“Come now my beautiful darkling, I think you’ve had enough. Let’s save some for later.”
I grip the eggs to me like the most precious bounty. No, I want more. Now.
“I founded them. They’re mine. I hunted them good Daddy.” I protest, folding my arms around the sickly treats, filled with the most delicious sweet goo. My plundered treasure sits in the nest of my crossed legs. I pull them protectively towards my chest, careful not to squish them, not to waste a single drop.
Daddy made them himself, a special Easter treat. I remember his firm words when I asked him, “Why do we do Easter? I thought we hated their nonsense lies.”
“They got this one festival right,” his tone was hard, “the ritual sacrifice of their power hungry ‘prophet’. That is worthy of celebration.” He spat words with absolute distain. Daddy was careful to explain the flaws in their teachings and what we could really learn from their attempt to control the world. What they did teach us, he said one night, was that death claims all. Even false gods.
Quickly I remember myself and the gravity of this lesson. I drop my gaze and thank him. Momentarily blinded by the feeding frenzy, that one that just makes the beast inside hunger for more.
He chuckles, forgiving my insolence on this special day. “You’re covered in it.” he tells me, wiping the muck away from my chin. It leaves a fine clear trail behind.
Once I discovered the special filling I’d been unable to hold myself back, to resist the temptation. I’d snatched as many as I could and began to devour. My sticky fingers and face a dead give away, coated with the viscous liquid.
Daddy slurps the excess from his drenched thumb and growls. He feels it too, the swirling desire amplified by the taste sensation exploding on his tongue. The month of fasting has been so long, we resisted with such devout dedication.
It makes this gluttony all the sweeter.
He holds himself back, rocking back on his heels to watch me feed, crunching the eggs in my fingers and dripping the innards into my hungry mouth.
I wonder at the volume of ingredients that Daddy must have needed, how long he’d been planning, collecting, cooking me up a feast, filling each of the eggs and then planting them, ready for me to hunt down.
Did he guess I’d be able to smell them, his tracking wolf-cub primed to recognise the sweetness?
My eager fingers pull and tear, breaking them open like a starved animal discovering her first fruit, desperate for the seeds inside, gulping them down with a fierce passion. Any hope to keep contained the richness of the prize inside falls by the wayside in my animalistic attack on the hollowed eggs.
I sit in a small puddle of victory, spreading out around me, soaking into my dress. The goodies crushed and discarded, each one drunk dry, what missed my mouth slopped down my front and onto the grass around me.
I lick each finger in turn, savouring every last drop.
“Here, let me help.” Daddy drops to all fours, stalking towards me, drawn in by the pervasive stench of his special treats, special Daddy treats, made by him especially for me. It fills my nostrils and coats my mouth, slick against my lips.
Lips that find my Daddy’s upon them, his cherished girl, so spoiled. His fingers scrape down my dress, scooping up the excess and forcing it into my mouth before kissing me again, over and over, making sure I enjoy every last morsel. “Happy Easter my dark princess.” He whispers. “I have more treats for you…”