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It had taken her husband four months and sixteen days to first bring up the prospect of divorce. It had been a joke, of course. She’d been sad, and tired, and dangerously close to that point when she started to revert to a less mature version of herself ridden with tendencies towards the dramatic.
It had happened after a party –her husband’s colleague’s birthday party– where she had been offered to hold the man’s baby, a sweet happy-go-lucky little pile of chubby folds and high-pitched laughs.
But the baby had been fussy in her arms, pulling on her hair and kicking around, struggling to get away from her.
“He must be hungry.” The mum had said with an apologetic smile.
“My wife is not good with kids. Only child, the centre of the universe, you know?”
It was a joke that wasn’t a joke.
It was a joke that had been made using every single insecurity her new husband knew about her baked into a perfectly bitter tart, delivered along with the humiliation of tearing up in front of a bunch of strangers.
“It was just a joke, Lin. Jesus, I’d never have married you if I’d known you couldn’t take a simple joke.”
Her teary eyes, hand following the flat plain of her stomach.
“Oh don’t be dramatic, honey. Someone would think I threatened divorce. Give me a kiss, c’mon. I hate seeing you so sad, you look like a kicked puppy.”
Three months later and the joke had left the realm of humour and manifested itself into a pile of white crisp papers on top of her bedside table.
The twenty-three year old divorcee. Oh, what a joke.
And like the kicked puppy she really was, she'd done what she promised herself she wouldn’t do. She’d packed her clothes, her jewellery, and trinkets. Her old dog with his tendency to get car-sick, to chew on her shoes and to eat anything off the floor— and she’d booked a plane home.
Well, her father’s home.
It was hard to explain what could have compelled her father to leave the comforts of his charming terrace house in Kensington to move full-time into his summer villa in Majorca. The island’s charm always seemed to work better on Alina, the little girl soaking in the sun, the long walks through the pine forest surrounding the property, their late evening excursions to the secret cove hiding just beyond her father’s property lines. Her father had seemed to enjoy it only through his daughter’s eyes, the wonder and happiness of a child who had not started living until she had come into his hands at the ripe age of fourteen.
Remembers the frozen expression on his face, that first week, eons ago, when he’d found her under the lacquered iron table sitting on the edge of the sunroom eating raw, wild olives she’d picked from a tree she’d climbed under the pressing heat of an early morning sun.
“I’m sorry, sir. I wa’ a little hungy.”
Remembers his big hand curling around hers, not an ounce of anger in his dark eyes. His open mouth, a question more than a demand. The tiny green olive she placed there, the way he carefully chewed like a man in search of a secret.
“So resourceful, my daring darling.”
The wild beating of her heart, the warmth that grows within.
“Look at this little stinky boy. Do you not wash him, Alina? Give him here, go on.”
It’s hard to tell if he looks older or younger here, with his sunglasses and his linen shirts. He’d driven himself to pick her up from the airport, just as she knew he would, not a man to keep a lot of people around. ‘It’s good to be resourceful, Alina. No matter how much money you have.’ he had told her that time she asked, almost admonishing in his assurance.
Her dog is a traitor, loves her father more than he’s ever loved her. Tail wagging a mile a minute when he’s picked up, a noisy tongue all over the man’s face, his almost greying beard. Alina can’t fault the tiny Judas, she’d do the same if she could.
“Alina,”
Her name a million different words as he looks her up and down, not missing a single thing.
She feels like crying again, like getting on her knees and begging for him to fix whatever is broken within her.
“It’s nice to have you back. I like the hair.” A small smile, the one that means there’s a secret hiding against his cheek.
Just like he’s always done, he places her dog and her bags into the car, everything in its right place. She stands there, in the heat of the day and the humiliation of every failed decision, and waits for instructions.
When he’s done, the smile is back and his arms are free to hold her face, to place a soft kiss over her forehead. To lift her legs until she’s clinging to him and he’s carrying her small, sad body into the car. His body the solid constant she remembers, the hint of pine and rosemary on his skin and she could weep, she really could, if he doesn’t walk away.
He lowers her carefully into the passenger seat, fastens her seatbelt and places a second kiss to her forehead. His lips close enough to her ear she can feel the stress indentations his teeth have left behind there.
“Don’t worry now, baby. I’ll take care of everything.”
“I’m– I’m embarrassed, this is embarrassing. You have to give me that at least.”
Carefully, he tips her glass on its side, pouring a generous amount of white wine into it, a few pieces of bread and some veggies making their way to her empty plate. Her hands are never busy around him, he’s careful to do everything he can to avoid her having to make any decisions, no matter how small.
“Nothing to be embarrassed about, darling. It’s not your fault, these things happen.” They sit side by side, arms touching and legs resting against each other. Her dog, traitorous thing he is, begs to be let up into his lap.
