Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1062373.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M, F/F, Multi
  Fandom:
      A_Woman's_Face_(1941), Original_Work
  Relationship:
      Torsten_Barring/Laura_Erika_Barring, Torsten_Barring/OCs, Laura_Erika
      Barring/OCs, Torsten_Barring/Laura_Erika_Barring/OCs
  Character:
      Torsten_Barring, Laura_Erika_Barring, OCs
  Additional Tags:
      Incest, Uncle/Niece_Incest, incest_(consensual), Underage_-_Freeform, Age
      Difference, daddy/daughter, Daddy_Kink, Daddy_Issues, BDSM, Hard_BDSM,
      Watersports, Anal-oral, Ass_to_Mouth, ass_to_other_person's_mouth,
      Rimming, Felching, golden_showers, Ageplay, Anal_Play, extreme_anal_play,
      Fisting, Anal_Fisting, Fingering, Crossdressing, Genderbending,
      Genderfuck, Roleplay, 24/7_(temporary), threat_of_scat_(no_actual_scat),
      Humiliation, Bondage, Whipping, Group_Sex, Bisexuality, Homosexuality,
      transvestism, Lesbianism, Femslash, Slash, Het, First_Time,
      Exhibitionism, Public_Sex, Orgy, Edgeplay, Choking, Breathplay, Hair-
      pulling, Pinching, Slapping, Androgyny, clothes_fetishism, costume_porn,
      Corsetry, Tuxedos, elegance, elegance_fetish, glamour, glamour_fetish,
      Rough_Sex, Dirty_Talk, Recreational_Drug_Use, spitting, Sex_Toys, Genital
      Shaving, Enemas, Squirting, Snowballing, Voyeurism, facesitting,
      Frottage, Strap-Ons, Masturbation, can_be_read_as_a_standalone/original
      fic, 1930s, Gangbang, Older_Man/Younger_Woman, Anal_Sex, Anal_Gaping,
      Dubious_Consent, Suit_Porn, Bisexual_Male_Character, Bisexual_Female
      Character, Queer_Het, Het_and_Slash, Anal_Fingering, Vaginal_Fingering,
      Mildly_Dubious_Consent, Spit_Kink, Brothels, Romance, Decadence, World
      War_II, Original_Fiction, Semi-Public_Sex, Cruising, Bathroom_Sex, Train
      Sex, Lesbian_Anal_Sex, POV_Bisexual_Character, Androgynous_male
      character, heterosexual_anal_sex, Heterosexual_Anal_Sex_(female
      receiving), Heterosexual_Anal_Sex_(male_receiving), Dark_Het, Darkfic,
      Anal_Sex_(female_receiving), Period_Attitudes_Towards_Sexuality_and
      Gender, Diablerie, Female_sexual_agency, Intelligent_Submissive_Female
      Character, Dominant_Androgynous_Male_Character
  Series:
      Part 1 of Devilry
  Collections:
      Conrad_Veidt
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-11-29 Completed: 2013-12-20 Chapters: 12/12 Words: 98610
****** Because the World Belongs to the Devil ******
by Snowgrouse
Summary
     As I walked out of the church, the wind swept through the birches and
     it was as if the Devil himself had been sitting outside all this
     time, but waiting to whisper in my ear through the rustle of the
     leaves:
     "But you are better than the others, Laura Erika, so much better than
     this wretched flock of sheep; a woman who deserves a penthouse in a
     metropolis, not a drafty attic that looks upon dull fields of grass.
     You don't deserve a girl's flowery dress: you deserve furs, pierced
     ears from which hang chandeliers of diamonds; you deserve adoring men
     at your feet."
     Thus, the Devil spoke upon the warm summer wind and rapt, I listened,
     breathed him in.
     ***
     Laura Erika knows she is different, knows she is not an ordinary
     girl, knows she is destined for greatness. The only one who has ever
     truly understood her desires and ambitions has been her favourite
     uncle, Torsten, the black sheep of the family. He has the means to
     give her the decadent life she yearns for; she has the wealth and the
     innocence he craves to sink his claws into.
Notes
     Based on A Woman's Face (1941 version), but can easily be read as a
     standalone even if you haven't seen the movie. In this late 1930s AU,
     the heir to the Barring fortune is not a little boy, but a fifteen-
     year-old girl instead.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
[http://snowgrouse.aikamuna.org/Fakes/devilrybig.jpg]
Thus I should like, some night,
When the hour for pleasure sounds,
To creep softly, like a coward,
Toward the treasures of your body,
To whip your joyous flesh
And bruise your pardoned breast,
To make in your astonished flank
A wide and gaping wound,
And, intoxicating sweetness!
Through those new lips,
More bright, more beautiful,
To infuse my venom, my sister!
--Baudelaire
***
My fifteenth summer was the hottest of summers. The air was rippling,
stiflingly hot as I stood inside the church in my Confirmation frock. The
Eucharist could not have been further from my mind: all I was worried about
were the sweat stains now spreading upon the expensive flowery dress I was
wearing underneath the frock. I mumbled my prayers with the other teenagers--
still children, I thought, not having had to grow up without parents, not
having had the burden of a massive inheritance and a fine name such as that of
Barring bearing heavily upon their shoulders.
Yet all I could think of was the party later that day. It was my birthday in a
week, and naturally, Grandfather thought we should celebrate that, too, on the
day of my Confirmation. It was to be a big party, the sort he was famous for,
but this was the first time I was to be the main star of the celebrations.
Relatives and friends would arrive from far and wide to see the day little
Laura became a woman, he had said. It would not do to show up at the feast in a
dress with sweat stains, and I was desperate for the ceremony to end.
Yet, the priest yammered on, as preachers do. He told us that this was the day
we were finally adults, the day we became full members of the Lutheran church
and could have our marriages and our children blessed by God. He warned us
against the sinners, the free-thinkers, the atheists, especially at a time like
this when war was about to break out all over Europe. Good conduct, piety and
love for one's fellow man were sorely needed in this day and age, and there was
not a sin more terrible than that of pride, of straying from the flock, of
thinking oneself better than the others.
As I walked out of the church, the wind swept through the birches and it was as
if the Devil himself had been sitting outside all this time, but waiting to
whisper in my ear through the rustle of the leaves:
"But you are better than the others, Laura Erika, so much better than this
wretched flock of sheep; a woman who deserves a penthouse in a metropolis, not
a drafty attic that looks upon dull fields of grass. You don't deserve a girl's
flowery dress: you deserve furs, pierced ears from which hang chandeliers of
diamonds; you deserve adoring men at your feet."
Thus, the Devil spoke upon the warm summer wind and rapt, I listened, breathed
him in.
I tore off the white frock and bundled it into the trunk of the car. Wickman
quipped something filthy and inappropriate, the way he always did when
Grandfather wasn't around, in the way I had learned to shrug off. I climbed
into the back seat, said my breasts were none of his damn business and told him
to drive.
I had filled out fast, of course, all within my twelfth year, and while I had
coped with it well by simply investing in accommodating brassieres, my bust
seemed to cause a great deal of confusion for others. Wickman wasn't the only
one who stared--the stable boy, the postman had noticed, as had Grandfather
himself, often looking away from me in embarrassment, no longer hugging me the
way used to. My seamstress had remained polite, yet had frowned when I had
requested adjustments to this dress and the one I was to wear later tonight:
yes, take the hem in a little here, make the neck into a V to better emphasise
my shape instead of hiding it. Large breasts could make a woman look matronly
if her dress was too loose, and I had no desire to look like that
Kristiansdotter hag who had nursed me from childhood and who had only had the
good sense to expire this past spring. I was free, now, and I was my own woman,
was I not?
And in three years, upon my eighteenth birthday, I would be a millionairess.
Millionairess. Money was all my family ever talked about, Barring Industries
this and Barring Enterprises that, yet I saw precious little of it, cooped up
in the country house as I was. I was eager to get my hands on this much-vaunted
fortune and to spend it, to taste everything life could offer me. Oh, I had
been pampered, privileged, this I knew; but does one not always yearn for
something different, something extraordinary?
To me, the cities outside were extraordinary. Whenever I was allowed off the
leash on school trips to Stockholm, I would trawl the bookstores--I found my
bosom an advantage when I enquired after the special French publications hidden
under the counters--and later, snuck into cinemas when the other girls were
asleep. From the pages, the screens I devoured stories of demimondes,
courtesans, quivered in delight as I watched innocents succumbing to cads and
vamps.
These books, these films had been a rehearsal for the life I was about to
begin, just as the reception during the day was a rehearsal for the party
proper tonight. In my flowery dress, I welcomed the guests with fake smiles
well-practiced, with the glow and blush of the rosy-cheeked maiden. I greeted
grand-aunts and grand-uncles, people I had never met in my life and smiled
sweetly, accepted golden cross after golden cross with perfectly measured oohs
and aahs and you-shouldn't-haves.
Yet something was niggling me. There was someone I had been expecting, but he
was nowhere to be found. He was my favourite uncle, one I had not seen in an
age--the black sheep of the family, of course, the grown-ups whispered behind
my back. Torsten the playboy, the wastrel, only good at drinking, ruining women
and tarnishing the Barring family name. No wonder I had always liked him.
Again, I heard those whispers, of how his fancy new car must've broken down on
the road, or how maybe he had woken up late because he had a hangover--probably
not even in his own bed, my grand-aunt quipped.
***
I had not seen Uncle Torsten since I was twelve.
We had been spending the weekend at Grandfather's summer cottage in the middle
of the woods. Grandfather had gone off to the farmers' market and Torsten and I
were lying on the pier in our swimsuits, lazy in the afternoon heat. The sun
glittered upon the waves of the lake, the birches rustled around us and all the
while, I could sense that he was watching me. I tried not to look at him,
pretending to sunbathe, even if I could feel his eyes upon me, hotter than the
sun itself.
He had always made me feel uneasy, in a way I could not explain. There was
something uncanny about him, something that a novel would've unhesitatingly
described as demonic. He always moved a little too slowly or a little too fast,
always spoke with such soft deliberation it was as if he were trying to lure
you into a trap. There was something distinctly androgynous about him, too, as
if he had been modelling himself after the cads of popular films to make
himself more attractive to women--but no, no; that was not it. The twelve-year-
old Laura saw a tall, dark, thin-moustachioed, immaculately groomed man; a man
as charming as any matinee idol--but in hindsight, I think I now know the real
reason he had always both disturbed me and fascinated me.
You see, there was more to his nature than mere dandyism: he had an inborn
sexual energy and fluidity that wasn't artifice. When I looked at him, it was
as if I were looking at a woman in a man's body, and this was what intrigued me
the most. His androgyny was distinctly not normal, something our ancestors
would've seen as outright evil--was the sex-changing Loki not the most ruthless
and wicked of all the gods, an embodiment of chaos itself? Chaos, as in
something that was out of the ordinary, something that you could not control?
Because that's what Torsten was. You could not define him, confine him--the
moment you put him in one sexual category, he slipped into the other, and yet
embodied the most powerful characteristics of both. He was a powerful man,
tall, imposing; there was no denying that his body was male. And exceptionally,
his femininity wasn't a sign of weakness and vanity like it often is with the
cad, no. It was as if he carried within himself, within his male soul also the
soul of the all-devouring vamp, exactly the sort of woman I admired and wanted
to become.
I found myself drawn to him exactly because of his two-sexed nature. He was not
like the others; he was unlike any other man or boy I had known. Whenever I had
spoken to him, he had intuitively understood me the way another female would
have, and far better than any of my dim-witted classmates. I did not know then
that this feminine intuition was a characteristic typical of homosexuals--I did
not even know what homosexuals were; the older me might easily have mistaken
him for one, had it not been for his womanising.
Whatever he was, he fascinated me. His dry wit and his sarcasm appealed to me.
He would joke with me as if I were a grown-up, and unlike a gentleman, he
didn't hesitate to crack dirty jokes or swear in my presence. With me, he
behaved the same way men did when they thought women were out of earshot.
He was an exception, and this made me feel exceptional, too, as if he had
allowed me access to a world beyond the one others would confine me in. In his
presence, I always felt I could be more than what I was normally allowed to be,
saw glimpses of the life I yearned for--and thus, I also yearned for his
company.
I yearned for his company, yet he disturbed me. His eyes lingered upon me
still, his unnaturally light eyes of a colour that always made me think of the
cold, vast, desolate blue of the midwinter sunrise. They were always a little
wider than they should have been, so that he always seemed to be staring at you
the way a big cat stares at its prey. And he knew this, was aware of the effect
he had and relished it. More than anything, the knowledge he had of his own
charisma was what gave him such charisma to begin with.
With calculated precision, he cast his long black lashes down and inhaled deep
from his cigarette. He said nothing, only opened his mouth a little wider than
necessary as he let the smoke swirl out, allowing tendrils of it to curl slowly
around his lips. It was a whorish gesture, like that of a femme fatale about to
ruin a man, I thought; men never smoked that way.
"Have you ever smoked a cigarette?" he asked, offering me the packet. "Go on.
While the old fool's away."
I did not want to be a little girl any longer, so I did not hesitate. The woman
inside the child reached for the packet and picked up a cigarette, turning it
in her hands. He offered me a light and I inhaled, and soon enough I was
coughing, even if I tried to mask it. The smoke stung my mouth, my eyes; I
wiped crumbs of tobacco off my tongue. But I did not make an exaggerated face
of disgust, did not whine as a normal girl would have; I wanted to prove to him
I could do it. This was a test, I felt, and I sucked upon the cigarette more
lightly, inhaling it even if the smoke made me sick.
"That's it. You're a quick learner," he laughed as he lit another one himself.
He taught me how to breathe in the smoke, how to let it swirl in my lungs, how
to exhale it. By the time I had finished my cigarette, my throat was raw and I
felt dizzy and nauseous. I felt the need to go and evacuate my bowels, but I
didn't want to leave him, didn't want to ruin the moment. So I laid myself down
on the pier opposite him in an awkward position, my head facing his stomach,
lights dancing behind my eyes. I closed my eyes and waited until the nausea
passed, until my guts calmed down and I could breathe normally again.
"Grandfather is going to have a heart attack when he smells tobacco on me."
"His precious little granddaughter, smoking?" Torsten smiled conspiratorially.
"No; no, no, no. He will think it's just my smoke on your clothes. I will bear
the blame, as usual."
"He already says you are teaching me bad habits."
"And do you enjoy it when I teach you bad habits?" His words were playful, yet
slower, darker, now.
I turned to lie down on my side, looking up at him, his grinning face but
inches from my thighs. "Yes. Yes, I do, very much."
"You are most certainly old enough to develop some excellent bad habits," he
smirked.
He smoked there for a while, in silence, running his eyes all over my body. I
had noticed him staring at me before, but never this long, never this
shamelessly, and it was as if all those previous glances now made sense, as if
a key had been pushed into a lock and turned until it clicked open.
That key, that knowledge I had newly gained was that of puberty: within that
past year, my breasts had budded, I had grown pubic hair, had had my first
menstrual period. All of this had happened within only a few months; you could
say I had been pushed into womanhood overnight. And now that it was all there
for him to see, he could not stop looking.
I had also gone through a growth spurt, and the swimsuit I had bought last
summer was now far too small for me. My hips had stretched the fabric so that
the legs rode up higher between my thighs than they should have. I had to be
constantly pulling them down so they wouldn't chafe, but I did not pull them
down now. I pressed my thighs together and felt the fabric tightening between
my labia, felt my pussy clench pleasantly against the pressure.
I followed his gaze between my legs and saw some of my pubic curls had escaped
the swimsuit, glistening golden in the afternoon light. I made no movement to
hide them, either, thinking I was taking a step into the abyss. Yet it was a
step I wanted to take. It was now my body that ensnared his gaze, the gaze of a
man used to ensnaring others. I thought of the way he was aware of his own
power, and in that moment I had begun to realise mine. Because look at him: the
jaded old seductor, a man who must have tried nearly every perversion under the
sun, now hypnotised by a glimpse of his virgin niece's pubic hair in the summer
sunshine.
He put out his cigarette, then tossed it into the lake. "You know, in the
Middle Ages, they used to marry girls off as soon as they were ripe. Your
grandfather would be looking for a suitable match for you by now."
I laughed. Torsten and I had often discussed history together--another passion
only he and I seemed to share--and now he was using it to flirt with me. I had
never been flirted at--my ego swelled from this and I felt a flush all over my
body. I was being flirted at, by my own uncle, and I liked it. He might have
been teasing me, might not take it any further but this was incest, pure and
simple. I felt a small curl of sickness within my belly at the utter wrongness
of this, but just like with the cigarette, I suffocated it, eager to inhale
more.
"I probably would have had to marry a cousin, to keep the wealth in the
family."
He raised an eyebrow. "Very likely. It is a considerable fortune."
I leaned on my hand and rocked my body a little. "Thank goodness I don't have
cousins, then."
"Yes, think of it. In the end, you might have had to marry your poor old
uncle."
And at that, he slipped his hand between my legs. Reflexively, I clutched his
hand with my thighs, yet felt pulse after pulse of heat in my pussy, radiating
through my hips, hardening my nipples. He was going through with this. My uncle
had his hand between my legs and was now going through with this. His hand
crept higher and higher, his fingertips curling painfully against my inner
thigh as he forced his way higher still, smiling at me. I shook with shame and
arousal, unable to look into his eyes, and found myself staring at his groin
instead. The bulge between his legs I had tried so hard not to look at, the
full curve of his cock that had so frightened me, so much bigger than anything
I had glimpsed through other men's swimsuits, seen at saunas as a child--
"Are you scared?" he laughed, mocking, daring me like a child dares another to
summon up ghosts, demons.
"No," I gasped, and it was not a lie, nor an attempt to sound like a grown-up.
