her fingers lightly over my pecs, tracing the lines of muscle, circling my nipples but never quite touching them. I can't help but arch into her touch, seeking more, needing more.
"Sit still Tom, I wont tell you again." She says and I freeze. My body hums with anticipation, every fiber of my being focused on her touch. She takes her time, exploring my chest, my abs, her fingers tracing patterns on my skin that send shivers down my spine.
I can feel the heat building, my cock throbbing in my pants. I'm aching for release, desperate for her touch, but I know better than to ask. She's in control, and I'm at her mercy.
She leans over me, her breath hot on my ear. "You're doing so well, Tom," she whispers, her voice low and sultry.
"You're learning to let go, to trust me."
I swallow hard, my throat dry. "Thank you, Mistress," I manage to choke out, my voice barely above a whisper.
She pulls back, her touch leaving me, and I can't help but let out a small sound of protest. She chuckles, a low, husky sound that sends a jolt of electricity straight to my groin.
"Patience, Tom," she reminds me, her voice firm.
"We're not done yet."
I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart and focus on her words. She's right; we've only just begun. I force myself to relax, to surrender to her control, to trust her to guide me through this.
Mistress May stands up, her movements graceful and fluid. I can hear the rustle of fabric, the soft thud of something hitting the floor. I strain my ears, trying to decipher what she's doing, but she's silent, her actions deliberate and calculated.
Suddenly, I feel something cold and metallic against my chest.
I flinch, caught off guard, but Mistress May's hand is firm, pressing the object into place. It's a necklace, I realize, the cool metal a stark contrast to the warmth of her fingers as she fastens it around my neck.
"It's a collar, Tom," she explains, her voice soft. "A symbol of your submission to me. You wear it to show that you belong to me, that you trust me to guide you."
I reach up, my bound hands fumbling with the cool metal, tracing the intricate pattern etched into it. It's beautiful, elegant, and surprisingly heavy.
I can feel the weight of it around my neck, a constant reminder of my new role, my new dynamic with May—with Mistress. I swallow hard, my heart pounding in my chest. This is real. This is happening.
Mistress May steps away, her footsteps soft on the carpet. I hear her rummage through the trunk again, the rustle of fabric and the clink of metal filling the silence. I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart, to focus on the sensation of the collar around my neck.
Suddenly, I feel her hands on my shoulders, strong and firm. "Arms up." Mistress May commands, her voice firm. I comply, lifting my arms above my head, my bound wrists still secured by the silk scarf. She tugs at the hem of my shirt, pulling it off me in one swift motion leaving it tangles around my wrists. I feel the cool air against my bare skin, raising goosebumps.
Next, she reaches for my belt, her fingers deftly unbuckling it. I'm acutely aware of every movement she makes, every brush of her fingers against my skin. "You are to wear your collar whenever we are home alone, and if you need it removed you come to me, I am the only one who is allowed to remove it, Understand Tom?" Mistress May asks, her voice stern.
"Yes, Mistress," I reply, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me. I can feel the weight of the collar around my neck, a constant reminder of my new role, my new dynamic with Mistress.
Mistress May nods, satisfied with my response. "Good boy," she murmurs, her voice softening for a moment before regaining her composure. "Now, let's get you comfortable."
She unzips my pants pulling them down off my legs with my boxers. My erection springs out as soon as it is freed. "I knew you needed this Tom, be a good boy and say thank you." Mistress May says, her voice low and sultry. I blush, my cock throbbing at her words. I've never been spoken to like this, never been treated like this. It's humiliating, degrading, and yet, I can't deny the effect it's having on me.
"Thank you, Mistress," I mumble, my voice barely audible.
"That's a good boy," she purrs, her fingers trailing down my chest, over my abs, and finally wrapping around my cock.
I gasp at the sudden contact, my hips bucking involuntarily. She chuckles, a low, sultry sound that sends shivers down my spine.
"Easy, Tom," she murmurs, her grip tightening slightly. "We're just getting started."
I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart, to focus on the sensation of her hand around me. She strokes me slowly, her thumb tracing the vein on the underside of my cock, her palm rubbing against the sensitive head. I can feel the pleasure building, my body tensing as I get closer and closer to the edge.
Mistress May's touch is expert, her strokes steady and sure, driving me towards release. But just as I'm about to tip over, she stops, her hand leaving me completely.
"No, please," I beg, my voice ragged. "Please, don't stop."
I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart, to focus on anything but the ache in my groin.
Mistress May chuckles, a low, sultry sound that does little to ease my discomfort.
"Tom, you don't get to tell me what to do."
I grit my teeth, my fists clenched at my sides. "What else do you want from me, Mistress?" I growl, my voice laced with frustration.
Mistress May pauses, her fingers stilling on my chest. "Respect, Tom," she says, her voice suddenly serious. "Respect for yourself, respect for me, and respect for this dynamic we're building.
You may be my father, but in this room, you are my submissive. You will address me as Mistress, and you will follow my rules."
I take a deep breath, her words sinking in. Respect. That's something I've been lacking lately, not just for others, but for myself. I've been wallowing in grief, neglecting my responsibilities, and pushing people away. Maybe May—Mistress—is right. Maybe this is what I need to snap out of it.
"Understood, Mistress," I say, my voice steady.
I take a deep breath, trying to center myself, to accept this new dynamic between us. It's strange, this reversal of roles, but there's a certain comfort in it, a sense of structure and purpose that I've been missing.
Mistress May smiles, her eyes softening for a moment before she regains her composure. "Good boy," she murmurs, her fingers resuming their slow, torturous path down my chest, over my abs, and finally wrapping around my cock once more.
This time, she doesn't stop. She strokes me steadily, her grip firm, her rhythm measured.
I focus on her touch, on the sensation of her hand around me, the friction building with each stroke. I can feel the pleasure coiling in my core, my body tensing as I get closer and closer to the edge.
"Remember, Tom," Mistress May whispers, her voice low and sultry, "you don't come until I say so."
I grit my teeth, my fists clenching at my sides. "Yes, Mistress," I grind out, my voice strained. It's torture, this slow build-up, this denial of release.
Every stroke of her hand brings me closer to the edge, only to pull me back at the last moment. I'm panting, my body coated in a fine sheen of sweat, my muscles taut with the effort of holding back.
"Please, Mistress," I beg, my voice ragged. "Please, let me come."
Mistress May pauses, her hand stilling on my cock. "Why should I, Tom?" she asks, her voice calm and collected, a stark contrast to my own desperate state.
I swallow hard, trying to form a coherent thought.
Chapter excerpt truncated at the edge.