She drops a tart oily olive into her mouth, careful not to make any noise while she chews.
“I’m divorced, not even six months after eloping. I have the right to be embarrassed about that, daddy.”
His fork makes a subtle noise against the spotted ceramic plates but he eats quietly as she speaks.
“Not divorced, sweetheart. The marriage has been annulled.”
“No, I signed—“
“And what did I tell you about signing things without my permission, huh?” His teeth look dangerous against the fragile rim of the glass. “It’s been handled, no divorce.”
She turns on her seat, closer, even closer like this, his big hand now at the back of her neck, a calming touch.
“How— It’s not possible–,”
It’s not the dog who gets his wish because, in an instant, she’s the one sitting on his lap. Hands and skin all around her, welcome heat and familiar comfort. The tip of a finger presses faintly against her nose and she melts.
“You’re young and rich, Alina. From the very beginning his intentions were not honest, anyone would agree with that. That’s why he chose to take you away instead of marrying you in a church, with your father there, like a proper man, yes?” Her unruly hair is tenderly pushed away from her eyes, the darkness he’s harbouring in his the only reason she remains quiet. “Now it’s all behind you, daddy told you he would fix it and he did. Now eat your veggies, please.”
I asked him to marry me. I wanted to elope. I couldn’t bear to see you there.
Not another father handing her over like trash.
“Do you love him? Is that why?” A hint of anger among his careful questions, his fingers tight around the long silver handle of his fork.
Perhaps to someone else she would lie and play the perfect wounded wife but lying to him had never come easy to her.
“I don’t like failing at things, I don’t want people to think I can’t make a marriage work.” She knows how she sounds, petulant, spoiled, selfish. Doesn’t care much for appearances when she’s comfortably sitting on daddy’s lap.
“No one knows, so don’t worry about that.” He says with a careful smile and a carrot pressed into her pink lips. “It could never be your fault, he was just a silly boy, that’s all.”
It’s infuriating, how little he thinks of her. Little princess would never ruin a marriage. Little princess would never steal from his wallet or cut off the buttons on his favourite shirt. Little princess has done no wrong, seen no wrong, heard no wrong.
“It wasn’t, not this time. ” She refuses to bend but accepts a small piece of cucumber, placed carefully over the curved tip of her tongue, his fingers coming back wet with her spit.
“He did something wrong. I know he did.”
“No he didn’t. It was my fault, daddy. I did it, I—“
He moves, rearranging her body on her lap, her ass a little to the left, her back flushed to his chest and it’s so hot out here in the cobblestone patio, even at night, and she’s too old for any of this but–
“You did nothing wrong, baby.” He’s angry he might as well be biting the words into her neck. Rowdy pup, stay down.
“But I did!” She yells, flushed, angry. She could choke on the rage boiling its way up her throat. “I wanted a baby, and I— He didn’t want to give me one. Not yet at least and I— I’m not good at waiting.”
His hands show the agitation within as he holds his glass up and gulps down a generous sip of wine. Then, he turns that glass on her, making her drink from where his lips just warmed the rim. She can’t help it, looks and looks into his dark eyes as she accepts his offer, the warmth of the wine soothing the rage, the darkness in his eyes soothing her aching limbs.
“No decent man would deny his wife a baby, Alina.”
I didn’t give him a choice.
“I told him I was on the pill, but I wasn’t. He was always careful, I had to work really hard to get him to lower his guard but—“
“Alina, that’s enough –“
“I told him I was into it, roleplaying, things to do with his– his thing.” Her nose scrunches at the word, a dirty word.
She’s a weird little child, that one.
Didn’t speak until she was three, used to stare at her toys for hours without touching a single one of them.
Issues with other kids, she doesn’t share well with others.
And then of course, when she was a little older, the reason she was handed over to this father.
She gets into fights, broke a girl’s nose.
Uncivilised.
Spoiled.
Temperamental.
Weird.
“I paid for the house, I paid for his car and clothes. And he still refused to give me a baby. He married me, he said– He said forever but–”
Cradled closer, her face nuzzled into the crook of his neck, where he smells of summer and that body-wash he buys whenever he visits Marseille. The only place she’s ever felt safe and cherished, here between his arms, resting against his warm torso, his powerful frame.
“Settle down now.” He murmurs against her ear, rough catch in his voice. “I’ve handled it and now we will forget all about that boy, you hear me? You have all summer to rest, we’ll figure it out.”
There’s no we, Alina wants to scream. There’s only him, with her a mere extension of him, as it has always been. As it should be. Daddy decides and daddy does, and her? She just follows.
“I don’t want more food. I’m tired now.”
“Petulant today, huh? We need to get some nice food and sunshine in you and you’ll be back to your usual self in no time.”