I drew in a deep breath and relaxed, and that seemed to disappoint him a
little. I now realise he had wanted to play the molester, but how can you
molest the willing? And now, in hindsight, I know it was the reason why he
pushed his hand against my pussy so violently, then, ground his fingertips
against it as if to wound, not to caress. I let out a little noise of surprise,
saw him derive satisfaction from that noise and saw how it made him rock his
hips, his cock visibly swelling underneath his swimsuit. I made the noise
again, deliberately, more pained, now; that made him chuckle in his throat,
made him curl his legs so that his erection shifted across his belly.
"Do you like that?" His mouth remained open after he had said the words, his
tongue peeking out like that of a panting animal, and he revolted me.
He slid his thumb to the top of my slit, to that spot I had barely begun to
explore and I convulsed with pleasure, dizzier than I had been from the
cigarette. I pressed my face into his hip, clutched at his thigh violently,
moaned "Yes," and again "Yes," as he pressed his fingertips against the mouth
of my vagina. The fabric was chafing me and yet he did not slip his fingers
past it, and I wanted him to, God, I wanted him to.
Yet it was then that he removed his hand, lifted it to his face and inhaled.
"You're disgusting," I spat. I slipped my hand between his legs as revenge.
He clutched my hand with his thighs, trapping it between their smooth, feminine
heat. "And you love it." He returned his hand between my legs and greedily, I
spread them for him, showing him what he wanted to see, feel. Now it was I who
was daring him with my body: There, your little niece's pussy, you dirty old
bastard--see what you are doing to it?
And God help me, this only widened his smile. Now, he moved his fingers more
slowly, tracing the outlines of my pussy with them, pausing to cup me briefly
in his hand. He traced the edges of my swimsuit and my pubic hair with his
fingertips, sliding them up and down my slit until I shivered, until I could
feel myself growing wet. And all throughout, he smirked.
I did not know which aroused me more, the skill in his touch or his utter lack
of shame: that he would dare do this to me. Or perhaps the thing that aroused
me the most was the realisation that I was enjoying this, enjoying incest,
despite being fully aware of how wrong it was. He was the dirty old bastard
fondling his twelve-year old niece, but I was a willing accomplice, the child-
woman rubbing her wet pussy against her beloved uncle's nicotine-stained
fingers. I needed this, yearned for it as the woman in me yearned for a life
beyond her confinement in the country, beyond the confinement of her child's
body. I had never even pushed a finger inside myself, but now I wanted his, and
more; oh, I was desperate for more. I was now burning, twisting and panting
upon the pier, upon the towels, against the warmth of his body, my cheek
pressed against his cock. I inhaled him as he had inhaled me, smelling musk,
piss, sweat, and the smell made me moan against his cock, mouth it through the
fabric. I wanted to strip him to see it, to feel it, to clasp it in my hands,
to kiss it, to taste it. I wanted it inside of me; I wanted everything--
But it was then that the sound of Grandfather's car approached us. I panicked,
pushed at Torsten, but he had heard it, too. My heart pounding from horror,
from arousal, I wrapped my towel around myself and grabbed my book, shaking as
I pretended to read. Torsten took his own towel and wrapped it around his hips,
then swiftly laid down on his belly to disguise his state. His hands were
trembling as he lit another cigarette, but by the time Grandfather arrived, he
had masked it well. I, however, was still shaking and did not look up at
Grandfather, hoping he would think the flush on my cheeks was just sunburn.
"How have you two been getting along?" he asked, cheerily, but his eyes
lingered upon Torsten just a little too long, just a little too suspicious.
I looked up from my book and answered "Fine," far too eagerly. I had not yet
learned to lie as well as I lie now, and I am sure Grandfather knew. I wondered
if he could smell me. I still remember the way his hand curled around the
handle of his walking stick and tightened until his knuckles turned white.
Torsten grinned at him over his shoulder and blew a plume of smoke through his
crooked teeth. "Laura here was just telling me I was her favourite uncle."
And that day, I presumed, was the reason I had not seen Uncle Torsten in three
years.
***
Naked, I stood in front of my mirror and beheld myself upon the threshold of
womanhood. I saw a girl of medium height, typically--perhaps a little too
typically--Swedish: blue eyes, shoulder-length blonde curls and a face that was
neither stunningly glamorous nor completely plain. I assessed my face, my body
like a sculptor assesses a block of stone to see what he can carve out of it:
yes, perhaps I could make my eyes more striking with mascara, sharpen the
arches of my eyebrows with the careful application of a pencil. Perhaps
lipstick could make my mouth seem a little fuller, more tempting. Perhaps rouge
could gift me with a touch of maturity to compensate for the softness of my
cheeks, a softness I hated because it made me look too--well--wholesome. I did
not want to look wholesome. Wasn't my body that of a temptress with its
disproportionately large breasts, its narrow waist, its wide hips? Why should
my face not match my figure, the woman I saw myself as--the real me?
With a newfound fervour brought on by the occasion, I set out to apply makeup.
I'd been practicing for days, weeks, yet the results were still a little too
obvious. My eyes ended up a little too darkly rimmed, the shade of lipstick a
little too bright for a debutante about to descend into her grandfather's
ballroom; I looked as if I was about to step onto the stage of a cabaret
instead. I was overcompensating, but I didn't care.
For the powders and pencils were nothing compared to the ultimate tool of
transformation I had found in the attic.
It was my late grandmother's corset, one I had found one sleepless night,
buried underneath the mothballs and pouches of lavender. It was a pale powder
pink, made of good quality cotton, sturdily boned and laced, a true miracle of
cosmetic engineering. When I had first slipped it on over my nightdress, more
as a joke than anything else, a strange shiver had run through me. That shiver
reminded me of the day I had first read about the clitoris, the first time I
had deliberately sought mine out with my fingers instead of just pleasuring
myself by riding a cushion. The sensation had been too much at first, too
intense, so that I had had to slow down and move my fingers to rub just above
the hood of it instead of stroking it directly. It had taken longer for me to
reach orgasm that way, to acquaint myself with the new sensations, but after an
hour of frustrated stroking, I had finally come so violently I'd been shaking.
As I knelt on the floor and tightened the laces of the corset, I was vividly
reminded of that overwhelming intensity of pleasure: at first, I could not
breathe at all, yet I held the laces in my fist, stubbornly refusing to loosen
them because the strangulation felt wonderful. It was as if I was being
embraced, yet this embrace was firmer than that of a human being, the pressure
distributed equally all over my torso from the tips of my breasts to the tops
of my thighs. I was compressed, held safe, swallowed by this artificial
mistress of cotton and steel.
The corset squeezed me, concentrated the heat within my torso until my thighs
and my breasts were being lashed by this heat, radiating out from underneath
the corseted parts, licking at my pussy and my nipples. Thus, just like with my
clitoris, I prolonged the too-intense pleasure, dragged it out, tested how
tight I could lace the corset, how long I could control my breathing until I
finally let go and collapsed in a panting heap upon the floor. I did not even
know if I had orgasmed--the sensation was too overwhelming to process--but from
that day on, I had been addicted.
I had only been wearing the corset in secret before, but tonight I was finally
going to use it in public. My dress was that of a dark, sapphire velvet and I
had asked my seamstress to narrow its waist down accordingly. I was unable to
close the zipper without the corset on, and the ritualism of this--putting on
the sacred vestments of womanhood, the corset, the garters, the stockings--
thrilled me beyond measure. Only when I had performed the appropriate rites of
adjusting the corset into the right position and tugging the laces in the right
places would the dress fit me as intended. So I tugged, pulled and squirmed in
front of my mirror until the corset squeezed just right, until I was flushing,
panting.
Only the damned breasts caused me trouble this time. I was already a little
late, and I had forgotten how tricky it was to tuck them inside the corset and
to drape the low-cut dress over them the right way, so they would not spill
over. I could not close the zipper and I was jiggling a little too much, swore
under my breath as this meant I would have to undo the bow at my waist and
start the whole lacing process over. Stubbornly, I tugged on the zipper again,
trying to force it, afraid I might rip the dress.
It was then that I heard the lock on my door clicking open, looked up and saw
him smirking at me through the mirror.
"Laura, Laura," Torsten tutted through a cloud of blue smoke. "Why do you keep
your guests waiting like this? For the sake of mere vanity?"
I did not turn around, half-crouching as I was, afraid that my breasts would
fall out of my dress. "How did you get in?"
He lifted a set of keys from the pocket of his tuxedo and rattled them.
"Because I know where everything is kept."
I could no longer breathe so I had to stand up, dishevelled, my hair falling
over my face as I straightened myself out in front of the mirror. I did not
look at him, busying myself with my dress, trying to cover my breasts with it.
"Here, let me help." He stamped out his cigarette and came up behind me. Before
I could protest, he had zipped up my dress. I wondered how many times he'd done
it before, how often he had helped a woman into her dress after an amorous
tryst. He did not let go of me, however; he only leaned against me, brushing my
hair from my face.
"My little Laura," he murmured, smiling at me through the mirror. "My little
girl's all grown up."
That day upon the pier flashed vividly into my mind once more, his touch upon
me electric, as if he was picking up where he had left off. He caressed my ear
with his lips and I felt a sudden urge to cry. He had not forgotten me.
"Torsten--" I meant to say out loud, but my words came out as a husky whisper
instead, my mouth suddenly dry. "I missed you."
"I missed you too, my child," he whispered, his moustache a sharp scratch upon
my ear, hardening my nipples, tightening my pussy. He kept caressing my hair,
lifting it from my neck, bunching it up in his hands. He weighed it as if gold,
but not in a romantic sense, no, only with possessive greed and I shivered. I
was reminded of an etching of the sleeping Sif, with Loki creeping up behind
her with a knife in his hand, about to cut her golden locks.
"You should wear your hair up, like this," he said.
"Why?"
He let go and reached into his pocket. "Because of this." He lifted out a wide
necklace made of hundreds of little black and blue jewels. It was one I had
seen in the family vault, underneath a portrait of the distant relative who had
originally worn it: a baroness from a hundred years ago, in mourning dress. The
portrait had always fascinated me. The baroness sat in all black, yet she was
smiling enigmatically, as if she knew something we didn't. She was still young,
still beautiful, her dress far too low-cut and her expression far too sensual
for a mourning portrait. Her eyes were the same desolate blue as Torsten's,
with the same wide stare in them, giving the portrait a sinister feel. I had
asked Grandfather about the portrait, and my suspicions had been right: he told
me Eva Barring had poisoned her husband so that she could marry her lover
instead. Their son, I was told, had been the man who had put the Barring family
where it was: firmly on top of the food chain.
And now Torsten was wrapping the same necklace around my throat, collaring me
with its sapphire and jet. It was wide, as wide as my hand, the larger beads
raining in rivulets onto my raised breasts.
As he closed the locks--there were three, that's how tall the necklace was--and
let go, I swallowed. "It's a little tight."
"It's meant to be. The English call a necklace of this type a 'choker.'"
I closed my eyes, laughed a little, my breathing now constricted by both the
necklace and the corset. There was an edge of hysteria to my laughter: I had
chosen to strangle myself a little tonight because it brought me a sensual
pleasure, and to think that he had had the same idea--I laughed a little more,
swaying on my toes, drunk from the lack of oxygen.
"Why are you laughing, my dear?"
I took his hands. "Feel my waist."
"Oh."
I opened my eyes and the look on his face was priceless, the sight of us was
priceless: he leered like a demon, squeezing my waist with both hands and I,
the harlot leaned back against him, smiling in turn with my painted lips, my
kohled eyes, his jewels dancing upon my breasts. His fingers were so long the
tips of them touched each other as he clasped my waist, a sight so shockingly
erotic it made my pussy clench violently. Again, he squeezed and I reeled, my
nostrils fluttering wide as the little air I could draw into my lungs was now
saturated with him: the heavy scents of his cologne, his pomade and his
cigarettes.
He brought his hands to my breasts and squeezed them, but almost immediately,
tore himself away with a snarl. When I turned to face him, the front of his
tuxedo was rumpled and he was panting, just as I was.
I wanted him like that, wanted him, wanted him to throw me onto the floor and
fuck me in my dress, my corset, my jewels. And he wanted to, too, his eyes
burning, his hands clenching and unclenching as he fought to tame his arousal.
"Laura..." he groaned under his breath, as if pained.
But we had a party to attend.
"Later, Uncle," I said, making it clear this was a promise.
He exhaled a half-moan, then mopped his face with his handkerchief. "Save the
last dance for me."
"I will."
He straightened his suit in the mirror and left.
Ten minutes and twenty hairpins later, I made my way downstairs. The corset
made walking a challenge: since I could not bend my waist, I realised I had to
hold my body needle-stiff and let my feet drop one at a time in order to
descend the staircase. This made me slower, and Grandfather immediately asked
me if I was feeling ill. I looked a little pale, he said. He noticed the
necklace, but must have assumed I had found it myself. "I last saw that
necklace on your grandmother, you know. I had no idea how much you resembled
her until you wore it," he smiled warmly as he took me by the arm and led me to
the ballroom.
Oh God, I thought. The corset. Grandfather must have touched it, must have run
his hands over it lustfully, must have pulled it off Grandmother--and here I
was, disgusted by such thoughts, yet wet between my legs because I wanted my
own uncle. I felt dizzier and dizzier by the minute, in a haze as I greeted the
guests, entertained them with chitchat.
Grandfather raised a toast in my honour, declaring I was now old enough to have
a glass of champagne myself. It went into my head fast until my skull and my
body were sparkling, bubbling, too: lightheaded, I drank another and left to
dance my allotted dances.
A few hours later, when Torsten's turn came, I was fully drunk. Most of the
guests had wandered off, the women to gossip, the men to enjoy cigars and
brandy. The orchestra played absent-mindedly, clearly eager to get home, but
for us, the night was only beginning. There were only a few elderly couples in
the ballroom, so Torsten and I could talk freely, and I doubt they noticed as I
pressed myself against him, letting him feel the heat of my body, the hardness
of the steel boning now encasing it.
"How has my favourite uncle been?" I asked, squeezing his fingers with mine.
He made an exaggerated pout. "Oh, bored, mostly."
"But you live in Stockholm!" I blurted. Stockholm was magical to me. "How can
it possibly be more boring than Forssa? It's nothing but forest and field here.
I am sick of the cows."
"Stockholm has its share of cows," he snickered. "After enough of their mooing,
you too would find the countryside a welcome relief."
"We should swap. You rest here, and I will paint Stockholm red while you're
away."
"Oh, do you think so?" he chuckled and pulled me tighter against himself. "A
fresh-faced girl from the provinces? They'd eat you alive."
"Not if you came with me to protect me."
With a loud bark of a laugh, he turned and twirled me, then captured me against
himself again. "Protect you? What makes you think I wouldn't feed you to them
myself?" He leaned closer, so close I could taste the sugar on his breath, rich
from cake and champagne.
My heart beat faster. "And what would you do, then? Watch?" I imagined him
taking me to those society orgies I had read about in lurid paperbacks. I
imagined dandies, demimondes in tuxedoes and furs with their hands all over me,
undressing me, spreading me out on a table in front of him, for him to see--
"Yes," he drawled with a slightly condescending tone, as if I had finally got
the message. Even through the corset, I could feel his cock was stirring
against my belly. "I would ruin you," he crooned, his mouth a wide, jagged
mockery of a smile.
My head was spinning; all I could focus on were his eyes, staring into mine. I
was no longer conscious of my steps, for he was guiding mine, moving my body
with his gaze, with his touch. He was rushing through me, flowing through me,
and it was only thanks to him that I moved, breathed, his footsteps dictating
the rhythm of my very heartbeat. I want you to ruin me, I thought, but no words
would come out. I want you to ruin me, corrupt me, debauch me until I am as
perverse as you are. I want you to teach me how to devour life the way you do,
the way fire devours dry birch bark. I want you to teach me how to burn as hot
as you do, as bright as you do. I want to burn with you until nothing but ashes
remain, and as ashes I was swirling around him, swirling--
There was a scream from the direction of the smoking room, followed by a great
commotion. The orchestra stopped playing and we rushed out to see what had
happened. I forced my way through the crowd, elbowed my way to the fireplace
around which the people were gathered. In front of it, Grandfather lay
collapsed.
No. Not now, not tonight of all nights. I rushed to his side and took his hand.
It was warm, but completely limp. Beside me, Karlsson, the family doctor was
still resuscitating him, trying to artificially start his breathing, but to no
avail.
After a while, Karlsson let go and shook his head. "I am sorry."
I staggered to my feet, but my feet no longer carried me; I could not breathe.
I stumbled and I fell, and the world turned black.
Chapter End Notes
     Since there was interest in my headcasts for these things, and people
     wanted to see the characters in live-action, I'm now including links
     for your perusal, so here you go:
     You can watch the original Conrad Veidt/Joan Crawford movie on iTunes
     or Amazon Prime to see what level of profound sexual dominance
     Torsten exudes, or go on veidtveidtveidt on Tumblr to fulfill all
     your Veidt film needs. Veidt was very androgynous and voraciously
     bisexual and a master at playing dominance (in his talkie
     incarnation, that is, when he was no longer the silent woobie gothboi
     most people know him as), and it roils off the screen in the film
     deliciously. As for Laura Erika Barring, my one and only headcast is
     the very precocious child-woman teen star of the same era: Bonita
     Granville. (Photos here). Some perfect Laura-esque roles of hers
     include the now public-domain The Beloved Brat (download_here), and
     These Three (download_here), a child performance so evil and
     intelligent she got an Oscar nomination for it at the tender age of
     twelve. Bitch was good. Both Connie and Bonita acted together in
     Escape (1940) (which I've also written two porn stories of, shipping
     them with each other), a movie you can also find on the above
     veidtveidtveidt link.
     My headcasts for the other characters:
     Mr. Ibrahim: Idris Elba.
