I feel oversized and awkward sitting on his lap but that’s not why I’m scowling.
I think he’s enjoying this a little bit too much; smirking as he asks “Won’t this be fun?!….Oh, is it difficult? Do you not like it?” His questions are rhetorical and designed to make me squirm more. They work. “Don’t worry little one. I will help you with the big words.”
Nervousness swings me from whimpering fear to giggly attempts to dissuade him. “But…but…I like writing not reading. I like my words read to me, not by me…”
He pulls my hands away from my face and tells me straight “Read it…” adding a gentle “please” with an encouraging smile. His words inject the necessary brave; I return his smile and steel myself to speak.
I’ve known this was coming all day, my storytime with Daddy. Snippets of stories exchanged and collaboration made on my first attempt at fiction. Narrative drawn from the darkest recesses of my mind revealed a rather disconcerting imagination. I’d created a literary monster, a psychotic little girl trained by her Daddy, using my own Daddy’s words for his.
Between us we had crafted something dark, beautiful and disturbing; inspiring one another with the concept of the twisted Daddy/daughter dynamic. Weaving our ideas together to create our first instalment of their adventures.
The first words out of my mouth are hesitant. This writing is quite unlike anything I’ve produced before. Fiction brought a freedom to explore the most triggering of themes, to delve into the extremes. To play with the troubling fantasies I usually keep private. The things you would never actually do or want done, the fucked-up shit that you would never want to be real yet still…my mind wandered there more frequently than I would care to admit, with more sexual arousal than I was comfortable with.
He smiles at the blush of my cheeks. Delighting in the evidence of real nerves, a genuine boundary being breached.
I am very aware that I am about to reveal a deep dark sinister side.
Luckily I know he has one too and as my words start to take affect it becomes apparent. His eyes darken as he listens intently, allowing himself to be immersed in the story. Gentle strokes form sharp edges, his nails clawing down my arms. Growls rumble in his throat, peaking at descriptions of the most brutal acts.
He kisses me hard and deep before letting me finish. It takes no effort to focus on my delivery with his positive reinforcement. Even with his hand making warm circles between my thighs I ride the arousal and continue to speak with increasing flourish. The brutal imagery of my mind has power when transformed into prose and I feel it.
“I like to push you. It was a pleasure, watching you start all coy and then start to get into it.”
I confessed my most sinful of sinful thoughts and Daddy is pleased. I spoke even though my voice broke and I wanted to hide. I embraced the shamefully hot.
My reward for being a good girl is immediate, a rampant Daddy tearing at my clothes seeking to satisfy his lust, ramped up by emotive tales of violence. He’s rock hard when he enters me, fucking with the energy of a beast unleashed. I growl and thrash underneath him, pinned down and held in place.
Daddy gifted me words for the story, words he uses again to draw us into a dangerously hot and disturbing game of make-believe. “If you want to hurt the boys you need to know how it feels, don’t you?”
I don’t miss a beat, wanting this so hard I confirm “Yes Daddy, yes I do.” I know where this reference to our fictional world is leading, my engagement with the role play a very clear signal for him to continue. I urge him on silently, please Daddy, please hurt me like in the story.
His fist connecting with my face is the most exquisite pain. He starts with less force, tapping on my chin and cheekbone, building up, interspersing his punches with thrusts. Mixing up the pleasure pain until I am drowning in sensations, whimpering beneath him.
His punches are deliberate and direct. Soothing me with “Good girl” I keep calm, I keep taking the hits, each one satisfying something I crave. That crunch, the explosion, the connection. I flinch an involuntary flinch when I’m fooled by strokes, gentle caresses of my face that are indistinguishable from the punches until they connect.
Each time my head springs back from a strike I meet his intense gaze. I worry for a second that my sobbing will be misinterpreted as a signal of distress but he shows no sign of stopping, no remorse for pain inflicted. I believe he would keep going and going and a bubble of fear raises a question “Can I take it?”
A louder much more determined internal voice immediately answers “Yes”
It carries me through the final harder blows, the ones that rattle my jaw and spark white in front of my eyes. It carries me through as we play out our inspiration born of writing, born of inspiring each other to write.