A kiss against her collarbone and she sighs, letting the words float around her head in a cloud of nothing.
Her usual room is still as it was when she was younger. Pink and cream bedding on an iron frame of white lacquered details. There’s a mural on the wall, soft pastel strokes of a woman tenderly holding a white bunny on her lap, its soft ears laid back against its own fur. She has loved that bunny since the first time she walked in this room, its delicate, menacing face, red eyes flickering with the rage of the world.
Maybe the bunny didn’t want to be held, maybe it was scared of being given a good thing only for that good thing to be taken away at any given moment. She’d thought, when she first saw it, the summer right before her 15th birthday, when being away from her new father for more than a handful of hours would send her into a spiral of rage and anxiety.
It’s a nice room, but she can hardly remember a time she’s slept in it for longer than a nap.
Tonight will be no different, she won’t fight it. She takes a shower, brushes her teeth and puts on some sleeping clothes. Her dog is asleep on his bed, peaceful at last, while Alina pads her way out of her room and into the room next door.
The door has been left ajar for her, her side of the bed blissfully empty and beaconing her in like a promise.
“Daddy,”
“Come here, you.”
He’s sitting on the bed, thick rimmed glasses balanced on the tip of his nose as he reads one of his long novels. He’s soft, despite the harshness of his world, the words she hears him speak to others, the decisions he’s had to make along the years. He’s soft with her.
Delicately, she sits on the bed, shoulders shaking with the coldness seeping from her soaked hair. He just hums, stands up and brings over a soft towel to rub against her scalp and she melts back into it.
I’ve missed you every second of every day, daddy.
Her head empty, finally. After almost a year of running around the world, of trying to make something of herself.
She’s finally nothing again.
“Are you– are you disappointed?” She dares to ask, much later, on her side on this big bed meant for him and a mythical perfect woman who could please him enough to tempt him into marrying. A question whispered against his beating heart.
“You could never disappoint me. I’m just glad to have you back, baby.”
The truth about him –about them– is complicated.
Dirty, ugly secrets and nasty deals behind closed doors.
Had known him when she was a child but he was just Mr Morozova back then. It’s hard to remember him then, young, cheeky . Twenty-something years to her ten, always so attentive, always asking. ‘Did you have a good day, miss Starkov?’, ‘I hear you play piano now, miss Starkov. Might you play for us sometime?’. Her other father, on the few occasions she had met him, had talked of the young Morozova like he might someday own the world, and the accompanying rage that would elicit was more than enough to scare Alina to death.
Her other father had been a figure of terror and coldness. A man shackled with the responsibility of owning a child he hadn’t wanted.
Alina had met him less than twenty times before being passed over to Mr Morozova. (Aleksander, you can call me Aleksander. No, daddy. Okay, as you wish, Alina.)
Her other father’s last words to her had been, “Give the child a good washing, I want her to at least look presentable when she leaves this place.”
She thinks her nanny might have cried. Or maybe it had been the cook, it was hard to tell.
But a string of bad behaviour at school had finally yielded the reaction Alina so yearned for. Her biological father had looked at her, finally. But upon looking he’d found her lacking.
Rehoming, private adoption. Call it what you will.
It hadn’t taken long, for the starved child to latch on to her new father. Less than a week and she’d started to get private lessons instead of attending school. Started to sneak into his bed at night. Started to sit by the shower while he washed himself, asking questions to avoid the uncertainty of silence.
How could she do otherwise when his first words after meeting the sad wilted flower dropped right on his doorstep had been: “Welcome home, Alina. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Now his little flower is petulant. Wants something else for breakfast.
“And what’s wrong with weetabix? A perfectly good breakfast, you like it, c’mon.”
“Soggy.” She mumbles, playing with the spoon while his hands tug gently at her hair. Up, and over, and down, and under. Two perfect braids and two green hair ties with little pom-poms on them and her husband had wanted her to open an investment portfolio.
Ridiculous.
This is it. She won’t be able to leave again. She’s not that strong.
A kiss, on the back of her head this time. His thumb on her throat, on that hollow spot that feels funny when he fingers it, no matter how carefully.
“Toast? Banana?” He asks, accepting her whims once again. “Oh there’s lemon tart. The cook, Berta, she made it with lemons from that tree we planted when you were younger. Do you want some of that?”
His little flower blooms at the prospect of eating the juicy, orange-yellow fruits of her own making. Her mark on this place. Content at the thought of him tasting her here, even while she’s been away trying to prove to the world and him that she could be a big girl.
The sourness of her lemon tree and the sweetness of his imported brown sugar all in a perfect bite of unity. Oh and a layer of lemon buttercream on the top.
“Sugar monster.” He chuckles, eyes crinkling when he says it. Proud .
“Just like you.” She replies, a big smile on her lips. Her first big smile since she left him.