     Guillaume: A slightly beefier Hugh Dancy.
     Helena and Athena: the dancing lesbians Torsten ogles at the start of
     the film (Helena is the ginger one).
     Again, you needn't have seen any of these people to enjoy the story
     as an original fic, and I know a lot of you have your own preferred
     headcasts. But these should help in visualising the acting styles and
     the filth as I saw them :)
***** Chapter 2 *****
The next morning, I woke up in my own bed in my pyjamas. I was groggy, groggier
than I should have been; this was more than just the champagne. I tried to lift
myself upon my elbows, but collapsed back onto the pillows with a groan.
"Ah, there we are." Doctor Karlsson got up from the chair he had been sitting
in. "You were out for quite a while. I was starting to get a little worried."
"How did I get here?"
"Your uncle brought you. It was a shame you weren't there to witness it," he
laughed. "It's been a while since I saw a man relieve a woman of her corset
with a knife. In another context, the part where he carried you upstairs would
have been quite romantic."
"Oh, God." I closed my eyes and groaned, but immediately regretted the groan as
my skull was on fire. "I have a splitting headache."
"I had to give you an injection. It should wear off by the afternoon. An
aspirin and a bath should do it."
His bedside manner was starting to get on my nerves. "And what do you prescribe
for a dead grandfather?" I had been orphaned before, and I knew Grandfather had
been ill for a while, but that didn't help much right now. "What does my good
doctor prescribe for having been left alone in the world?" I spat.
He got up and played with his hands in his pockets, not looking at me. He knew
exactly what I was talking about. The family fortune, as usual, was the first
thing on everyone's minds. "I'll leave that to the lawyers and your uncle to
sort out."
"My uncle?"
"Well, under the circumstances, he being the closest adult relative..."
"He is not going to be managing the estate. It's mine."
"It is yours. It's only that he's offered to become your legal guardian until
you come of age."
"What?"
Karlsson took a bottle of aspirin from his bag and put it on the table. "He'll
come and see you after lunch. In the meantime, take one of these and get some
rest."
I did not even hear the door as Karlsson left. I stared at the ceiling and
clutched my hands into fists. You could not even call my mind a chaos because
it was so empty, empty from sheer shock. I stared at the white swirls of paint
on the ceiling, stared until tears were flowing down my temples.
"Fuck."
***
I was curled up in bed, facing the wall when Torsten arrived. I did not dignify
him by turning around, only listened as he locked the door, pulled up a chair
next to my bed and sat down. For long minutes, we were silent until the cold
anger in me finally spilled over.
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
[http://snowgrouse.aikamuna.org/Fakes/torstenlauramorningnewfull.gif]
"You've got your inheritance. Have you already made calculations on how much of
it you could spend in the next three years?"
"Some," he said brusquely.
At that moment I hated him even more, hated him because he didn't even care to
lie. "Is this the game you were playing? Thinking you could seduce the fortune
out of me?" I finally turned around to hiss at him. "Why did you even bother,
if you were going to come and take it anyway?"
He leaned towards me, his hands clasped together between his knees. "The other
option would have been to murder you."
"Then why didn't you?" I yelled, choking on my tears. "You've had plenty of
chances over the years."
"You tell me. God knows I wanted to, on the day you were born."
"Is this your idea of flattery?" I laughed, incredulous. "Or am I to assume
there is an ounce of goodness within you? No, I don't think so. You saw
something in me, something you could amuse yourself with." Hysterical, now, I
unbuttoned my pyjama top and took his hands, took them and pressed them over my
breasts. "Was it these that stopped you from poisoning me? A nice pair of
tits?" I shouted in his face. "Go on, then. Squeeze them, chew on them, fuck
your little virgin girl and run away with her money, like you've wanted to for
years."
And squeeze he did, painfully, now hissing in my face in turn. "Perhaps I
should. Don't think I haven't thought about it."
"What's stopping you?" I sobbed, tears now running freely down my face. Yet he
did not answer me, only kept squeezing, pinching. I sank my hands into his
hair, tore the slicked-back strands back with my nails, squeezed them in my
fists until I was giving him the same amount of pain he was giving my breasts.
"What's stopping you?!" I cried again, louder, screamed it into his face.
He just laughed, tears of pain welling in his eyes; he panted in my face.
"Because I thought I had found myself a partner, an accomplice. All my life, I
have been looking for a woman like you, Laura Erika. Someone who has also been
trapped, confined, stopped from being everything she could be." He unbuttoned
the rest of my pyjama top and returned his hands to my breasts, pinching my
nipples between his fingers, twisting them, pulling them until I shook from
pain, arousal, my utter hatred for him. Yet, he continued. "Is that not so?
Don't you feel trapped? Because that's the Laura I know. Not the poor little
rich girl, oh, no," he laughed. "The Laura I know can be hard, cruel; the Laura
I know wants to shine bright. You, my darling, have the capacity in you to be a
complete and utter bitch."
I hit him, then, hit him so hard the sound rang loudly through the room. With a
high cry he fell back, covering his face with his hands, the way a woman does
when she is hit. When he lifted his hands from his face, his lip was covered in
blood. He looked at his bloodied hand, then looked at me.
"What did I just tell you?"
He leaned over me and I flinched, knowing he was going to hit me. I cowered,
covered my face with my arms, but he took my head by the hair, wrenched it free
and kissed me. His lips smeared my lips with his blood, his hands smeared my
hair with his blood, his tongue smeared my tongue with his blood. I hated him,
I hated him and I kissed him back, clutching his ascot in my fist, pulling him
onto the bed with me. It was my first kiss, and already the most perverse of
kisses: I sucked at his cut lip, drank his blood, drank it until he pushed his
tongue deep inside once more, fucking my mouth with it. I choked on his kiss,
choked as he pushed me to sit up against the wall and slid his hand between my
legs. I shouted into his mouth as he started to rub my pussy through the silk
with violent force, his hand trapped between my pussy and the bed, forcing me
to ride his fingers with all my weight.
"I will ruin you," he hissed, pulling at my hair so hard the back of my skull
hit the wall and stars danced behind my eyes. Yet, I was melting hot onto his
violating hand, dripping through my pyjamas, shivering as he panted into my
face. "That's what you wanted, wasn't it? Because this way, I can give it to
you. Furs, perfumes, servants. You'll be the greatest little rich bitch
Stockholm ever saw. And then London. Then Paris. Then New York. How do you like
the sound of that? Hmm?"
I sobbed, ground myself against his hand, every hair on my body standing on
end. "Yes," I gasped in his face, "Yes," as his fingers forced the red-hot
pleasure in me higher and higher. He was offering me everything I had ever
wanted, everything, and I knew he might still poison me once he had had his
fill of me, but was this not worth the price? "You sick bastard, you sick, sick
bastard," I moaned, and kissed him.
He fisted his hand between my legs and ground his knuckles against my clitoris
until it hurt, until I was shaking, until I was screaming into his mouth.
Laughing, he pulled back from the kiss with a smack and covered my mouth with
his other hand. "Let go for me, Laura. My sweet little daughter."
Daughter. I drew in a sharp breath of shock, screamed at the top of my lungs
into his hand as he pushed me, thrust me, forced me over the edge into a
pleasure that was pain. On and on I cascaded like the falls outside, pleasure
fast and heavy and violent like the tonnes of water endlessly crashing into the
river below. My own body, its own convulsions crushed me onto his hand, the
hard bones of his knuckles, my clitoris raw against the silk and the cruelty of
his fist. I sobbed, shouted into his palm as he held me through my
contractions, held me against the wall with his hands and his gaze.
Finally, he let go of me, left me a shuddering wreck against the wall. He
lifted his hand to his face and licked it, licked it, tasting my wetness from
it. "Now, what do we say after we've been given a treat?"
I knew what he wanted to hear, knew what I wanted, needed to say, yet could not
say it immediately. I wrapped my arms around his neck and rested my forehead
against his, breathing quietly for a while before I set fire to all the bridges
behind me.
"Thank you, Daddy."
***
It was decided. I was to become his daughter, and as such, I was to move to
Stockholm with him. If a suitable school was not found immediately, I would
skip a year, no harm done. It would do me good to spend some time away, I said,
pretending to be sad as the servants carried my trunks downstairs. I could not
wait to say goodbye to this blasted, rotting old house in the middle of
nowhere. I wanted to be in the middle of somewhere, and Stockholm was
Somewhere. It'd been over a year since I'd last been there, and already I could
smell the sea air, hear the cries of the gulls, see the pastel-coloured houses
and black and green spires all packed tightly together on the islands, reaching
towards the sky.
I'd never lived in the city, and moreover, had never known what it was like to
have a father. I had just turned three when my parents had died, drowned in a
Midsummer boating accident. I had no clear memory of my parents' faces, only
photographs, and from them I did not recognise them. Grandfather had been kind,
had spoiled me the way only a grandfather can, but my upbringing had been left
to monsters: again, I closed my eyes and thanked God, or perhaps the Devil,
that the Kristiansdotter bitch was cold in her grave.
No, my true family had consisted of characters in novels, in films. In them I
could find if not parents, siblings at least. I came to know adventurers who
became cherished big brothers, doomed women whose shoulders I cried against in
sympathy as I lived their lives through their stories. Yet I did not understand
the stories of loving mothers, of stern but sheltering fathers because I had
had none. Grandfather had loved me but had never truly disciplined me, only the
old hag and the teachers had: therefore I had never known the unreasonably
cruel father either, the one to whom a child would cry "It's unfair!" because
he had denied her something. Grandfather had always given me what I wanted, had
never been able to resist my smiles or my tears. I had had my ears and hair
pulled, had been smacked, but never had I been taken over the knee and spanked.
And as Torsten had said goodbye, as he had caressed my hair in front of
everyone, smiled a fanged smile and called me "A charming little brat," I had
known that he would.
***
That had been two months ago, and by now, I was burning to get out, burning to
see him again. I would have masturbated every day, sometimes several times a
day even if he hadn't told me to. You see, he had asked me to write him
letters, to tell him everything, everything I dreamt about. Of the magnificent
life I wanted to live with him so that he could give it to me, of all the ways
in which I wanted him to corrupt me, of all the unwholesome thoughts that ran
through my mind when I touched myself at night.
"Together we can be more than the sum of our parts," he had told me that
morning in my bedroom. I was still shaking from the shock of orgasm, from the
shock of him and he had held me against his body, stroked my back. It had been
a tender, comforting act, but never did I mistake it for love--his voice was
too feverish, his mind focused on a dream only he could see. Only now he
offered to share that dream with me, spread it out for me to see like a richly
embroidered fabric, glittering, tempting, there for us to cut and shape as we
pleased. "We could be greater than any Barrings have ever been, or ever will
be," he had murmured. "The fortune was meant to be used, and with it, we can
show the world what we are made of. Don't you yearn for greatness the way I do,
Laura? Yearn to see all the fools kneeling at your feet?"
"Yes," I had murmured against his shoulder, my fingers buried in his seersucker
jacket. "I want it very much."
And those dreams were what filled my head at night. For the first time, I
inserted a finger into myself, then two; I was so wet it seemed as if I could
never get enough friction, as if one orgasm was never enough. My pussy was
sore, chafed, my face burnt from the pillows as I rode my hands and thought of
him. I thought of how he would have been like in the Middle Ages, a feudal
lord, ruling by the sword: I the young witch by whose magic he had assumed the
throne, the one to whom he entrusted all his secrets and whose body he enjoyed
at night. I thought of him as a transvestite Roman tyrant, suffocating his
guests in rose petals, then copulating over their bodies with men and women.
And if those visions were not enough to push me over the edge, I thought of him
in his tuxedo, leaning over my naked body with a whip in his hand, ready to
strike.
Yet it was hard to write about these things. I felt like such an idiot, because
fantasies were the sorts of things that were usually dismissed in a girl,
laughed at. But if nobody had ever dreamt big, as they say, where would mankind
be now? This, I told him about in my letters. Often, I would fall into a trance
as I wrote them, poured my thoughts out onto dozens of pages lit by the
perpetual bright dusk of the summer night.
Father,
"Fortune favours the bold," they say. Or at least they used to say in the pagan
days, when it was considered heroic to stand head and shoulders above the rest,
before the Nazarene came and tried to turn all into gentle sheep. Yet some of
us were born lions, people like you and I. We are not like them; we do not
belong. We are extraordinary, and you have had thirty more years of experience
than I of being extraordinary. Therefore, you must have learned how to make the
most of it and now, I want you to teach me in turn.
I have had enough of people wanting to see the inherent goodness in me. You
have been the only one who has always seen the inherent evil in me. And that
evil is what I want you to cultivate in me; that evil is what I want to nourish
in you.
I want us to do things normal people don't. I want to be perverse. I want to
know how the human mind works when it's bent, shaped, twisted until it snaps
free from society's chains. I want to know what the libido, in the sense of the
life force, the force of all that lives and eats and fucks is capable of when
it's allowed to run free. This is what I want to learn. To discover the divine
spark the fetishist sees in the object of his lust. To experience the ecstasy
of the masochist as she is humiliated. I want to learn the secrets hidden
within these things, hidden from the eyes of the normal, the timid. I want to
be that pagan hero; I want to conquer all the taboos that separate us from the
source of the life force, to expose the living, pulsing core of pleasure
underneath.
I am not looking for goodness or even love. The only romance I want is that of
the damned hero, the one consumed by his own flame. I want to live, to take the
world in my hands, crack it open and devour that core, squeeze every last
golden drop of its pleasures into my mouth.
Is this what you meant? I feel as if I have kept these thoughts locked up
inside myself all my life, and only you have ever allowed me to express them.
It's hard to find the right words for them; it's a language I'm still learning.
Are these the right words? The words of the accomplice, the woman you think you
saw in me? I hope so.
When I received his reply, I ran upstairs like a besotted girl and inhaled it,
inhaled the smell of his cigarettes, his cologne. His handwriting was eloquent,
beautiful, crisp and clean: the notepaper thick, with the watermark of a luxury
hotel swirling upon it.
Dearest daughter,
You say you aren't looking for love, but be careful: at this rate your old man
may very well fall in love with you. As to your question--well. With your
letters, you have proven that we understand each other perfectly--perhaps it's
because we are of the same flesh; perhaps it runs in our blood. I'm sure you
have heard of the Barring curse, of how it only affects one person in a hundred
years, but simple arithmetic tells me they must have been wrong: I see two
black sheep, not one. Perhaps God turned his back for a moment and the Devil
touched you, too, when you were still in your mother's womb.
You know I have always been and always will be frank with you, knowing you have
the strength to take it. You also know that I wanted to murder you the day you
were born, know that I wasn't saying so out of spite. You also asked me why I
hadn't, and in these past few days, you yourself have spelled out the reasons
why. You, too, prefer perversion to goodness, even if you have barely tasted
it, carrying within yourself a natural inclination for evil. Therefore, I must
admit to a narcissistic pleasure I find in you, my sister, my semblance. It's
as if I was contemplating a mirror image of myself, just as bitter, just as
ruthless. How could I have ever resisted you, when Fate had meant for us to be
together? Your chalice is full of youth and wealth, mine is full of the
bitterness of thwarted dreams: now, let us mix them, so that we shall both be
filled to the brim with each other's darkest dreams and the means to act them
out.
We stand upon the brink of majesty, you and I. Gladly shall I play the
Heliogabalus to you--if you only knew how much pleasure I derived from reading
that particular fantasy of yours! But what about yourself? Think of the
greatest queens the world has ever known, and imagine yourself joining their
ranks. Cleopatra VII Philopator--do you know what her names meant? Glory of her
Father, Beloved of her Father.
And with that, I leave you, because I know it will mean more to you than a
false, saccharine declaration of love ever could.
***
[http://snowgrouse.aikamuna.org/Fakes/torstenlauraturnbig.gif]
***
He was to join me on the night train leaving at ten. It was now half past nine,
and my life was about to begin.
Wickman took me to the train station. He remarked on the low cut of my jacket
and dress, saying I would get cold, but I knew exactly what he meant.
"Jealous?" I asked him, and that shut him up. When he had left my luggage with
the porters and driven off, I wished him good riddance. I'm never going to have
to see your weasely face again, I thought, closed my eyes and sighed in utter
relief.
When I opened them, I could see the sky was now so dark I could see a few
stars, the first glimmering signs of summer soon being over. The light nights
were gone and darkness was slowly pulling its shroud over them, autumn
triumphing over the exhausting oppression of light. The light nights always
gave me insomnia; perhaps in Stockholm, I could finally sleep.
There was a hand on my shoulder, a long-fingered, strong hand encased in black
leather. Without turning around, knowing it was him, I leaned back against his
chest.
"Torsten."
The leather creaked softly as he stroked my shoulder and planted a kiss, a
chaste kiss on my scarf.
"Come, or the train will leave without us."
I followed his silhouette, the lines of his rakishly cocked hat and the long
coat slung upon his shoulders. Even without his hat, he would have been the
tallest man on the station. He walked with such a fast, brisk stride I was
struggling to keep up, feeling as if I was a child trying to keep up with a
grown-up, panting a little as I followed him up and down the stairs to our
platform. A classmate had once told me the most horrible day of her life had
been when she was six and had lost her father in the crowd at a fair. She had
mistaken another man for her father because he was wearing the same jacket, had
had the same haircut, and she had had the shock of her life when she had
realised her mistake. She had run and run all over the market square until her
heart had nearly exploded, and she had collapsed in a shaking, crying heap by
the time a police constable--and eventually, her parents--had finally found
her.
I had not understood her worry at the time, but was vividly reminded of the
story now: I felt small, scared and lost in the huge fair that was the world
outside Grandfather's estate. I cried a weak "Wait!" and ran up to Torsten,
slipping my hand into his.
His gloved hand was large, so huge around my small, white and pink hand, firm
as it squeezed mine reassuringly. He looked at me and smiled, not unaware of
the significance of the moment. "Come on, my child. Just a few more steps,
now."
When we boarded the train, we were told there had been a mix-up with the
bookings: apparently our sleeping car wasn't free yet. All the other sleeping
cars were fully booked, but the family occupying ours would arrive at their
destination around midnight. I felt Torsten's hand clutching into a fist around
mine, heard him mutter something threatening to the conductor.
"Yes, Mister Barring. I am very sorry, but there is nothing we can do. However,
there is a very comfortable first class compartment over here, and I hope you
will accept our apologies in the form of free drinks from the bar. We will, of
course, compensate you accordingly for this leg of the journey."
Fuming, Torsten flung himself onto the seats like a sulking youth, lifting his
feet onto the cushions to irritate the conductor. "I'll see that he gets
fired," he hissed as I closed the compartment door.
"He probably had nothing to do with it," I said and smiled. "You're just angry
because he didn't recognise the Barring family name."
"There, you see? My anger is justified." He sat up and patted the seats. "Come
and sit here. You look as if you need warming up."
"Didn't you just order us an entire bottle of whisky for that?" I grinned as I
sat beside him.
"You know what I mean, my child," he grinned back and leaned closer. I froze,
thinking he was going to kiss me, right there on the crowded train, and I
opened my mouth in protest. Instead, he only undid the knot on my scarf and let
it fall to my shoulders. "Let me look at you."
"Do you like what you see?" My heart beat faster and my face was still flushed
from running, now flushing even more under his leer.
"Where did you learn how to flirt like that?"
I shrugged. "Perhaps I heard that line in a movie."
He lit a cigarette and leaned back against the window side of the compartment,
sprawling contentedly. "Or perhaps you are a natural."
There was a knock on the door. Our drinks had arrived--whisky, soda, two
glasses. Torsten told the waiter that we were not to be disturbed and drew the
curtains on the aisle windows. Only the sunset lit the compartment now, the
sunset and the end of his cigarette, their light glinting off the crystal
glasses as we filled them.
"What shall we drink to?" I asked.
"Now, that is an interesting question, my dear. You yourself said we should
avoid doing what ordinary people do. What do ordinary people toast to?"
I swirled my whisky in my glass. "A long life, health, happiness? All the good
things in life."
He tapped his forefinger against the brim of his glass, laughing dryly. "And
then, they thank God. Whereas I'm inclined to believe it's not God who brought
us together and I think you know it, too."
I raised my glass, drunk even if I had not taken a single sip. "To Satan,
then."
He clinked his glass against mine. "To Satan." He downed his drink in one
swallow; his eyes glittered with dark mirth as he licked his lips. "And to all
deeds deemed evil, wicked, wrong."
I followed suit, the whisky burning my mouth and my throat, sweet as hellfire.
We sat there for the two hours, chatted, smoked, drank. He drank mostly whisky,
I drank mostly soda, wanting to avoid a hangover the next morning. By the time
it was five to midnight, the whisky had made me slouch and I had rested my head
on his lap. I was curled up on the seats, facing his stomach. He was wearing a
suit of dark wool, pinstriped, warm. He smelled wonderful, of patchouli and
musk, and I wanted to fall asleep in his lap, nevermind the sleeping car.
He petted my hair and tutted. "You're pressing on my bladder. I need to piss."
I moved my head onto his thighs. "Delicate as ever. There's a toilet in the
next car; I saw it on my way here."
He ground his cigarette into the ashtray. "I don't think you understood me, my
dear. I need to piss." He unzipped his trousers and took out his cock. "Open
your mouth."
I stared at him, at his cock, then back up at him. "Are you joking?"
"Do I look like I'm joking?" he tightened his hand in my hair and put on a
mocking, girlish voice. "I want to be perverse," he whined, throwing my own
words back at me. "If you want it so much, what's keeping you?"
I had wanted to see his cock, feel his cock, take it into my mouth, but not
like this. I stared at it, fat but limp, the foreskin drooping like the skin at
the end of a sausage. It was ugly, wrinkled, not at all like the bold and
beautiful hard phalluses I'd seen in books both artistic and pornographic. But
had my desire to fondle it, mouth it in the usual context been normal, too
normal?
He let go of my hair with a tug and pushed me off his thighs. "Get on your
knees."
My heart was pounding. It was a fetish he was now offering me, an act not
normally considered sexual sexualised, turned into an act of power. This, I'd
read about, talked to him about in our letters; why, this very night in this
very compartment we had discussed the concept. But not this act, nothing this
extreme--I never could have imagined he would begin my education with this. He
stared into my eyes, looking at me as if he was giving me one last chance. The
train was slowing down and the lights from inhabitation were already flashing
past us. It was three minutes to midnight, three minutes until we pulled up at
the next stop.
I slid down to my knees and took his cock into my mouth.
He let out a deep sigh, a laugh, as if he was watching a dream come true--
perhaps this was one of the thwarted dreams he had been talking about. With a
groan, he let go. His piss tasted sharp, bitter, salty, stinging my mouth as I
swallowed it down. Every last golden drop of pleasure, I thought and moaned
around his cock at the realisation. This was what I had wanted, this; this
sharp, salty sin now pouring down my throat. What could be more perfectly
perverse than this? My uncle--no, my Daddy, now pissing in his sweet little
daughter's mouth in public.
As I knelt there I felt a flash of power, of my own power in what I was now
giving him, since it was I who allowed him to get away with this. Us not being
caught depended on me: on how fast I could swallow his piss, on how well I
could tighten my lips around his cock so as not to spill a drop. He went slow,
slow, the panic rising in me as the train approached the station. I counted
seconds and was past sixty when the train's whistle blew. I screamed around his
hardening cock in alarm, sucking it as fast as I could, but he had finished. I
swallowed, panted, watched as he tucked himself back into his trousers.
Hastily, I climbed back onto the seats and realised my pussy was so swollen
sitting down hurt. I was wet, wetter than I had ever been in my life. I shook,
and now understood the concept of the fetish the way I had wanted to understand
it, not on an intellectual level but on a bodily one. My pussy was aching,
heated and I groaned in pain as I moved on my seat, straightening out my dress,
hiding my dishevelled hair with my scarf. I was yearning to be fucked, needed
to be fucked, needed to be taken by him.
I looked into his eyes and without a word, he kissed me, tasted his own piss
from my mouth and moaned, shuddering in lust just as much as I did.
"Laura Erika Barring, you are magnificent," he laughed into my mouth and pulled
back just in time before the conductor arrived.
***** Chapter 3 *****
My bladder was full, too, but he said that while he was looking forward to
returning the favour, it would probably be too messy to receive it from a woman
on a moving train. Thus, I left him in the sleeping car; I was hissing from
frustration as I made my way to the toilet. When I reached it, I couldn't even
piss at first, I was so aroused; my pussy was so swollen it was impossible.
Panting against the toilet door, I rubbed myself, quickly, thinking of what he
had said, imagining myself flooding his laughing mouth, my piss splashing onto
his crooked teeth. It was horrible, disgusting but it worked: I came within
seconds, suffocating my noises into my sleeve. Finally, I could relieve myself
but was still flushed from my orgasm as I made my way back to the sleeping car.
As I brushed past men's arms, women's hips, I had to bite my lip so as not to
moan: my entire body was so sensitised it was vibrating, crying out for sex.
He had made himself comfortable in the bottom bunk, only a thin sheet covering
his naked body. I started to undress so I could join him, but he stopped me
with a hand on my wrist.
"Slowly." He leaned back and lit a cigarette.
I did as I was told. Peeling my clothes off was utter torture in my current
state and I shivered at every sound, every caress of cloth. My jacket was loud
as I shrugged it off my back; the swoosh of my stockings louder as I bent down
to undo my shoes. When I took off my brassiere and revealed my breasts to him,
heavy from arousal, hurting from premenstrual soreness, he groaned in delight
and stretched upon the bed, curling his legs and rocking his hips the way he
had done on the pier. It was a subtle form of masturbation for him, I realised,
rubbing his cock against his stomach and his thighs in this manner.
He was sucking more deeply upon his cigarette, exhaling in that slow, whorish
way he sometimes did, and while the younger me had found it disturbing, the
older, more corrupted me was reminded of a dirty photograph she had seen. It
had been a portrait of open, shocking, illicit greed: an extreme close-up of a
man's face with a wet, erect cock sliding out of his mouth. His mouth had been
gaping open wide and from his lips had hung rivulets of thick, white sperm, the
very last drops of it still dangling from the cock's glistening tip, about to
fall onto his waiting tongue.
The curls of pale smoke now dribbling from Torsten's lips were as sperm, his
open mouth that of the sodomite, as if with his smoking and his voyeurism he
was satisfying lusts both heterosexual and homosexual at once. Now naked but
for my panties, I slipped my hand onto my mound and wished I had a cock so I
could push it into his mouth. I stroked myself, feeling how wet I was still,
that wetness now staining my panties.
He put out his cigarette. "Turn around." When I did, he sat up so he could
better see me. His hands were a little cold as he laid them on my hips. "Press
your legs together and bend over, yes, just like that. Show me."
I was breathing fast by now, and bending over made me feel light-headed. I
leaned my hands against the wall, my calves touching the bed between his knees.
As he hooked his fingers into the waistband of my panties, I shivered. He was
nuzzling me through the panties, inhaling me, and I knew it was the white
cotton innocence of them that gave him so much pleasure. I wondered if he
resented me for being older, now, wondered if he wanted the sex underneath the
cotton to be hairless, bare. He pressed his face into my pussy and I moaned,
moaned as the lip and teeth of his lower jaw pressed into the top of my slit,
dragging against my clitoris through the cotton, through the hair, through my
folds.
My moan only made him sink his claws into my buttocks, made him smack them,
squeeze them. He slipped his hands through the legs of the panties so that his
palms were now pressed against my bare buttocks and there, he started to spread
me open. His thumbs skimmed the cleft near my anus, then moved along the sides
of my pussy in the dips of my inner thighs, never touching the slit. His mouth
was still pressed to my pussy through the cloth and he was panting now,
huffing, a disgusting little snorting noise escaping his nose. He pressed into
me harder and I realised he was licking me, licking me through the panties,
wetting them further, tasting me through them. He was now moaning into me,
sniffing me loudly, rudely, and from the uneven sounds of his breathing, I
could sense that he was shaking.
"Please--" I whimpered. I didn't know what I wanted him to do, but I knew I
could not bear this torture any longer. I wanted him to do something more,
wanted to be taken so much I thought I was going to pass out if he didn't.
He pulled his hands out and smacked both my buttocks, clawing at the panties.
"Please what?"
I covered my face in shame. "Please fuck me."
"Oh, no, my sweet girl; oh, no, no, no. Not just yet. Not until the adoption
papers have come through."
Incredulous, I looked at him over my shoulder and there was a manic, wicked
glimmer in his eyes. He smacked my buttocks again, then slipped a hand to my
pussy, now rubbing it in earnest. "I may play with you, may pleasure you in all
the ways I see fit, yes. But I am not going to fuck this little pussy until you
are officially my daughter."
My knees would have buckled if he hadn't held me up with his hand. "You sick
bastard, you sick--" and even as I moaned the words, I knew them for my own
fetish, knew them for one of his. My beloved, sick bastard uncle's smile only
widened and he pulled the panties down, let them drop to my ankles.
"Say that again," he hissed, biting my left buttock. "If you want me to
continue."
"You sick bastard."
He bit my right buttock. "Again."
"You sick fuck."
At that, he moaned loudly and buried his face in my pussy, lapped at it, lapped
at it like an animal laps at water. The sensation was so sudden, so intense I
could not hold back a scream, shivered in terror as I was sure someone must
have heard. Yet his tongue felt amazing, wonderful, so much softer than his
fingers as it slipped between my folds, dipping into my opening, then sought
the top of my slit.
"Show me," he groaned, spreading my pussy roughly with his hands. "Bend over
further."
My breath cut off completely now, I leaned forwards until I was bent double and
spread my pussy with my fingers, showing him my clitoris, pulling back its
hood. I was staggering, struggling to stand up with only one hand for balance.
As he leaned down and slapped his tongue against my clitoris I mewled, not
having even known I could make such a sound, more lost animal than woman. I
panted against my knee, watching as his cock bobbed between his legs, now firm,
red and long. It was the beautiful, hard phallus I'd been yearning for,
gleaming at its tip, a shocking dark red against the paleness of his stomach. I
needed it inside my body, needed it so much, all of me flowing sweetly onto his
tongue, my pussy clenching in desperation. Virgin or not, my pussy wanted that
cock deep inside itself, wanted to be stretched by it, wanted to squeeze around
it, wanted to milk it to the last drop.
Even as he kept on licking, licking me so perfectly each lick was a lash of
pleasure through my hips, I hated him for denying me. Abusing him only stirred
him into further cruelty, so I tried pleading, manipulating him instead.
Deliberately, I changed my voice into a little girl's, pushing myself back into
his face, crooning to him over my shoulder.
"Is that what you like, old man? Tasting a little girl's pussy?" I was shocked
at my own tone of voice, so sugary, so deliberately fake, and yet the pleasure
I derived from it was unlike anything else. And the look on his face--the veins
on his temples stood out, his wet lips trembled. He squeezed my ass but did not
answer, so I continued. "What does my pussy taste like? Hmm?"
"Sugar," he groaned, lapping at me again, smacking my buttocks harder in
punishment. "Sugar, soda," he murmured, sucked my taste off my folds. He licked
my pubic hair, then, too. "And here, just a little trace of piss."
I moaned and clung to my ankles; I was now so aroused my entire pelvis was
heavy, my flesh so packed with blood each and every one of his licks and his
bites was giving me pain. "It hurts," I said, still in that little girl's
voice, but I was sincere. "Please, please fuck me. I will die if you don't fuck
me; please, it hurts so much, oh God, it hurts so much--"
He just laughed. "This is nothing. Wait until I show you real pain." And at
that, he laughed again and licked up my pussy from my clitoris to my vagina and
higher, all the way to my asshole. He dipped his tongue into it, swirled it,
tasting my ass. I bit down on a shriek--I didn't even know if I was clean but
he didn't care; he relished the taste, moved his hand to rub my clitoris again
until I was sobbing once more.
"Oh, God--"
"You keep talking about God. I told you, God is not here." He pressed his
fingers--I have no idea how many fingers--to the entrance of my vagina.
"There's only me," he said with a long lick over my asshole. "And now it's only
me you will pray to. Do you understand?"
I ground myself against his fingers, against his tongue, desperate. "Torsten,
please--"
"No; no, no, no, my dear girl. If you want me to make you come, you know by
which name to call me. The only name you will call me from now on."
At that, my knees finally gave. But he pushed his fingers inside me, so that he
was lifting me up by my pussy, the stretch unbelievable. Yet the friction of
his fingers was so fantastic I cried out from the bottom of my stomach, pelvis,
the ripples of my moans making the walls of my pussy flutter against his
fingers. With only his fingers, his words he had impaled me, taken me; now, I
was but scarlet, wet, pulsing flesh hanging upon his fingers, to deal with as
he pleased. I was terrified, terrified and from between my legs, I saw that I
had dripped down onto his wrist.
Balancing myself against the wall, I turned my head to look at him over my
shoulder. He was waiting, waiting, waiting with his eyes open wide. Even then I
knew I did not love him, but that this was something greater than love,
something darker, deeper, stronger and that it was swallowing me, completing me
in a way love never could. I saw my uncle, saw my molester, saw the promise in
his eyes, the promise to give his little girl all she had ever wanted. In that
moment, I was his.
"Please, Daddy."
It was now he who cried out, moaned, stared into my eyes even as he started to
fuck me with his fingers. "Daughter."
His fingers were so thick, the skin of them rougher than mine and they hurt a
little as he reached inside my flesh. "Daddy," I cried again in pain, "Daddy,
it hurts," relishing the words as he relished them, moved his fingers inside me
faster.
He never took his eyes from me. "Do you like it when I hurt you, Laura?"
"Yes," I whimpered, "Yes," as he found a spot that made my eyes roll back in my
head.
"Would you like me to hurt you some more?" Without waiting for an answer, he
pushed me down so that I was kneeling with my head against the floor,
prostrating, my face pressed against the thundering of the moving train. He
ordered me to lift my hips a little more, to offer my buttocks and my pussy to
him, ordered me to rub my clitoris. I did everything he asked, felt a dizzying
lightness in being ordered around so, not being in control of my own pleasure.
He was in charge of my pleasure, I didn't need to worry; my Daddy would take
care of me, take care of all his little girl's needs. When I had arranged
myself into a position that best pleased him, he kept on punishing me with his
hand, thrusting his fingers inside me, curling them inside me until I was
kicking, spasming upon the floor. Despite the din of the train wheels, I could
hear my pussy making sloshing sounds, disgusting, horrifying; I didn't even
know a woman could get this wet. I screamed, my noises suffocated by the train,
screamed and writhed--I was so close, the heat of impending orgasm rising
higher and higher in my hips.
It was then that he stood up and laid his foot on my head.
"Beg."
I screamed at first as he was truly pressing hard with his foot, so hard he
could break my neck, snap it, oh, God, what if the train jostled suddenly--
"Please!" I panicked, babbled. "Please. Please let me come. Please."
He spat on my asshole, loudly. "Again."
"Please."
He pressed his other hand's thumb inside my ass, twisting it, fucking my ass in
time with his fingers in my pussy. I screamed, screamed as I could feel how
thin my flesh was between the invading fingers, but even more because of how
good it felt.
"One more time, my child."
I filled my voice with all my remaining innocence, all my remaining goodness,
all that he wanted to corrupt. With my voice, I offered myself to him; with my
words, I surrendered myself to his will. "Please let me come. Please, Daddy."