“Oh so it’s my fault now, is it?”
He places the neat little portion on a small round plate with yellow spots and uneven edges and takes a seat in front of her on the small round table. The morning sun shining through the open window. Neither of them are early risers, their definition of morning bleeding into lunch-time for the rest of the world.
She sits there, like a good little plant of soft young branches, face to face with the man that watered the trees and made sure to pick only the juicy, ripe lemons, and asked for them to be baked into a neat little tart. She sits there with her fragile leaf of a heart and her tender little mouth full of sour-sweet-bitter-love and bites into the offered treat with her front teeth first. She sits there and thinks of making an even bigger mess of things and how much that might cost her and how much might she gain from it all.
“I might never find the nerve to leave again.” She didn’t mean to say it, not to him, but the words float around the room, not quite a threat but—
“I won’t put a leash on you, Alina.” He says, all seriousness, even with a piece of white lemon cream stuck to his beard.
“Why not?” The words stumble out and run free and can she be expected to behave, on her own? Why not force her into it? What’s the harm in that, really?
“I’ll wait for you instead, how about that? I’ll wait for you to come back.”
And he means it, but what does he mean, really? Wait like a father, like a man, like a lover?
Wait for what? For her to make her own way in the world?
Because she’s afraid the only way she might find her path is to be dragged there by the hair.
Alina lounges by the pool, listens to Aleksander reading his novel out loud to her. Lazy, sleepy, so so tired. It’s interesting, the novel, about a boy and his mother and his aunt and the lies one tells one’s children. And it’s Christmas, in the story, and it turns out the boy has never known who his father is because everything he knows about his father is actually a lie. No one tells him that. The novel ends and the boy still has no idea who his father really was.
It’s a happy ending, somehow.
“Do you have any secret children out there, daddy?” She asks, turning lazily onto her back, skin glistening under the sun and the sticky mess the sunscreen has left behind.
“Ha . You think me capable of hiding a secret like that? Another child? I’d be talking about it constantly.” He replies, lips curling at the corner in disbelief.
“And why not?” She asks, trying to fake nonchalance. “I’m grown now, you could have a baby.”
Say no, say no, say no, say no.
He removes his sunglasses and tosses them somewhere near his feet, the sound of the hard plastic hitting the floor almost startling, but nothing is as startling as his hand burying itself on the back of her hair. She’s pulled forward, forced to hold the weight of her torso from her waist.
“You’re my whole world, baby. You understand that, right? Because some of these questions… It’s making me wonder if you actually understand or if you’re still under the impression that I care about anything else but you .”
“Don’t you want more? A–” The word is stuck in her throat but she braves it. “A wife, a– A normal life, right? You could have all that and more.”
“You are more, more than enough.” He replies, and he must mean some of it at least, hand tightening on her hair, blunt nails digging into her scalp.
She feels grounded by the weight of his stare, the anger he’s been showing her lately. It seems like a sign of something , the fact that she’s been given access to his rage.
“You know what I mean.” She says, squirming on her spot on the sunbed, only a tiny bikini and three layers of sunscreen to protect her from the world. “Look at me , you could have a proper family, a real–”
He stops her, moves her smaller frame until she’s laid belly up and vulnerable, pushes her back into the sunbed with a knee between her legs. Anger boiling over now. Her words hit a nerve this time.
“I’ve looked, Alina. I’ve seen all of you and I’ve never looked away, can anyone say the same? Can you?”
It’s painful, to stop herself from pushing him away. Physically, emotionally, he’s suffocating. He offers too much and asks for nothing in return. What kind of love is that? What kind of love is enough to satisfy a man like that? Wants to ask but she won’t , she won’t, she won’t.
Instead she savours his words, laps on them like a thirsty wild animal. They’re sweet, and romantic, and a little degrading. All of those things together on the tip of her tongue.
She takes a deep breath, her chest expanding with it, and she lets herself relax and let go. Let go of everything she’s been holding so tightly and feel the warmth of his skin on hers, the sunbeams of paradise on her closed lids, the pride of being his. No matter what. Alina Morozova. No one can take that away from her. Not even her.
Lets the experience of being close enough to touch the sky sink into her and bloom.
Days bleed into weeks. They swim together, his hands on her hips as she opens her eyes under the surface and looks at the tiny red and brown crabs running along the seafloor. They visit the secret cove a few times, her dog almost ecstatic to bark at the rocks and gently lapping waves until Aleksander has to run into the water to bring him back to shore. Soaking, flushed, out of breath as the dog’s tiny legs kick and scratch his soaking chest.
He looks adorably angry at the tiny brave beast. This man, god this man , how could any man look like that? And, no matter how wrong, how twisted and dirty and freakish, how could she not notice? His chest, his arms, the dark hair growing there. His strong legs, his swim-trunks clinging to his hips.