With a growl, he removed his foot from my head and curled his fingers, his
thumb inside me: I had started to come as I had said the words, but it was now
he who forced my orgasm to crash through me with violent force. I screamed
louder than I had ever screamed, screamed like I was being murdered, liberated
by the train's noises now covering up mine. He pulled me open, stretched me
wide, hooked his fingers inside me until I gushed wet, my pussy and my ass
rippling endlessly around his hands. His nails pressing hard into the small of
my back, he kept on tugging with his thumb until he could wring out the last of
my tremors, keeping his thumb inside of me even as he slid his fingers out of
my pussy. With that one single thumb, he now held me up, kept me from
collapsing.
"Turn around." He was smiling at me, a smile full of calculated, twisted
father's pride. With a shudder, I watched as he sat down on the bunk and sucked
upon his thumb, closing his eyes in exaggerated pleasure. With a satisfied
sigh, he brought his other hand to his cock, slicking himself up with my
wetness. "And now, for your prize. You've wanted this for so long, haven't
you?" He caressed my hair and beckoned me closer, to kneel between his parted
legs. "Look at it. See how hard you've made Daddy."
Still shaking from my orgasm, I touched my fingertips to his cock, the soft
skin of it now stretched over firm, hard muscle. "It's beautiful."
He wrapped my hand around it, closing his own hand around mine, nuzzling my
face softly. "And it's all yours to play with. But you must learn to handle it
right. Would you like me to teach you?"
"I am sure you will, anyway," the older me laughed in her normal voice.
His eyes flashed a little as I broke the mood that way, and he tugged my head
back by the hair in warning. "I see I'm going to have to teach you many things,
my little brat," he hissed, "including respect," he said, but I could hear the
delight in his voice.
I was learning fast--testing how much teasing it would take to make him give me
little rewards like these, his hand a cruel fist in my hair. I had hated this
form of discipline more than anything else in the world, but when he did it, it
gave me unutterable delight. He was taking an act of violence and turning it
into one of pleasure and for that, I loved him. What power did others have over
me now, when an act used to hurt me, to put me in my place now made me crackle
blue and white, made little sparks of ecstasy skitter from my scalp to my
nipples to my pussy to my toes? No, I only knelt at his feet now; all others
were to kneel at ours.
I was warm from my orgasm, sated, drunk, and now I could better focus on
serving him. I made myself smaller, softer, captured his eyes with mine, now
using not only my voice but also my body to serve his desire. I was intoxicated
by my own transformation, but even more so by his response, the way his cock
swelled in my hand as I made my smile more demure, my hand more hesitant.
"I am so sorry, Daddy." I cast my eyes down, even fluttered my lashes--and at
that, I could hear his breath catching in his throat. I looked up again from
underneath my lashes, as if I had never seen dirty French postcards, had never
read about how prostitutes pleasured men with their hands and mouths. "Please.
Please teach me."
And he did. For long, long minutes he guided my hand with his, showing me just
how to grip his cock, how to roll my palm along the shaft, to massage him. And
all the while, he kissed me, kissed me until I was drunk from kissing. "Your
hands are so tiny," he whispered into my mouth. "So tight," groaning as I
repeated his favourite movement, one he had taught me a mere moment ago. He had
shown me just how sensitive the spot right underneath the tip was, had shown me
how to knead it with my thumb to make heavy drops of arousal bead at the slit.
It was a beautiful sight, he so controlled by my hands that I could withstand
even my arm growing tired. I inhaled his arousal as he had inhaled mine, his
pre-ejaculate now dripping, trickling over my thumb in rivulets.
He had been hard since midnight, and going by his wristwatch, it was now closer
to one. I had heard alcohol made men soft and that men of his age would have
trouble maintaining erections for long, but no such problems were evident in
him. Perhaps it was the thrill of what we were doing, perhaps it was me--
I dared hope so. Emboldened, the girl in me begged in the way he loved to be
begged for, knowing, feeling each one of my words send a tremor through his
cock. "Let me taste it," I kissed into his mouth, like I was begging for candy.
"Please, Daddy. Please let me taste your cock."
He put his fingers to my mouth, caressed it open, his lashes fluttering low,
his own mouth trembling from want. "Open up and say 'ah.'"
I did, and he pulled me closer. "Watch your teeth. Now, carefully, close your
lips around it, that's it--I said, watch your teeth, oh--"
A little more pre-ejaculate splashed onto my tongue, salty-sweet, the taste of
it not unlike that of my own fluids. He keened, thrust into my mouth a little,
hitting my throat. At that, I choked--this was not as easy as I had imagined,
his cock feeling far bigger in my mouth than it had looked. Carefully, I
continued, trying to match the rhythm of my mouth with that of his hips. Each
time I grazed him with my teeth, he would tug on my hair; each time I did
something right with my tongue he turned his touch into a caress. He tilted my
head so that I was looking up at him, and that gave him the most pleasure of
all: when he started grunting and thrusting faster, he deliberately held my
head still so he could fuck my mouth as he pleased. If he thrust too deep into
my throat and made me gag, I would close my eyes in reflex, but always, he
coaxed me to keep them open with soft little croons.
"See how long you can hold your breath, my child. That's it. Never take your
eyes off mine. I will count to ten. One..."
He held me tight even as I started to choke, even as tears sprang to my eyes.
By "seven," those tears streamed down my cheeks, by "eight," my pussy was
clenching involuntarily, drawing a wet stripe upon the floor. By "nine," my
vision had started to go black and my hands trembled upon his thighs. And for a
long while, he remained silent but I held him, had to hold him, would hold him
even if it killed me. His eyes stared into mine, blue as the heart of a flame.
My vision went from black to white and the last thing I saw was his crooked,
red-lipped, sharp-toothed smile. "Ten."
Violently, he wrenched my head onto his thigh and I heaved, gasped, coughed,
half-drowned: saliva and mucus flowed thick from my throat, hanging in strings
from my mouth, dangling off his thigh, my breasts. I coughed, wept, drew in
deep lungfuls of air as he wiped my face with a handkerchief. My pussy was
clenching, but I could not stop sobbing. I wasn't truly crying, only heaving
with dry sobs from how overwhelmed I was. I loved this; it was so late and I
was so tired and so drunk and so sore, but I loved this more than I had ever
loved anything in the world. I had always wanted this and had never known it,
but he had revealed my own perversions to me, had rewarded me by indulging
them, and this was only the start.
"Thank you, Daddy," I hiccoughed, looking up at him as he petted my head on his
thigh.
"Good girl," he said, and it was the most wonderful thing I had heard in my
entire life. "Would you like some more?" he asked.
"Yes, please."
He did not fuck my mouth roughly, this time. He let my head rest upon his thigh
as he guided his cock into my mouth and I suckled upon him softly, gently. "My
sweet little daughter," he whispered, his hand trembling in my hair. "My sweet
little girl." He gazed upon me in awe, in genuine adoration and I adored him
back, focusing all my being on only his cock, on his pleasure. With a
tenderness that was almost love, he kept stroking my hair, crooning soft
compliments, encouragements in my ear. It was a litany of sweetness more
rewarding than anything I had ever heard from my teachers, my grandfather, from
anyone, and I cherished it with all my heart.
I was saddened when I felt him tremble, felt his balls tighten in my massaging
hand, because it meant the moment was over. With a hoarse, deep cry, he held
his cock in my mouth and flooded me, shooting his sperm into my mouth with such
speed and volume that I choked. I coughed but kept sucking, determined to taste
him to the last drop, just as diligent as I had been when drinking his piss.
Only now I was more worshipful, grateful instead of shocked, savouring the new
taste upon my tongue. It was soapy, slick, alkaline, sweet and salty at the
same time. I did not find it particularly pleasing, but the fact that it was
his and that it was all for me was what made it pleasing. I was swooning with
the amount of liquid pleasure I had tasted only within one night, and as his
balls emptied their last I shivered, near orgasm only from the realisation of
how full I was.
You see, I had always had this cold, hollow place in my belly where I had felt
I was empty, where I had always felt something ought to be. And tonight, that
hollow place was warm, swirling with lust, sated from whisky, soda, piss, come,
life--my belly was full of him. I could not remember a time when I had last
been so content.
He pulled me to lie beside him on the narrow bunk bed and drew the bedcovers
over us. We lay there, spooning, catching our breaths. Yet I was still wet, hot
and he could feel it, my pussy pressed slickly against his softening cock. I
groaned inwardly--if my mind was sated, why was my body still burning, my hips
full of such ridiculous heat? I shifted restlessly in his arms.
"Did you mean what you said about the adoption papers?" I asked.
"They should arrive within a month's time. Then, we will celebrate together."
"Is this another fetish?"
"It is a ritual, is it not? And rituals, all truly magical rituals, are always
things set apart from ordinary life. Didn't you yourself say you wanted me to
teach you how to be extraordinary?"
"Perhaps I don't want to be that extraordinary. Perhaps all I want is your cock
inside of me," I said with the harsh, sarcastic bluntness I knew he appreciated
in me. I squirmed again.
"But, my dear, you will have it once the papers have come in. In fact, you
should think of it as our wedding night, to heighten the anticipation." He
slipped his hand between my legs from behind and cupped my pussy with it,
tugging at its hairs in punishment. "Think of it: after those papers have been
stamped and sent to us, you will be mine. It will be the crime of incest
doubled, and would you miss out on a chance like that?" he crooned, trapping my
clitoris between his fingers.
"But I want you," I panted into the pillows, clutching his hand with my thighs.
"My pussy wants you," I blurted, as if he couldn't feel it this very moment.
He laughed. "I know it does." He pushed some fingers inside of me again and it
hurt, hurt so much but I spasmed, shook from delight in his arms. "My cock
wants you, too, my child," he whispered, his lips wet against my ear. "You're
so tight," he hissed. "Don't think I haven't dreamt of this tiny little pussy
for years. In time, I will deflower you like Heliogabalus deflowered the
Vestal; that, I promise you."
"Fuck me," I moaned: every inch the impatient, spoiled brat. "Please, Daddy,
please, fuck me now!"
"No, no, no, no. That won't work on me. You see, a month is what I presume it
will take for me to train you." And at that, he curled his fingers.
I howled into the pillows, howled. "Like a dog?"
"You let me put the collar on you, didn't you, my child?" he wrapped his arm
around my throat and squeezed. "Stroke yourself. Stroke that greedy little
pussy, that's it."
I did, and he thrust his fingers into me faster, loosening his grip on my
throat, then tightening it again. My eyes were rolling back in my head, ugly
noises breaking from my throat as he let me gasp for breath, shockwaves of
pleasure surging through me each time he let me fill my lungs.
"I will train this little pussy," he hissed. "Train it so that it will swell
open and slicken from just one touch, one word, one whisper from me. I will
find each and every spot that makes you lose your mind, teach you new ones,
ones you didn't even know you had. So that by the time I spread you wide open
on my bed and push my cock inside you to the root, you will be screaming for
me."
I screamed for him now, screamed into the pillows as I came all over his hand.
Brutally, he kept thrusting his fingers inside me so that my hips were lifted
off the bed. He thrust and he thrust, pulling my head back again with his arm,
biting my ear. "But do you know what I will do first, my child? Before I will
fuck your virgin cunt?" He slapped my pussy, pinched it, pushed his fingers
inside once more.
"Please--"
He dragged his fingers out of my pussy and slid them to my ass. "I'm going to
fuck this."
He thrust his fingers inside my ass and I howled into his arm, howled, shook as
the waves of fresh pleasure-pain rose in my hips, pushing me towards another
orgasm. I rubbed my clitoris furiously, desperate to relieve the pain. He must
have been pushing at least two of his fingers inside me, but I knew they would
be nothing, nothing compared to his cock.
"Tell me," I begged, my voice quivering. "Please, Daddy, tell me."
He twisted his fingers, loosened his arm's grip as if to only listen to my
sobs. "I will stretch you," he whispered. "Each night, I'm going to give you
fingers, toys. Until this little hole will open for me so easily it can take me
with just spit."
"No!" I cried, and it was a lie.
"'No'? I don't think you understand, my child. If you don't give it to me
willingly, I am going to have to tie you down and take it." He chuckled and
curled his fingers inside me, tugging at the muscles of my ass. My spine
melted, light gathered behind my eyes and I thought I was going to die, there
and then. I wanted him to force me, I--
He let me breathe again, but continued to tug at my ass; tug, tug. "I'll fuck
this little hole until you cry. I'll fuck it until you apologise, until you beg
me for it each night, until it's the only hole you will want to be fucked in.
Would you like that? Is that why you're protesting? Is that another fantasy of
yours?"
"Yes," I cried, shivered in shame.
"Then I shall rape you," he growled and bit into my shoulder.
I screamed as the light behind my eyes exploded and I fell as shooting stars. I
was light and I fell, fell forever, my body convulsing upon his hand, upon his
fingers inside my ass, my own fingers slipping on my swollen pussy. I sobbed,
sobbed in shame, in horror as this was unlike any orgasm I had experienced
before, images of him forcing his cock inside my guts flashing through my mind.
He wouldn't have to force me, he wouldn't; I would crawl to him willingly, lift
my buttocks like a cat in heat, spread them wide and beg to be sodomised.
It was horrifying, yet perfect, and in my daze I still wondered if I did not
have a shred of goodness left in me because I could still feel shame, feel
disgust. Yet just as he had turned hair-pulling into a pleasure, so the shame
and disgust of sodomy, his merciless fingers abusing my ass were now the
greatest pleasures I could imagine.
It was regret I whimpered in when he withdrew his fingers and wiped them on his
handkerchief. I was still shaking, still wracked with cold shivers as he turned
off the light and held me in his arms.
"Sated for tonight, my child?" he asked, and I could hear the smirk in his
voice.
I could only kiss his hand, the hand that still smelled of me, and nod. "Thank
you for everything, Daddy."
***** Chapter 4 *****
I soon learned people whispered in Stockholm the same way they whispered in
Forssa, only on a scale much more epic. Who was this girl? Why had Barring of
all people suddenly adopted her? Had the old rake grown soft, perhaps wanting
to atone for his past sins by becoming such a benefactor?
Those were the more benevolent rumours. The more virulent ones, of course, were
much closer to the truth, but most people refused to fully believe them exactly
because they were so outlandish. Evil tongues would wag, but would anyone truly
believe the rumours of his corrupting me in secret--and above all, the rumours
of incest? That was a little too far-fetched, even for him, they must've
thought. Thus, perversely, the exact outrageousness of what we were doing
protected us from any serious suspicion. I came to realise people's faith in
innate human goodness would excuse any number of criminal acts, simply because
people wanted to believe the best instead of the worst. Even when suspecting
the worst, people always doubted themselves and did not want to make fools of
themselves. Therefore, most didn't pry.
By day, I put on a masquerade: I always dressed neatly, plainly, more
youthfully than I wanted to, smiled at everyone, played the part of the brave
little orphan finding her way in the world. By night, I took off the mask of
wholesomeness and painted my face into that of the woman I truly was.
At Torsten's request, we made my descent into a ritual: every night, at the
stroke of six, I would throw myself into the arms of sin as he watched. I would
wait until he came home, sprawled in his leather armchair, lit a cigarette and
told me to begin.
First, the underwear: he gave me a new set each day. Often the garments were
made of sumptuous materials, like lace and silk. This was on the days when he
wanted to see me as a whore; on others, when he was in one of his moods, he
would insist I wear the fresh white cottons of a girl. He had asked me to bring
the corset--sometimes, he would ask me to wear only the corset. And each night,
I would stand in front of the fireplace in my underwear and pose for him like
an artist's model. He would ask me to assume the poses of goddesses from old
paintings, of prostitutes from smudgy etchings, of naive chocolate-box
innocents at play. On some days, I would play the part of the kitten for him,
curling up at his feet and purring as he petted me. On others, he might ask me
to lie down on the coffee table and spread my pussy like a prostitute showing
off her charms, ask me to act crude and crass towards him because it pleased
him. On the days he made me wear the cotton underwear, he would ask me to
quiver, to try and cover myself with my hands, to plead for him to not hurt me.
Yet he never did; he never molested me once during these sessions. He would
only sit back and watch with his cigarette and his brandy; perhaps, he would
gift me with a caress now and then. This foreplay would often make me furious
from frustration, make me act my parts with a singular intensity. When he
forced the little girl to masturbate for him, she did so with all the terror
and delight she was capable of. But it was the role of the whore in particular
that I cherished the most: I showered him with all the foul words I knew, the
most terrible insults I could think of. Sometimes I would even slap him--and
oh, the way he jerked back in his chair, his back a taut arch, the ecstatic cry
that broke from his lips!
On such days, he would tell his whore to slip on her dress, pour on her
diamonds, touch her cheeks with rouge and follow him into the most ill-reputed
establishments he could think of. It was from those that the wickedest rumours
started to spread out into the world outside: who was this painted doll, this
child-woman on Barring's arm? Surely she was not of age? But as usual, money
was a potent lubricant and hushed many a wagging tongue, turned many an eye
blind. In the narrow alleys of the Old Town, we would crawl our way through low
doorways into a whole new world: it was a world in which a lady might turn out
to be a gentleman and a gentleman might turn out to be a lady, or something
indeterminate in between.
Or it might have all been a dream brought on by the drugs we swallowed,
snorted, injected. I never quite knew the truth of what happened on those
nights; I felt so cosy in my soft nest of furs, perfumes, intoxicants, reeling
in his arms. He wore suffocating, flowery fragrances to the clubs; I laid my
head in his lap and thought of Heliogabalus. I called him that as he guided my
mouth to his cock. He smiled, and afterwards, traced the sperm around my mouth
and baptised me "Cleo."
Those were the names we would use whenever we went out, now, and we went out
often. By day, I studied the theory of sin through his vast library of books
poetic, erotic, sadomasochistic; by night, he would take me to the bars and
brothels to observe those sins in practice. For a price, a certain brothel
would put on shows for us--for my education, Torsten said--and I witnessed all
kinds of copulations imaginable. Some, the less imaginable ones I would prefer
to now think of as opium nightmares. Some, I would observe with rapt attention,
leaning forwards in my seat, and surely would have joined in, had it not been
for Torsten's iron grip on my wrist. I saw cocks so worn and diseased I felt
nauseous, but also saw shaven pussies so plump and sweet they made my mouth
water. I saw faces twisted with the rage of passion, melted by smiles of
absolute satiation. I now knew what each human orifice looked like when well-
fucked, slick, dripping with fluids. I witnessed men fucking women, men fucking
men, women fucking women.
There were nights when I whimpered watching these plays, begged for him to fuck
me, screamed for it against his chest. I was desperate, and therefore resorted
to threats, to blackmail. I would prostitute myself if he wouldn't fuck me, I
said.
"The adoption papers haven't come in yet, my child," he would only say and grip
my wrist so hard my bones would creak.
Every night, he would take me home and satisfy me with his mouth instead,
stretch my pussy and my ass with his fingers until I was exhausted from
orgasms. It felt wonderful, yet it was never enough, this training he insisted
upon. I felt I was ready, no longer a pupil, ready to sin with him as an equal.
One night, when we were returning home from our revels, I was so overheated he
took me in his car. He leaned over and told his chauffeur to drive around
slowly, to not disturb us for a while. He thrust an astronomical tip through
the driver's window, then latched it shut.
I was only wearing my furs, heels and a pair of silk stockings. He spread my
coat open and slipped his hand between my legs, immediately pushing his fingers
inside me. He was wearing his black leather gloves and it hurt, hurt even if I
was dripping wet, even through the opium that sang in my veins. I came fast but
he kept going, the stretch of his fingers wider, now. I stared down at myself,
saw he was pushing four fingers inside me and I screamed into the hand he was
holding against my mouth. I screamed again as I saw something darker than my
fluids on his hand--my blood, I realised, my virginity--and here he was, taking
it with his hand in the back seat of his car, grinning in sadistic delight.
"You asked for it," he crooned in my ear, twisting his fingers, as if to make
sure my hymen was fully torn.
I pulled his hand off my mouth. "Take it out. It hurts."
"It always hurts the first time," he laughed and twisted his hand deeper. He
clasped his other hand over my mouth again and continued to fuck me. "I told
you I'd train this little pussy and here we are," he purred. "You've come a
long way, my child," he said and lowered his voice into a whisper, pressing his
wet lips against my ear. "Daddy is so proud of you."
He fucked me so hard my hips lifted off the seat and I came and I came: the
opium seemed to stretch my orgasm forever, stretch his fingers forever, forever
until it felt like they were pushing out of my throat, so completely had he
impaled me. I seized up, all of my body rattling with convulsions until I
passed out in his arms.
When I woke up, he was painting my pubic hair, my nipples, my lips with my
blood.
"Congratulations."
My head lolled onto his shoulder and I groaned. "I never know what to expect
with you," I slurred.
He dipped his fingers into my mouth, gesturing for me suck them clean. "And do
you enjoy the unexpected?"
I spat his fingers from my mouth. "Not always."
"But such is life. You've got to learn to take things in your stride."
"That was my virginity you took."
"And isn't a woman's virginity one of those things society puts far too much
importance on? And women have far too many romantic dreams about? It's
something they save up, and invariably regret it the night they give it to some
clumsy idiot who only hurts them, who can't pleasure them. Most women have told
me so. That's sex as normal people know it. What we have is sex as connoisseurs
know it. Didn't I give you pleasure, just now?"
"That's different," I snapped. "I knew you were capable of pleasuring a woman.
I just would have preferred to have been deflowered in a bed, that's all."
"I'm sorry," he said, but he wasn't sorry at all.
"Sorry is not enough," I said, heaving with the opium and my disappointment.
Again, I wished I had a penis so I could punish him with it, rape him with it,
but even that fantasy fell flat as I knew he would only have enjoyed it.
He glared at me, then knocked on the driver's window and told him to take us
home.
***
For the next few days, he avoided me. He went off to sort out his affairs, he
said, but I was sure he was spending more time at horse races, at gentlemen's
clubs instead. Wasting my money.
And at that moment, I caught myself acting like the typical housewife, full of
scorn, ready to nag: I horrified myself. I looked at myself in the mirror and
asked myself who I was. Who was this new Laura? Why was she reverting to a
stereotype instead of relishing the perversions she had been yearning for?
Where was the ruthless vamp, the queen, the empress? I called to mind my
twelve-year-old self and wondered what she would have thought of Uncle Torsten
deflowering her with his hand in the backseat of his car. Of what she would
have thought of his wet moustache upon her ear, of four leather-encased, cruel
fingers inside her, turning her little pussy into a cunt.
The twelve-year-old Laura squirmed, flushed and an erotic shiver passed through
her body. Had I forgotten how to be that child? His books had told me children
had a natural inclination for evil, that they did not discriminate: they would
play with their own filth, play with their own genitals and do whatever they
liked. Some Hindu mystics would deliberately seek this kind of attitude to
break through taboos in order to find enlightenment, to find the true spark of
divinity behind everything: they would consume even the flesh of the sacred cow
to prove this to themselves. Shouldn't I be more like them myself? Had that
dream of being deflowered in a bed been a pointless romantic fantasy, just as
he had said--the sacred cow I had set aside just because it was the done thing
to keep sacred cows? In that moment, I hated him, hated him for having been
right.
I was better than the others, and I would prove it to him.
I called the tailor. A few days before Torsten and I had argued, I had asked
for a tuxedo to be tailored to my measurements. The transvestite women I had
seen at the bars had fascinated me: I thought it was a thing only women like
Dietrich did, something only a movie star could get away with. I had never seen
such a thing in real life and it had left an indelible impression on me. I,
too, wanted to be as strong as these women were, cool and proud, smoking and
drinking and fighting like men.
The tuxedo was ready but for a few small adjustments, I was told, and the
tailor rang the doorbell just around six. Torsten was not around and for once,
I was free to dress the way I wanted. This only added to the sense of power I
felt as I stood in front of my mirror in masculine attire, as the tailor made
the last few adjustments. He smiled a knowing smile as I paid him, even winked
as he left. I wonder how much he knew; I was certain this wasn't the first time
he had delivered something special to this address.
A top hat and a cane completed my outfit: I stood in front of the mirror a
little man. And it was as this little man that I set out to find Torsten.
***
I knew what his favourite bar was, and it was probably the most obscure one of
them all, hidden in the basement of a house painted as pink as a harlot's
vulva. A string of secret knocks and passwords were required before you were
allowed in. The bouncer was a large, burly lesbian, tougher than most male
bouncers I'd seen, and she whistled appreciatively as she took my hat, cane and
gloves. I flushed, basking in her gaze, enjoyed being leered at. This was the
polar opposite of Wickman's crude comments meant to disturb and humiliate. I
was among other people of my kind, now, and we shared an unspoken
understanding--and now, even an admiration--for each other.
The establishment was dark even for a bar, only with some strategically placed
red lights here and there so that the patrons could retain some anonymity and
privacy. I sat at a table in a corner, nursed my cocktail and waited.
It was then that another tuxedoed woman sat at my table. "Name's Helena. What's
your poison?"
"I--I haven't finished this one yet," I said, stunned. I'd seen her here
before, but had never learned her name. She was someone I'd adored, like all
the other women in the bar did--I'd seen even some of the homosexuals at her
feet. She was tall, pale, soft and auburn-haired, beautiful. And just like
Torsten, she possessed a sensuous elegance that permeated her every movement.
She was always immaculately dressed in suits and tuxedoes and wore her hair in
a ponytail, with a big black silk bow reminiscent of an eighteenth-century
courtier. I could not tell the colour of her eyes in the dim light, but they
were wide, heavily kohled, mocking; her mouth full, lush, sensuous.
I realised my stammering might have seemed like a rejection, so I offered my
hand. "Cleo."
She only looked at me up and down, laughed as if she didn't believe that was my
name for a second, and took a drag off her cigarette. "As you wish." She took
my hand but instead of shaking it, she kissed it. "It's about time you finished
your drink, since I'm going to buy you another one anyway. Same again?"
By the time I was on my third drink, I had forgotten about Torsten. Helena had
moved onto the bench I was sitting on and had her arm around my shoulders. This
was on the pretext of her offering me a taste of her cigarette, a herbal blend
with roses and mint and something else that made my head spin far more than
ordinary tobacco or cocktails would have. This was some Sapphic mirror image of
the time Torsten had tried to seduce me on the pier, I thought, and once I
started laughing, I could not stop. I giggled and giggled, fell into Helena's
arms until I was so out of breath I could not laugh any more.
She stroked my hair. "You're a charming little kitten, aren't you? Now, tell me
something. What does a girl like you do in a place like this?"
"I'm looking for someone," I laughed and smiled up at her, blowing away the
cloud of smoke that covered her face.
"Aren't we all?" she bent over me, opening my mouth and blowing smoke into it
from hers.
I kicked on my seats, mewled into her mouth as the kiss sent a jolt of heat
deep into my pussy. I coughed, gasped, my head spinning as she pulled back and
grinned above me. God, I wanted her; I was sick of only being allowed fingers
and tongues. But from what I'd seen of lesbian sex, it was all about fingers
and tongues. Wasn't it? I asked her.
"Oh, yes," she grinned, "and many more things besides." She slid her hand
underneath my jacket and fondled my breast through my vest.
"But I want a cock inside me," I blurted and regretted it as soon as I realised
how offensive I was being to someone who obviously didn't care for such things.
To my surprise, she laughed and leaned closer. "I'll let you in on a secret. I
do, in fact, have a cock. A big, fat one at that and it never tires. Only I
keep it at home, in my bedside drawer. Would you like to come and take a look
at it?"
My heart pounded so fast against her hand that it was as if it wanted to be
plucked out of my chest. Perhaps I should do what she asked; perhaps I should
follow her home to get what Torsten had refused to give me. Maybe it would make
him jealous, make him so jealous he would finally fuck me.
Or murder me. I sat up, the confusion and fear having sobered me up a little.
Helena smoothed back my hair and cupped my cheek, pulling me so close our noses
were touching. I could smell her deep, musky, masculine perfume, feel her hot
breath upon my lips. "Poor, confused little kitten. What's the matter? Have you
never been taken by a woman before?" she purred.
"No," I said, casting my eyes down.
She lifted my chin. "Then it's about time someone showed you how it's done. Do
you know what I do to little girls like you, Cleo?"
I shivered and bunched my hands into fists. This was awful; again I was
reminded of Torsten, of his confidence, of his ruthless lust. Was I never going
to be free of him, even when another was touching me, and a woman at that? I
moistened my lips with my tongue and squeezed my thighs tighter together. "Tell
me."
Helena chuckled deep in her chest and pulled me to sit in her lap. I had to
balance my hands against the seats; she brought her hands to my buttocks and
whispered into my ear. "I take them home. Maybe we'll drink a little, maybe
we'll dance a little at first."
She pressed herself against my groin and oh, God, I was wet. She squeezed my
buttocks, toying with the cleft of them so that I did not know where to press:
against her wonderful hands or the front of her trousers, the rumpled fabric
rubbing sweetly against my swelling pussy. "Please, continue," I gasped in her
ear, my voice inadvertently growing higher, into that of the little girl.
"I take them to my bed, Cleo. And there, I kiss them." She unbuttoned my vest,
unbuttoned my shirt and cupped my breasts in her hands. "I kiss their mouths, I
kiss their breasts and I kiss their little pussies. I lick them, suck them,
finger them until they can't take it any more. And do you know what I do then?"
I moaned, unbuttoned my trousers and moved her hand to my pussy. "Please. Tell
me."
"My, my, you are ready." Unlike Torsten, she wasn't in a hurry to violate me
with her fingers, only kept them to my clitoris, rubbing it very softly, so
softly it was maddening. "Just how I like my girls."
"Please. Please tell me what you do to them," I gasped, trying to press myself
harder against her hand.
"I fuck them." She made the movements of her hand faster, faster, chuckling in
my ear. "I take my cock out and push it deep inside their little pussies until
they come all over my face," she laughed. And her laughter, her fingers made
such waves of pleasure rush through me that I was light-headed, my fingers
trembling upon her shoulders. I was close, so close.
"Helena--"
"Yes. And do you know what I do as a special treat to a girl like you? A girl
who likes to dress as a boy?" she said and rubbed yet faster.
"No." By now, I was rutting against her hand so hard she moved it to her thigh.
There, I straddled it and rode it, ground my pussy into it so hard it hurt.
"Tell me."
"I take my cock from her pussy and push it straight into her ass."
I screamed, screamed into her shoulder as I came, my pussy and ass both
clenching in desperation: she pushed her fingers inside my pussy and kissed me,
kissed me as I rode her through my orgasm.
"Please do it to me," I babbled into her kiss. "Please fuck me, please, please
fuck me," I sobbed, "please fuck my pussy and my ass."
She took her fingers out and sucked on them, relishing them like candy. "I
will. Come on. Let's go."
"Wait." I slouched upon the seats, laughed, shook my head in disbelief. "I need
to catch my breath."
She lit a cigarette, inhaling the smell of me off her fingers as much as she
was inhaling the smoke. "I'll go powder my nose. Don't go anywhere."
I shook my head. "I won't."
Except it was then that I saw him. Or should I say "her"? Torsten had been
leaning against the bar so that I hadn't noticed him at first, but I could
always recognise his tall, hourglass-shaped silhouette--even underneath his
long dress. His dress had a distinctly Oriental flavour to it, lined as it was
with embroidered ribbons and tassels, with the coined belt of a belly-dancer
slung about his feminine hips, making them seem even wider. As he turned
around, I saw why he had chosen such garb: he had wrapped a veil about his
face, saving him both the trouble of shaving his moustache and wearing a wig.
I burst into laughter, but quickly suffocated it into my hand. To onlookers, he
may have been the most elegant, most feminine female impersonator in the bar,
slinking his hips and flashing his kohled eyes, but I could not erase the
thought of his moustache. I had to restrain the urge to run up to him and tear
the veil off him, to humiliate him in front of the crowd.
Only I saw he was in trouble already. He was arguing with a tall, burly man
accompanied by two equally burly friends, and things were not looking good.
Helena reappeared, beaming. "Let's go, then."
"Wait." I buttoned up my shirt and nodded towards the bar, towards the men who
were now arguing louder and louder.
"What is it?"
Torsten flung his drink at one of the men and without hesitation, the man
punched him. Torsten hit the floor.
"That's my father!" I cried. The bouncer and the bartender were now dragging
Torsten and the thugs out of the back door. "I don't have time to explain. I'll
be back, please understand, I promise--"
I had to tear myself away, not looking at Helena, my guilt at leaving her
nothing compared to the fear I now had for Torsten's life. This was an area
where people got murdered on a regular basis and I doubted whether the police
would care for another dead transvestite, nobleman or not.
I peeked through the doorway and the men were now opening the door of a shed on
the opposite side of the alleyway, pushing Torsten inside. He staggered in his
heels, but the men dragged him in and locked the door behind them. I ran after
them, pounded at the door with my fists, screamed for them to let him go. There
was no answer; the men were too busy arguing. Furiously, I looked for a way in,
running around the shed, looking for the weak spots in its defenses. The shed
was old, rotting and my knowledge of barns and cowsheds had taught me where a
girl could enter unnoticed. Perhaps I could find another door, even a small
window--
There. A loose plank, just there at the corner and loosening it a little more
would make the gap wide enough for a child--or a young woman--to crawl through.
The shed was filled with old crates, them rotting as well, the overpowering
smell of mould suffocating me. I put my handkerchief in front of my face so as
not to cough and peeked through the crates.
The three men stood around Torsten. Torsten was kneeling on the floor, his veil
torn off, dangling around his shoulders in tatters. He had a bruise on his
cheek and one of his shoes was missing. I wanted to go and rescue him, to
strangle the bastards, but that would have been suicidal. As I assessed the
men, I realised they were not only strong, but far too well-dressed for common
thugs. They were all well-groomed and in the light of the single bare bulb
above them, I saw one of the men, the tallest of them all, was black. He spoke
with a French accent and seemed to be the boss of the other two, who also spoke
in accents that did not sound Swedish to my ears. They called the ashen-haired,
quiet man by an Eastern European name--Polish, perhaps. The blond man next to
him--the one Torsten had been arguing with--spoke the best Swedish of them all,
but with an accent that sounded like he had his mouth full: he couldn't be
anything other than a Dane.
The African put his hands in his pockets. "One way or another, Miss Barring,
you're going to pay us."
"I haven't got the money yet. I told you, you will get it next month."
The Dane nudged him with his shoe. "That's not good enough. Karol."
The quiet man reached into the rucksack he was carrying and took out a camera.
"No!" Torsten tried to cover his face with his hands, but the Dane twisted them
behind his back. Torsten was shaking with rage, panting, his eyes as pale as
glass as the flash lit them for a split second.
"There." The African squatted before him. "Now, we are all reasonable men and
I'm sure we can come to an arrangement. Therefore, if you don't want us to go
public with the pictures, you will give us the money by the end of the week."
"Two weeks," Torsten growled, wrenching himself free from the Dane's grip. "I
told you I would pay by the end of September. I will be a millionaire by then.
It would serve you well to remain on good terms with me," he said, gathering
about himself all the command and charisma he was capable of in his current
state. "Don't tell me you couldn't use a millionaire as a friend."
The Dane smacked him. "All I see is a simpering tranny with not a penny to his
name." He started to undo his belt. "I can think of only one form of advance
payment we could accept from a faggot," he leered. "Isn't that right, Mr.