“Do you ever discipline this dog, darling? He’s positively wild.”
It startles a laugh out of her, the idea of her disciplining something.
“Next time I’m not jumping in to get him, he either swims or sinks. He’s not my problem. Oh you’re laughing, you think this is funny?”
Alina can’t help it. The liquid happiness of seeing him so carefree and human and here.
And hers.
Sometimes, during those long summer months, he takes her dancing. On Tuesdays they go into town and visit a restaurant that turns into a club at night. Her father is an excellent dancer, and Alina knows that. It’s easy, dancing with him, letting him lead, following the natural flow of his body.
She feels closer than ever to him there, on the dance floor under the flickering lights.
He calls her Mrs Morozova when they’re out like that.
Not ‘my daughter’ to his friends. ‘My girl’, ‘my Alina’.
She knows what people must think. Relishes in resting her head over his chest and imagining she’s one of the people looking at them. This handsome older man with his wide shoulders and careful words. She looks at them from the outside and sees herself small and fragile between his arms. Watches herself like this, spinning, chasing him, soaking up all his attention.
It’s a pleasant view.
They make a beautiful couple, the daughter thinks.
She’s never been good at waiting. But she has waited for this feeling to go away for so long that now the longing feels like it’s stuck sideways inside her throat.
There’s no way to get it out. She can hardly swallow it, it’d burn, would destroy her inside. Can’t spit it out either, she doesn’t want it gone, after all.
At bedtime, he brushes her teeth.
It’s a new thing, he’s been taking over more and more tasks as the days grow colder. Clipping her nails, washing her hair, choosing her clothes and tidying up after her.
Saying, with his actions, this is my baby. This is the center of my universe. I’d feed her before taking a single bite myself. I’d think of her even in dreams. I’d keep her inside my pocket and carry the weight of all she is for the rest of my life.
Tonight he stands tall behind her in his big, open bathroom. The shape of his body visible behind her in the mirror as he brushes her teeth gently. His eyes watching hers in the mirror, hers watching his hand hold her jaw open.
The man’s thumb –her father’s thumb– it’s obscene.
Watches him watch her touch the hollow spot over her collarbones with a curious finger. Just to see what he’ll do. What he’ll say.
He hums, an approval of sorts.
A reward ? Maybe he— Could he—Her heart beats faster and she squirms under his gaze, heat growing, almost boiling point.
Carefully, she puts her fingers over the soft slope of her breasts and strokes them. They feel nice, soft and supple and sensitive, and her nipples quickly harden under her touch. Blooming for herself but most importantly, for him. There’s really no point in denying it, the fact that she exists only for his satisfaction. That everything she does is a performance for his gaze and his approval. Maybe girls with more to lose would pretend otherwise but she’s always felt only vaguely shaped like a girl, more of a child who was never held enough or cuddled enough. Little pieces put together clumsily.
So it’s not embarrassing to her, putting on a show for him, her whole life has been a rehearsal for this very moment.
Gently, she caresses her soft hollow belly next, her bellybutton. After careful consideration she looks up and watches him in the mirror, black eyes focused only on her mouth. His thumb holds her lower lip down as he brushes, left to right, up and down. Careful of her gums.
Don’t make me bleed, daddy.
“Spit.” He instructs, not looking at her wandering hands, not even the right one, currently sneaking under the waistband of her white panties. “Stick your tongue out.”
She knows, in that moment, where the tiny pieces must have broken off. How much pressure she must have been putting onto the fragile parts of herself to cause all that damage. She feels relief now, feeling the cracks –between her breasts, on her belly, between her hip and thigh, in between the soft petals of her sex– mending themselves.
I’ve been trying to destroy myself and I don’t want to anymore. I want to try being whole for a little while.
He finishes brushing her wet tongue, only bringing the brush to the back of her mouth once. Hardly daring to push her, it seems.
It takes her less than a second, to ruin everything— to grind her ass against his crotch. She has to stand on the balls of her feet and use the momentum to do it but she can feel it, his cock, not completely soft but sort of solid against her ass.
Her toothbrush makes a loud noise as it hits the floor.
“Alina, what are you doing?”
Her elbows on the counter, body folded in half and– oh , that’s easier. She can’t see him, but she hears him mumble, it’s impossible to tell what he’s saying but he’s not moving away. A hand finds its way to the curve of her waist, naked where her tshirt doesn’t reach her shorts.
“Daddy–”
His body crowds her, he walks forward and her face is on the counter, her hipbones against hard marble. This is a man’s reaction, this is all she wanted and more.
“What do you want, baby? Tell me.” Voice like butter, sliding down her back. She can feel him in her throat .
“I can’t tell you, you have– have to guess, daddy.”