Ibrahim?"
The African stood up and considered the scene for a while, again with his hands
in his pockets. Torsten knelt, trembling, his hands bunched into fists. His
expression was unreadable: he had that strange, bitter leer on his face he
always did when he was going through something unpleasant. But he didn't weep,
didn't whimper or plead for mercy, and this filled me with astonishment, even
awe. Even when threatened with rape, he held his head high, sneering with
contempt at his captors. He might have been wearing a dress and kohl, but he
was far from simpering or effeminate. No, no; the faggot was the bravest man in
the room, it seemed.
I could not believe my eyes when Torsten got up, reached into his stocking and
took out a cigarette and a lighter. "One last cigarette for the condemned?" he
quipped, lighting it and taking a deep, theatrically deep drag off it. Without
saying a word, he blew the smoke in the Dane's face.
The Dane hit him, then, hit him so hard he fell to his knees again, his lip now
beading with blood. Torsten laughed at him, delirious. "You're nothing but a
bunch of faggots yourselves."
The Dane slapped him now, the way a man slaps a woman. "You little fucking
cunt." He got to his feet and took his cock out, rubbing it all over Torsten's
face, smearing him with his smell. "Isn't this what you were looking for in the
bar? Hmm? Well, you're going to get your ass full of it. Isn't that right,
fellas?"
Ibrahim came to stand behind Torsten and grabbed him by the hair. "If you value
your life, you'll do as you're told. Now, open your mouth."
Furious, Torsten remained on his knees as all three men took out their cocks.
For the duration of a few more blows and threats he resisted, but soon he was
serving all of them with his mouth. They pulled on his hair, smacked his
cheeks, forced their cocks into his throat until I could see his tears
glittering in the harsh light.
And the most perverse thing of all in this violation was the skill with which
the victim performed: for Torsten, it seemed to be an act of defiance to suck
on each cock as hard as he could, to twist his head and slurp with his tongue,
to pleasure the men in the exact same ways he had taught me to pleasure a man.
He slicked all their cocks up with an excess of saliva, drooled on them so that
his spit was dangling from his mouth in strings. As he moaned around one cock,
he would pump two others in his fists, twist his slickened hands, forcing
groans and grunts of pleasure out of all three men. Even the strong and silent
Karol let out a deep groan of delight as Torsten swallowed him so deep his face
pressed into his pubic hair.
The Dane held Torsten down, ground his face into Karol's crotch until he
coughed, gagged. Torsten lost his grip on the cocks he was holding, spasmed and
to my shock, I saw his own cock was rock-hard, tenting the front of his dress.
He was enjoying this, enjoying his own rape and I could only stare, slack-
jawed.
When Torsten started to grow limp, Ibrahim laid his hand on the Dane's
shoulder, shaking him out of his sadistic reverie. "Olaf."
Violently, Olaf wrenched Torsten's head back, lifting him up by the hair so
that Torsten was gasping, heaving between the three of them. He coughed wetly,
mucus and spit bubbling all over his face. He let out a gurgling laugh. "Go on,
then," he hissed in their faces. "Get on with it."
Ibrahim nodded towards an unused table in the corner. "Karol. Bring that over,
will you?"
They manhandled Torsten face down onto the table, lifting him like he was a
doll. "This is what you've been waiting for, isn't it?" Olaf said as he tied
Torsten's wrists behind his back with his belt. When Torsten didn't answer, he
took his dress and a loud noise filled the room: Olaf was ripping his dress,
ripping it until Torsten's buttocks were exposed. Olaf tore at the ribbons of
the dress until he could use them to tie Torsten's legs to the table, too.
Seemingly out of spite, Torsten didn't put up a fight. He squeezed his eyes
shut and hissed as Olaf spread his buttocks.
"My, my. You don't see one of these every day," Olaf laughed. "Look, boss. Did
you ever see such a well-used hole in your life?"
Ibrahim took a drag off his cigarette and pressed a finger to Torsten's ass.
"Only on a street boy in Algiers. But I wouldn't say this was a boy's hole, oh,
no," he chuckled, pushing his finger inside roughly, so roughly Torsten jerked
in his bonds. "Fat little lips, and it's all wet inside, ready for a cock...
no, my friend. I'd say this was little pussy."
At that, Torsten moaned, moaned so loudly Karol stuffed his cock into his mouth
to keep him quiet. Ibrahim took his finger out and held it up to the light; it
was glistening wet. "Look at that. Smells sweet, too, just like a pussy." He
wiped his finger on the back of Torsten's dress. "Let me see you fuck it,
boys." With a smack on Torsten's buttocks, he stepped back.
Ibrahim made his way closer to me, leaning back against the crates I was hiding
behind. I stiffened, every hair on my body standing on end. I breathed faster,
clasped my handkerchief over my mouth so as not to give myself away. Ibrahim
stood so close to me I could smell him. His tobacco was of a light, sweet
flavour, his cologne heavy and earthy, but even from underneath them I could
smell the sweetness lingering on his hand.
Glycerine. Ibrahim had not been waxing poetic: Torsten had slicked himself up
beforehand. It was the reason why Olaf now cried out in such delight as he
pushed inside Torsten with ease. My eyes wide, I watched as his cock sank all
the way inside in two, three strokes: feverishly, I wondered what Torsten must
have done to open himself so. What he must've done to his ass to have them call
it well-used, a pussy. How many men had he taken inside himself these past few
days? Or had he been playing with toys? I had always known him for a
homosexual, known it, known it, and now it was clear why he had refused to fuck
me.
I was angry at him, so angry I wished I was in Olaf's place myself: punishing
him the way Olaf was punishing him now, thrusting his cock inside him with
bruising force, tearing up the back of his dress to spit on his back. The way
Torsten cried out around Karol's cock now gave me vengeful delight, and I hoped
from the bottom of my heart that it truly was pain he was crying out in. I
wished my hands were Olaf's, tearing at Torsten's hair, wrenching his mouth off
Karol's cock.
Olaf inhaled loudly. "Sweet little sugar pussy. You made it sweet so it'd taste
better when you sucked your daddies clean, is that it?" Never taking his hand
off Torsten's hair, he swapped places with Karol. As Karol began to fuck
Torsten in earnest, thrusting into him with the power of his entire bulk,
Torsten keened and his eyes bulged in shock. He shook, his mouth opening and
closing as Olaf pulled on his hair and lifted his wet cock to his lips.
"Open up," he said.
Olaf's cock gleamed in the white light and I was disgusted, even if it looked
clean: I was too far away, I couldn't tell for sure. But what disgusted me the
most was the way my pussy tightened as Torsten pressed his lips against Olaf's
cock and moaned.
"Slowly," Olaf warned, tugging Torsten's head back a little. "I want you to
savour it. Remember where it's been. Remember where you've been fucked."
Karol stopped moving inside Torsten, seemingly mesmerised by the sight, or then
he was deliberately allowing Torsten to focus on Olaf's cock, I could not tell.
I suspected the latter as he gripped Torsten's hips, seemingly to keep him from
squirming. Against the edge of the table, I saw Torsten's balls were drawn
high, tight, his cock swollen. There were wet streaks on his dress underneath
it, and from them I realised his cock was dripping.
"Where's my cock been?" Olaf asked Torsten, shaking his head by the hair.
"My pussy," Torsten moaned, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks as Olaf
smeared his cock all over his face. "My pussy."
"That's right. Now suck all that pussy juice off it; there's a good girl."
With a look that could only be described as rapturous, Torsten took Olaf's cock
into his mouth and sucked it, slurped at it with such delight it revolted me.
Yet my pussy was pulsing, soaking through my trousers as I watched him suck
every drop of glycerine, of his ass off Olaf's cock. I feared I would come
there and then without touching myself: the sight of Torsten's mouth stretched
around a cock, the high-pitched scream in his throat--
--but it was Karol who came, now, slamming his hips into Torsten, groaning loud
and long, fucking him so hard the table creaked, so that Torsten's face was
pressed into Olaf's stomach. On and on he fucked Torsten, on and on until his
sperm leaked out of Torsten's ass and dribbled down his balls. With a final
grunt, he pulled back and leaned against the wall to catch his breath, his
knees trembling.
And oh, the sight of Torsten's ass: it was no longer a pink bud but a red,
slick hole, gaping open wide. As Olaf continued to thrust into his throat,
Torsten's ass clenched, spasmed and Karol's come burst out of it in rivulets,
bubbles. It was horrifying, disgusting, but as Ibrahim left to take Karol's
place, I still had to fight myself to not slip my hand into my panties and
masturbate.
I was so aroused I was shaking, but a little voice told me to use reason, to
stay calm. It was then that I realised Karol's bag was lying a few feet away
from me, and Karol himself was distracted as he was rolling himself a
cigarette, watching the other men. Protected by the deep shadows in this corner
of the shed, I snuck my hand between the crates and snatched the bag. The name
of Barring was my name also, and no matter how much I hated Torsten, I would
not have that name tarnished. I reached into the camera to pull out the film.
It was empty. Baffled, I searched inside the bag and there was no roll of film
to be found. There was only a small black notebook, a calendar by the looks of
it. It was full of little bookmarks, red and pink, of varying sizes. Today's
page had been marked with a large, red bookmark. Underneath it sat a typed-up
note on thick, quality paper, perfumed with lavender.
Client code name: #366/Heliogabalus
Participants: The client, three men of heavy build, must be high-class escorts
with acting skills
Scene:Simulated gang rape by gangsters (details provided later)
Requirements:Transvestism, humiliation, restraints, punching and slapping,
hair-pulling, oral sex (client giving), anal sex (client receiving), extreme
acts welcome, etc.
Salary: 1000 Kr per escort, will tip extra for creativity
I let the book fall from my hands. Numb, I pushed the bag to where it had lain,
then only stared at my hands. Torsten was screaming, choking on Olaf's cock as
Ibrahim pushed inside his ass--I suspected the fantasy of the well-endowed
African had been on the more detailed list--and I did not know what made me
more furious, his homosexuality or that this, this was what he was wasting the
family fortune on. I clenched my hands into fists and fumed, yet some little
part inside of me was whispering: Jealous?
I was this close to stepping out and interrupting the scene. Yet, as I turned
to look at the men again, I could not stop watching. I hated myself, hated my
pussy for enjoying the sight, hated my brain for asking me whether I was only
angry because I wasn't involved in this play. If he was wasting our money on
debaucheries, why wasn't I invited? I, too, would have enjoyed cocks like the
ones he was now being fucked with.
And as Olaf finally pulled out and ordered Torsten to open his mouth, spraying
Torsten's mouth, tongue and moustache with thick blasts of come, I finally gave
up. I slipped my hands underneath my waistband and knelt on the floor, grinding
my pussy against my hands, biting my lip in order not to moan. Torsten's moans
were the loudest in the room, however: he panted rapidly, gasped as Olaf
squeezed, dribbled his last onto his tongue. The sick bastard--Torsten even
huffed, snarled as he licked Olaf's cock, butted into Olaf's hand as he smeared
his come all over his face, his hair.
It was then that they untied Torsten's legs and turned him around so that he
was lying on his back. "It's a tight little pussy you've got," Ibrahim grunted
as he gestured for Olaf to pull Torsten's legs back. "But can you take me all
the way? Most women can't, and most boys can't either," he groaned as he
started thrusting inside once more.
By now, Torsten was wailing. "Yes," he cried, his head butting against Olaf's
stomach, his softening cock. The metal legs of the table made loud noises,
that's how hard Ibrahim was pounding into him, flexing his knees so he could
enter him fully. Torsten shivered, obviously in pain, and I derived a sadistic
satisfaction from this: he looked truly frightened, scared that Ibrahim would
cause him permanent damage. And I saw the reason why: when Ibrahim pulled back,
slowly, I saw that he lived up to the myths. His cock was as wide as my wrist,
monstrous, brutal as he pulled out briefly to spit on Torsten's gaping asshole.
Olaf, too, spat until Torsten's ass was covered in the foam of sperm and spit,
Torsten himself jerking, twisting on the table upon his bound hands.
Ibrahim dipped his cock inside, then pulled it out, dipped inside of Torsten
again, teasing his asshole, watching it open and close, chuckling deep in his
chest. "There you go," he crooned as he dipped his cock inside once more.
"That's it. Now, do you know what I call a hole like this? The kind of hole
that can take my cock just like yours does, right now?" he said as he pushed
inside, all the way to his balls, so deep I thought his cock must have been
entering Torsten's colon. It was a horrifying thought, but I had heard it was
possible: going by the way Torsten's eyes were bulging, the way he was shaking,
shivering, coughing up spit, I must have been right.
Olaf slapped him. "He asked you a question."
Torsten whimpered through his nose, stared up at Ibrahim, his face a mess from
kohl-black tears, phlegm, sperm. "Tell me," he croaked, in a barely audible
voice. "Tell me."
Ibrahim smiled, a big, white-toothed smile and put both of his hands to
Torsten's throat, stroking it with his thumbs. "I call this a whore's cunt."
Torsten threw his head back and howled. Ibrahim pressed down with his thumbs
and cut that howl short, and I saw something I did not even think was possible:
Torsten's cock, leaping, jumping, spraying his skirts with come. No hand was
touching it, yet pulse after pulse of thick, white sperm shot out of his cock
at every one of Ibrahim's thrusts, Ibrahim pounding it out of his body, milking
him as he took his pleasure of him. Ibrahim loosened his grip and the rest of
Torsten's howls burst out of his mouth, all three men laughing as their victim
came and came. Again, he howled as Ibrahim took his cock in his large fist and
pumped it, wrung every last drop of Torsten's come onto his hand.
Olaf let go of Torsten's legs and slapped his face, first his right cheek, then
his left, slapped him while Ibrahim fucked him, spat on his face now, smearing
his face further. "Enjoying yourself?"
"He is," Ibrahim panted, sweat running down his face in rivulets. "A little
bird tells me he'd been dreaming of a black man's cock, crawling the jazz bars
in search of one. Why was that?" He spread Torsten's legs and bent him double,
panting in his face. "You've been dreaming of something exotic, have you,
little princess?" he sneered, laughed. "Or is it because of what I'm pushing
into right now? Because when I take my cock out and put it into your mouth,
it'll be all brown no matter what, and you won't be able to tell what's me and
what's--"
Torsten choked.
"Exactly." Ibrahim buried himself to the root and stayed still, growled at him
with all the contempt he could muster. "Force his mouth open, Olaf. Karol, you
keep his ass open for me."
Torsten was now screaming, high-pitched, effeminate screams, kicking and
thrashing on the table as the three men held him down. Karol scooped some of
the sperm from Torsten's stomach, spat into his palm, wedged his hand and
started to push it into Torsten's ass. I was shocked at the ease with which
Torsten's ass opened for his hand, to the palm at least, so deep I could not
tell if Karol had managed to insert his thumb, too. And at the other end of the
table, Torsten's screams turned into soft whimpers, sobs as Olaf tilted his
head back and he swallowed Ibrahim's cock into his mouth. I imagined what he
must have been tasting, now, and it was then that I came on my own hands: came
as I watched Ibrahim's long, thick, shining cock sink past Torsten's lips, saw
Torsten suck at it as if it was the most delicious thing in the world. His
cries were clearly, obviously those of pleasure and each and every one
reverberated through my own body in turn: I whimpered, too, as I shook,
collapsed against the crates from the force of my orgasm.
Yet, they had not heard me, thank God, thank God. Ibrahim was shouting too
loudly, from deep within his belly, long, satisfied groans: I watched Torsten's
Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed Ibrahim's cock, swallowed all the come
Ibrahim was now pouring down his throat. When Ibrahim finally pulled back,
Torsten was coughing sperm, his voice hoarse from his throat having been fucked
so. He wailed as Karol twisted his hand in his ass, wailed, spasmed so that he
twisted onto his side on the table, panting.
Ibrahim wiped sweat from his brow, tucked himself inside his trousers and lit a
cigarette. He gestured for Karol to withdraw. "Gentlemen, I think we have
finished negotiations for today."
They untied Torsten and left him there, left him panting on the table in his
ripped skirts, covered in sweat, spit and sperm.
I let him lie there, observed him as his breathing slowed down. I listened as
he groaned in ecstasy, watched his gaping ass clenching shut, pursing out fat,
thick drops of come. My stomach turned, but at the same time I wanted to
violate his ass with my fingers and my tongue, wanted to suck those fat drops
into my mouth, to taste what he himself had tasted.
It was only later that I picked up both our coats and entered through the front
door of the shed, the men having left it open.
Torsten stared at me, his mouth open wide. I did not know what to say, either.
That I loathed him? That despite everything, I still wanted him?
"I saw everything," I snapped.
He looked at me up and down with his smeared whore's eyes and smiled a lopsided
smile. He threw his head back and laughed hysterically, collapsing back upon
the table. When he had managed to collect himself, he considered me for a
while, then pulled the tatters of his dress closer around himself. "And did you
like what you saw?"
I did not answer, only wrapped his coat around his shoulders and helped him up.
"I've called a taxi. Come on."
***
That night, I refused to sleep in my own bed. I crawled under his bedcovers and
curled up in his arms.
"Why have you been playing with me, all this time?" I whispered against his
chest.
"What do you mean in particular?"
"I wanted to share your perversions, not have you hide them from me."
He laughed into my hair. "You saw how well I succeeded at the hiding business.
I'm still trying to get used to my daughter being as clever and as ruthless as
myself. And I'm stuck with you, aren't I?"
"It's your own fault. Why give me false hopes if you were never going to go
through with it anyway? This whole seduction business, I mean." I turned around
so I wouldn't have to look at him, filled with shame and self-pity despite
myself. "Although I suppose that makes me the fool, for not having listened to
my instincts. I always knew you were a latent homosexual."