His cock –a man’s cock, hard, insistent– is getting harder against her and she wants all clothes removed, can’t wait another second to have it, to have him.
Wicked little girl, what’s wrong with you?
He grabs her hair, a bit mean this time, and turns her head to the side on the counter. Enough so she can see him out of one single eye. He has never looked this hungry before, never this big or breathless.
“You’re tired of playing house, baby? Is that why?”
Playing ? She has not–
“Daddy?” It’s scary, that little twist on his mouth because this shouldn’t be funny because he’s her da–
“Am I still your daddy or not, baby? You have to choose.” He says this while slowly grinding his hardening cock on her, and she’s sensitive there. Can’t really think of what those words might mean when her mind is trying to understand the size of what she’s feeling.
“I don’t– You are my daddy, I–”
He hauls her up, off the counter and out of the bathroom in the blink of an eye, far enough to carry her –he’s always carried her like this, so why does this feel so different?– right into his bedroom, right into his bed.
“No more lies, baby.” And her back is on the bed, and her t-shirt is pulled up to reveal two small, round breasts, flushed and glistening from her coconut body oil. Her head snaps up, wants to see what he thinks of her there, of her small tits, of her dusky nipples.
Her eyes start tearing up because this is not how any of this was supposed to go, she’s been–
“You ran away, last time. You ran away from me, Alina. And I won’t let you break my fucking heart again, you hear me?”
Last time, last time.
Oh god, let her not think of that last time.
His other house, the one they used to share. Daddy’s home. He had cooked some elaborate feast for her birthday.
She had spilled red wine on the carpet, accidentally, tried to clean it with a paper towel while he was in the bathroom.
Ended up removing her pretty dress, soaking the thousand-pound fabric with the spilled wine, naked on her knees in front of the fireplace.
He hadn’t been angry.
No, he’d been hungry then too, had pushed her back, her white pristine panties soaking the ruby liquid too, pink splotches marking the cotton.
On her back, hot-cold, strange, looking up into his polished black obsidian eyes.
‘I’m sorry, daddy.’
He’d been so close, and she’d been so brave. She had kissed him, on the lips. Once, twice. He had waited for her to make a choice, and she had chosen to open her mouth, to run the tip of her tongue along his parted lips.
He had pushed her back, grinding his big body into hers and she had felt so so small . So perfect.
‘My special girl, all grown up.’
Grown up? Big?
Too much, too scary to even think of it. Is that what he wanted? For her to go away? To grow into a woman and walk away from him as if her flesh and bones hadn’t been remade in his image?
So she’d run, run and run.
Do silly girls always run? Is it evolution? Self-sabotage?
Into the arms of another man. Had imagined herself able to carve her own family, away from his impending rejection.
“I– I–”
“No.” Rough, his nails on her soft belly, she’s so soft there, he needs to be careful with her or she might– “Listen to me now, Alina.”
She nods, turning her eyes on every movement of his lips. He’s so handsome like this, so big and all-encompassing, blocking all the light in the room with his frame.
“I’ve let you do as you wished, haven’t I? Always calling the shots, my little darling. You wanted to run, I let you run. You wanted a daddy, I gave you–”
“You– you are my daddy. You took me–”
A claw –his fingers– on her small neck, her pulse jumping wildly with the ensuing fear.
“No, I said no more fucking lies, Alina.” He bites her, mean, on the side of her jaw, making her whole body shake with the electric current of his teeth on her skin. “How old was I when I took you? Tell me, I know you remember.”
She scrambles around her mind for the truth he was– He was–
“Thirty– Mmm– Thirty-one, you were–”
A little closer now, his lips almost touching hers and he smells so good like this, fresh pines and clean sweat and his natural spicy essence. He is home.
“And why, Alina, why would a thirty year old man be given a girl, Alina? A woman? Why?” Exasperated, she can tell he’s been waiting a long time to finally say this, to finally break open this huge box of secrets between them. “Use your little head, tell me, the truth this time.”
She knows.
She knows.
Of course she knows.
“A– a wife? A future– a wife for–”
Hands leave her neck, pushing instead her breasts together, a soft place for him to bury his head in and inhale . A place for his tongue to mark her, to taste what has always been his.
“Yes, Alina. My wife. I asked for you. Wanted you, paid for you. You know that right? You must have guessed. You didn’t come cheap, even if your father was a piece of shit who couldn’t appreciate what he had. I had to have you. You. My future wife. From the first time I saw you I knew . But you wanted a daddy instead. Broken, sad, little child. I– I understood that, I would have given you anything, anything. Do you understand what I’m saying, Alina?”
She sort of does, can read it in the relief in his eyes, the way he’s staring at her like he has waited centuries for the privilege to claim her as his. Tentatively, her right hand covers his over her breasts.
“I watched you grow and try to run away from me, time and time again. Boys, girls, drinking… You put me through hell, Alina. But you didn’t want me you wanted–”
“I did, daddy I–”
Squeezing, hard, the supple skin of her breast, and she yips, tries to wiggle away.
“You wanted that boy to give you a baby? A baby, Alina? How could you even–” Anger, anger like she’s never seen in him.
“I– needed to prove that I was a woman, you didn’t see me–”
“I fucking saw everything, Alina. The skimpy outfits, the sex toys, the condoms in your bedside table. The sheets you lost your virginity in. I saw everything..” He spits the words like bullets, comes down fully with his whole weight on her. “But I’ve had enough of your stupid girly games, sweetheart. It’s time you learn your place in this family.”
She’s nodding, accepting whatever he might demand, no ransom big enough to deny him.
“Do know know where your place is, baby?” His wicked smile is all it takes for her to melt into the bed, to let go of the tension holding her legs closed.
Legs open like a door. Come in, I’m finally home.
She shakes her head demurely, big watery eyes and sticky eyelashes, looks only at his handsome face.
“Under daddy, that’s your place. Forever, okay?”
She nods, pursing her lips, begging, begging for a little kiss, something to show her she’s going to be fine, they’re going to be fine.
“Answer me. Where’s baby’s place?”
It’s hard, swallowing, making her mouth form the words, hard to hear her own words over the frantic beating of her rabbit-heart.
“Under daddy.” She sobs, arching up in submission. “Forever, forever, forever–”
“No more boys, no more girls. Only daddy.”
“I promise, I promise–”
He likes that, her easy compliance. Discipline had never come naturally to him, or so it seemed. An indulgent father finally reaching the point of no return. He lowers his beard over her delicate nipples, and rubs them there, making the skin bloom red as carnations.
She’s babbling, running her hands over his face, trying to pull him closer– How is he so close but not yet part of her body?
How is he so cruel?
“Lay down and shut up, Alina. You’re about to get fucked. Let’s see how good my baby really is after all.” He spits, but there’s the hint of a smile there too. Pleased, she can tell.
It’s not reverent or patient, the way he takes off her panties, throws them away like nothing, but only her wet cunt matters right now. And she’s wet, really wet. Soaking the white sheets and making a mess for him.
“Oh, I forgot.” He says, sheepish, eyes darting down to her open cunt. “A kiss first, for my baby, yeah?”
A kiss, a kiss with his lips, his mouth parted and willing to play with hers, his tongue caressing her mouth. His thumbs tickle the sides of her temples as he kisses and kisses her. Like all the time lost might be found under her pink tongue. He’s a good kisser, gentle but not too gentle, comforting, teasing. She can taste him in her chest, in the back of her skull. The imprint of his lips left behind when he comes up for air. He must have left an invisible mark because she feels changed from the inside.
“You liked your kiss, baby? You did, huh? Remember that kiss, yeah? Remember that daddy loves you, even when he’s fucking you like a man fucks a girl who’s been very fucking bad, okay?”
Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.
Now, his thumbs dig painfully into her thighs as he pulls them up, opening her cunt up to his view. He doesn’t ask, doesn't hesitate, spares only a quick glance over her face before burying his head inside her open pussy. She shouts, pleasure and pain from the roughness of his beard against her pulsing clit. His teeth should not be there but he’s– he’s mean . Ravenous, nose nudging her open, no respite from his thumbs on her thighs, and she’s hardly aware of the shape of her own body.
Folded in half, into a quarter of a girl. So small he might just break her before they get to play at all.
“Soaking, you’re soaking, aren’t you?” He’s proud of it, relishing in the taste of her desire. “For whom?”
“Da– Ah, no, no, ah– Daddy –”
Two fingers breach her entrance, and she’s too tight for that, he must feel how hard she’s squeezing, trying to push him out because—
“Yes, baby. Just like that— squeeze my fingers. Perfect little cunt, one more.”
It’s impossible, to get anywhere with him. Not when her hand pathetically trying pushing his head away earns her a bite to the inner thigh.
“My baby’s cunt. Mine.”
“Daddy, please–”
Another finger, he’s holding them together at first but spreads them open right after, making room for his tongue to play along the stretched rim. Thank god she’s this wet because this is too much, she’s never–
“Come for me or you’re getting all my fingers, baby. And I really don’t think this small cunt can take all that, do you?” Self-satisfied smirk on his face, his tongue returning to taunt her clit. Over and over and over again.
“I can’t it’s too–”
A slap, right over her cunt, the wet, obscene noise it makes has her blushing a deeper shade of red.
“No more ‘no’s, baby, I warned you.”
Mean, mean daddy, mean–
But his mouth, his mouth is– Not mean, a miracle, wet heat and perfect suction and no one has ever made her feel close to any of this–
“Please?” He murmurs, soft now. His eyes, dark, shining, a promise. “For daddy?”
Oh.
For daddy. It’s almost instinctual, the wave of pleasure that thought brings, that and his fingers turning the pain to pleasure, his mouth helping her reach that promised peak. She tries to be quiet, she tries to–
“Just like that baby, I love it when you cry, all teary eyes.”
Mean, vexing, perfect man. It’s hard to focus on his face, the aftershocks of her orgasm making her mind slow and useless. She watches him move away from her cunt, all self-satisfied and powerful. Watches him remove his clothes. Watches his cock. God, his cock. Daddy’s cock, finally, finally–
Crass, the way he dips his hand in her cunt and gathers her wetness, uses it to lather his cock with it, a playful little smirk on his mouth at her scandalised face. And then he’s there, notching the head of his cock inside her entrance, entirely too much too soon.
But the fingers must have done their job because she feels herself giving way, letting him push and push. The blunt head of his cock, as deep as it goes. God, she can feel it in her throat.
Daddy is inside me. Daddy’s cock, in there.
“I’ve been dreaming of this cunt, Alina, for so fucking long. Can’t believe you denied me for so long, naughty little slut.”
She arches up, shutting him up with her mouth. Kisses him with all she has while his hips start a punishing pace between her legs, making her whole body shake with his strength.
“‘S too big, daddy. Too rough, I–” She blabbers against his mouth, clenching her cunt around his cock.
“Fuck, yes, baby. You’re so small, so good. Made for me, I knew– I knew you had been made just– just for daddy.”
It’s so good. His words, his strength, the way her tits rub against the coarse hair on his chest. He’s an animal, a man . This secret side of him. The side of him that just sinks inside her and won’t stop fucking her with all the strength he has, no matter how much she cries about it.
“Sweetheart,” He says, the vibrations pleasant against her damp cheek. “I’m going to come inside of you. Inside this little cunt. Daddy's fertile little cumbucket. All full and creamy for daddy. Perfect, so perfect. I raised this cunt, didn't I? I can do whatever the fuck I want with it."
Not a question, not when he’s holding her hips so tightly he’ll surely leave marks behind.
“Give you that fucking baby you wanted so badly, okay?”
She kisses him, a quick peck to show that she agrees. That she wants that. Full, full of his come. How will she feel carrying that baby for him? Closing the circle. A real family.
“Arch your back for me, say thank you.” He grunts, his rhythm getting a little more erratic. Losing control. “Little cunt, little princess. Daddy’s turn to play, be good.”
“Thank– ‘o– ‘ank you, da–da-ah…” A mess, she’s a mess of saliva, of sweat, not even a quarter of a girl anymore. “Daddy, thank you –”
He grunts and the noise, the friction, the girth and weight of his cock inside her do the rest and she’s coming again. Longer, this orgasm, more intense to the point of pain. Overstimulation hitting her like a slap, his movements inside her cunt threatening to ruin her, to have her completely lose control over her body.
“Good fucking girl, finally. I’m going to fill you up to the brim– breed this little cunt, give my baby a baby– Yeah, squeeze me– I knew you'd be like this, desperate mindless girl, you're so tight for me.”
He doesn’t need to be so mean, not when she’s already willing. Is it wrong to want him even more like this? This daddy is the real one, her mind suggests, quietly, a terrifying thought. It hurts because he wants it to hurt. This is discipline, this is good. Take it, take him. This is what wicked little girls deserve.
He does as promised, coming as deeply as her body allows him. His thumbs painting careful circles around her hip bones while she lies there, looking . Looking at every detail of his face. Putting each and every one into a little album of memories. The length of his eyelashes, his dark eyebrows, his eyes, the wrinkles around his mouth, the white creeping into his beard. His upturned mouth. The wet tip of his nose.
He’s mine. Finally.
It takes a minute, for him to pull out. It takes a minute for her to dare look into his eyes again.
Forever, right? You promised?
His hands lift her legs roughly over his shoulder and he just looks into her cunt, used and open and bright pink from his abuse, his spend slowly leaking out now. A dark chuckle from his lips and his thumb is there, pushing his come back in.
She’s so sore she could cry. Doesn’t she deserve a kiss now?
“Finally,” He chuckles against her slack mouth. “Some fucking discipline around this house.”
It’s impossible to stop, the laugh travelling up her throat.
“Daddy,”
“Yes, baby?”
“it’s— You mean it?”
“Oh, baby.” Condescending, sweet, loving. “Too much thinking for you? Sleep now, let me take care of it.”
She’s almost brave enough to say something but then, his sticky thumb, thick with his cum, enters her mouth and stays there.
“Suck.”
Daddy’s eyes, she thinks, look hard as stone.