He slipped his hand underneath my nightdress, his fingertips playing with my
pubic hair. "The term is 'bisexual,' my dear." I could hear the leer in his
voice. "And there's nothing latent about it, as you saw."
I groaned, but he only hugged me against himself and chuckled. "Were you really
that jealous?"
"Yes," I spat, hating myself.
"In that case, I should fuck you right now to thank you for flattering me so.
Only I'm too tired."
"If you talk about fucking me one more time without going through with it, I
swear you are going to wake up at the bottom of the sea wearing a pair of
concrete boots."
"Charming."
"I was about to leave the bar with a woman when I saw you," I said defiantly,
hugging my arms against my chest. "Perhaps I should have followed her instead."
"Your faithfulness is touching. What was she like?"
I told him about Helena and he burst into laughter against my shoulder.
"Do you know her?"
He rocked his hips against my buttocks meaningfully. "Oh, yes. I know her very
intimately indeed."
I wanted to claw at his face and ask him if he'd slept with everyone in
Stockholm but me, but didn't want to give him the satisfaction. I fumed, yet
remained in his arms, not wanting to leave his body heat.
"In fact," he murmured, "I was going to introduce you to Helena myself. There's
a party we've both been invited to tomorrow, but she wants an excuse to leave
early, as she has plans for one of her pets. I suggested we should have our own
party here instead."
I didn't even need to ask him what kind of a party he was talking about. "Will
you mind if I don't join in?" I said out of spite, not truly meaning it.
"But I do mind." He tugged at my pubic hair and despite myself, I shivered in
arousal. "You asked me for more, and I would love to give you a little more
tomorrow. Would you now throw my offer back in my face?"
An orgy. He was talking about an orgy. With Helena. I thought of the press of
her breasts against mine, her intoxicating cigarettes, her slick hand on my
pussy and I shivered again. I thought of what he might mean by "more" and my
half-asleep mind swum with wild visions: I ground against his hand, groaned at
him as I turned around to face him.
"Very well, then," I said. "But remember, you owe me."
He kissed me. "I will try and make it worth your while. Consider it a present."
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Notes
     A couple of gifs of Torsten committing some magnificently hypnotic
     and seductive hand porn while Helena and Athena dance in the
     background here and here.
That night I dreamt of Helena, of Torsten, of being trapped between their
bodies, their fingers. It was a nightmare: they both kept teasing me,
withdrawing just as I was about to come, keeping me on the edge of orgasm
forever. When I woke up, alone, I was so angry I screamed into the ceiling.
The day had not started well. I was hideous to Torsten all day: sniping at him,
hissing at him. I was acting like a right little brat and I didn't care. It all
sprung from my sexual frustration, my jealousy, and I told him so in no
uncertain terms. What was female hysteria if not the product of a thwarted
libido, I asked? I was angry that he hadn't fucked me, angry that I had not
been invited to the party with him. Yet, he remained calm, infuriatingly calm,
watched me with admiration as if I were an actress and he my audience. I
wondered at which point he would murmur "You're beautiful when you're angry,"
or something akin to it, but he remained quiet, amused.
When it was six o'clock and time for me to dress up, I showed him the drugs I
had stolen from his cabinet, snorted them defiantly as he watched. Some of the
powder fell on my naked breasts but I didn't care: I wanted to be vulgar, to
find a way of irritating him so much he would finally snap and fuck me, hit me,
anything except stare at me the way he was now staring at me. He sat in his
armchair and had slung one leg over the other, rocking his foot pleasantly,
smoking.
The drugs went into my head fast and it made perfect sense to me to assume the
pose of a cat. I crawled up to his chair and clawed at his legs, thighs. I
mewled, meaowed, snarled, hissed. He stayed still and chuckled deep in his
chest, adoring me as I wrinkled up his suit, pulled off his tie, pushed my
hands underneath his shirt and clawed at his chest.
He groaned in delight, his eyes flashing with desire as he petted me behind my
ear. "Daddy's little pussy is upset, is she?"
I found I could not make human noises, so I hissed at him some more, clawed my
way down to his trousers until I found his cock and squeezed. I let out a loud,
demanding noise.
"Daddy's going to feed his pussy later tonight. I promise." He sunk his hand
into my hair and kissed me, sucked my mouth and my tongue, tasting the remains
of the drug off me. "But we have to get you ready. Now, hurry up into the
bathroom. I've left some tools out there for you to use, so you will be at your
prettiest tonight. And you do want to look your prettiest for your Daddy and
his guests, don't you?" he said and patted my cheek.
I staggered onto my feet and left for the bathroom. On the edge of the giant
bathtub, I found razors and lotions and beside them, an enema syringe and a
bottle of glycerine. Perhaps another woman would've been shocked, but in my
agitated, drugged state, I found a little sob of joy bursting out of my throat.
I was being prepared for fucking, being asked to make myself fully into a
whore.
Gladly, I immersed myself in this work. I shook my head in disbelief, delight
as blond curl after blond curl fell off my pussy into the toilet bowl. I looked
at myself in the full-length mirrors covering the walls: my bare vulva was
beautiful, plump, its soft cleft a bright, candy pink.
It was not the hairless sex of a child I saw, however, although I wondered if
he hadn't had that in mind. To me, it was the pussy of a grown woman, the
shaving itself an initiation ritual into adult sexuality. It was an act I had
performed solely for the purposes of sex, to beautify my pussy for my own
pleasure as well as his, to make it more sensitive to touch.
That sensitivity frightened me at first. The drug might have enhanced it, and I
gasped as I touched the razor to my mound again to snick off the last few
curls. I had not even masturbated, yet my pussy was aching inside and out: it
was swollen with blood, my folds flushed a darker pink now as I spread my legs
to check for any last hairs. I imagined him looking at my pussy, touching it,
licking it and I moaned. But I had to finish before he left--there was no time
left for masturbation, now.
I picked up the enema syringe, a simple rubber balloon with a detachable
nozzle. I had only been given enemas a few times before as a child. I knew the
water had to be lukewarm--I remembered the hideous cramps I had suffered when
that Kristiansdotter bitch had used water that was far too cold. Inserting the
nozzle was not easy, so I used some of the glycerine, pushing a dollop inside
my ass with a fingertip. It was the first time I'd put some inside myself and
while I felt a slight, warm irritation from it, I also found that warmth
pleasurable. As the shaving had sensitised my pussy, the glycerine now
sensitised my ass, I found, so that I could feel the surfaces of my finger
better. I could not help but think of Torsten slicking his own ass with this
before he went out to seduce men, oh, God, maybe this was why he preferred it
to oils--
Again, I bit my lip and forced myself to concentrate on the task at hand. I
inserted the nozzle and slowly, slowly released the warm water inside myself.
My stomach flipped a little, still, but I persevered: I flushed my ass three
times until the water ran completely clear. I washed my buttocks and pussy
underneath the shower, then pushed some more glycerine inside myself. It hurt
this time, my ass now sore from the rinsing and I felt less of an urge to
masturbate. Yet, he was going to take me like this, wasn't he? He was going to
push inside my ass whether I hurt or not, and panting against the tiles, I
fingered more glycerine inside myself, my pussy now dripping between my thighs.
He wasn't even in the same room and yet he was torturing me senseless, oh, the
bastard.
By the sheer power of my frustration, I got to my feet, washed my hands and
returned to the living room, naked. He had changed while I was gone and was now
smoothing out his tuxedo in a mirror, adjusting his black tie. He smiled when
he saw my reflection. "Ah. Take a seat, my child." He gestured towards the
sofa, towards the coffee table upon which stood a half-empty champagne bottle
and two glasses.
My ass clenched. "I'd rather not, if you don't mind." I did not want to make a
mess; therefore I curled up on the furry white rug in front of the fireplace. I
felt cold and hugged my arms close to my body.
He tugged up his trouser legs and squatted next to me, petting my hair like a
parent pets a feverish child. "Daddy's going to go away for a short while, now.
Will you be a brave girl and wait here for me while I'm gone?"
"Like this, you mean?" I curled up tighter and fought the urge to cry. "Daddy,
why do you always have to leave me?" I asked in a quiet voice, a voice that
came I don't know where. The drug, the past few days had caused a terrible
loneliness to well up inside of me, stirred in me a longing to be fathered, a
yearning I had never known despite being an orphan. I had always stood up for
myself, but now I felt weak, fragile. I wanted him to care for me, wanted him
to hold me, wanted him to be there for me. And now, finally, the tears came. "I
don't want you to leave me."
He wiped my tears with his hand and rubbed my back with the other, hushed me,
kept wiping until I stopped crying. "Shh. I'm going to make it all right
tonight. Would it help if I told you I phoned the magistrate's office today?"
"Oh?"
His smile had a genuine warmth to it, a perverse warmth but a warmth
nevertheless, a cruel warmth I cherished more than anything else in the world.
"My application has gone through. They said we would receive the adoption
papers by post tomorrow, or the day after."
I shot up, balancing myself on my hands. "Do you mean--?" Now I was weeping
from happiness, shaking, sobbing as he gathered me against his chest, then
lowered me onto the floor.
He spread his weight upon my body and kissed me, slow, long; he savoured my
tears as he drank them from my mouth. "Yes. In less than forty-eight hours, you
will be my daughter."
I shivered from my toes to my pussy to my belly to my breasts to my head, all
of me full of gold, the gold of firelight, the gold of the champagne on his
tongue. "Daddy--" I moaned into his mouth, devoured it, sucked his tongue,
fearing I would fall apart before he even finished the kiss.
But as if on cue, he pulled back, straightening out his tuxedo once more. "Stay
there, my child. I'm going to give you something to play with before I go."
He took out a jewellery box and snapped it open in front of me. "Here." Inside
it, nestled within sapphire blue velvet, lay a thin silver collar and two pairs
of thin silver cuffs. They were all beautifully wrought, shining, slim; all
only as wide as my finger. I looked up at him and he smiled.
"Nothing but the best for my daughter."
My heart pounded so violently it was about to burst out of my chest. I clasped
my hand over my mouth, tears filling my eyes once more. I ran my fingers across
the restraints, across their elegance, their beauty: I saw that each loop of
silver was reinforced with a layer of steel underneath it. I took the collar
and read the words engraved on the inside, as if on a wedding ring:
Laura Erika Barring, The Pride of her Father.
I could not stop shaking from tears as he locked the cuffs around my ankles, my
wrists: as he closed the collar around my neck, I sobbed into his mouth in
gratitude. "Thank you, Daddy. I'm so sorry for having been such a brat tonight,
I'm so sorry, so sorry--"
"No, you're not," he laughed, kissing my tears away. "And that's how I like
you. There. Lie down. Let me look at you."
I laid myself down on the rug, sank into its long white fur, stretching in
intoxication, in utter happiness. His eyes glittered in the firelight,
glittered as he watched the play of the flames on my bare skin. He ran his hand
from my ankles across my thighs to my shaven pussy, hissed in delight as he
felt how soft, how wet I was. He dipped his fingers into his mouth, shaking
from the taste--I smelled, tasted sweeter now without the hair--and he let his
hand continue its journey. He slid it from my belly to my breasts, to my neck;
he hooked his fingers into the collar and pulled me into a kiss. "You're
beautiful."
I drank deep, deep from his kiss. "Do you have to go?"
He nodded. "Yes. But I will be back soon. Just a few more things before I go."
He took a long, thin chain from his pocket and with it, he linked my cuffs and
my collar together so that I was now curled up on the rug in a fetal position.
"I want you to be like that when I return. Do you think you can do it?"
I nodded. It's not as if I had any choice and secretly, I relished the choice
having been taken from me. I fancied that had he not restrained me, I might
have gone completely mad because of my current state, run out into the street
naked and screaming. And I did not want that. I wanted to remain here, on the
rug, like the good little girl I was. "Yes," I said and smiled as he caressed
my hair.
He took the champagne bottle and took a deep swig from the mouth of it, then
sloshed it--it was nearly empty. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand,
grinned and started tearing off the wrapper from around its neck. He tossed the
wrapper on the floor in front of me.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm going to leave you something to remember me by."
He knelt beside me, spread my buttocks and pushed the neck of the bottle inside
my ass. I screamed in shock, kicked, spasmed. "Take it out!" I shrieked.
"Please! Please, take it out!"
"Oh, no, no, no, my child. By this, I will be able to tell whether you've moved
from your spot. Might I remind you that alcohol, when inserted through the
rectum, can be very dangerous indeed? Especially in combination with drugs?"
I screamed, inhaling a mouthful of fur. "Please, stop!"
"Shh, shh, shh," he tutted, then pulled the rug and me closer to the fireplace,
so close that he could move me to rest against its base. He arranged me so that
the bottom of the bottle was pressed against the bricks of the base, so that my
weight rested upon it. "Remember, the bottle is nearly empty. As long as you
don't move, you will be perfectly safe. If you do move, however, the champagne
will slosh inside you." He snapped the bottle with his fingers, making the
glass echo inside my guts.
"No!" I sobbed. "You'll kill me!"
"I'm sure you don't want that, no. Then, you'd best not move an inch until I
come back. I just thought I'd give you a little motivation to keep your
promise, that's all."
"You utter bastard."
He kissed me and grinned, his teeth gleaming in the firelight. "The exact
confession of love I was looking for." He got to his feet and picked up his
hat, coat and gloves. "I'll be back in an hour or two. Au revoir!"
With a mocking little wave, he was gone.
***
I lay there in my chains and listened to the ticking of the clock on the
mantelpiece. The Rococo hands moved slowly, too slowly. It had been quarter to
seven when Torsten had left me; it was now nearly eight. Over an hour I had
kept the damned bottle inside of myself, my ass clenching around it painfully
now and then. It was pressing on my nerves, those spinal nerves I had heard the
stimulation of which could calm down epileptics, hysterics. Thus, I was not
surprised when the pressure made me descend into a stupor: the bottle, the
remains of the drugs, my aroused state made me swoon on the rug, limp.
At times, I dozed; at times, the bottle hurt me so much I tried to masturbate
with it to relieve the pain. The chains were so short I couldn't move much from
my position, but I could rock my hips, clench my pussy, move my ass on the
bottle a little. It still hurt, but the pleasure helped cut the pain. Still, I
couldn't come because I couldn't reach my clitoris in this position, so soon I
had to stop because the pain of arousal started to rival the pain in my guts. I
trembled, forced my breathing to calm down. I focused on the flames behind me,
now slowly dying, focused on their warmth and let myself sink into the rug once
more.
I was asleep by the time they arrived.
"They" being Torsten, Helena and her friend. I had seen the brunette at the
transvestite bar once or twice. She had very Mediterranean looks, with a bold
nose, dark curls and a bone structure that made her look older than she was--
yet in a dignified, ageless sort of way. She was wearing a long white dress, so
elegantly pleated I wondered how she could sit down in it without ruining it.
It was so thin I could clearly see the shape of her slim figure through it,
too--her firm, peaked breasts, her boyish hips, the curve of her belly. All in
all, she reminded me of some archaic goddess.
"This is Athena," Torsten said. I couldn't help but smile, and Torsten nodded
at me. "Yes, we have a veritable who's who of the ancient world gathered here
tonight, my friends. Athena, meet Cleo, short for Cleopatra. Helena--"
"We've met," Helena purred, leaning over the sofa, flicking ash off her
cigarette. The firelight caught the diamonds on the bracelet she was wearing
high on her forearm over a pair of long, black opera gloves. I had never seen
her dressed in feminine garb--she had been stunning dressed as a man, but
Helena the woman took my breath away. Her hair was neatly coiffed in long rolls
over her head; more diamonds sparkled at her ears. She wore a long, whisper-
soft black dress that revealed her entire back, the straps of the dress slung
so broadly over her shoulders it was as if a breeze could slide the entire
dress off her completely. The flesh the dress revealed was milk-white, her skin
so soft I wanted to nuzzle it. Feverishly, I wondered if she had shaved her
pussy, too; if it was as soft and as plump as the skin on her arms.
She stepped back and leaned on Torsten's arm sensuously, measuring me with
hungry eyes. "So you've gift-wrapped her for our pleasure, have you?"
"No, no, no." He put his arms around both women and led them to the sofa. "Just
as you have an... arrangement with Athena, so Cleo and I have an arrangement.
She is to watch, until I decide otherwise."
My pussy clenched at that, and I gasped a little as it intensified the pain of
the bottle in my ass. "Torsten--"
He came and squatted next to me, caressing my ass with his hand. "How is my
little girl doing?"
"It hurts."
"Yet you've kept it inside of yourself all this time, just for me." He turned
to Helena and Athena, grinning widely. "She loves me, you see." Before I could
protest, he kissed me, full of pride. "I'll take it out soon enough, my child."
"But--"
"Shh. You see, Athena has behaved very poorly and Helena wants to teach her a
lesson. And she's asked me to help. I told her you were here, and she was
overjoyed at the idea of you watching. Would you deny her that?"
There was a loud creak as Helena pushed the Rococo coffee table right next to
my rug, beside the fire. "No, I don't think she would," she smirked and sat
upon the table, kicked off her shoes and petted my hair with her toes. "You are
a pretty little kitten. I said I would show you how I take my girls, but
tonight is going to be a little different."
Athena clasped her arms to herself and looked at her toes. I realised she
hadn't said a word yet. Helena saw me looking at her. "She is only allowed to
talk if I address her. A part of our arrangement." Helena leaned towards me
conspiratorially. "It turns her on," she whispered loudly. "But you would know
all about that, wouldn't you, kitten?" she said and tickled me under the chin.
In the meantime, Torsten had been adding wood to the fire until it was roaring
again, until the heat made my buttocks flush. But now my face flushed, too: I
stared not at Helena's face, but at her soft breasts as she leaned towards me
and kissed my hair. Heavy, they nearly fell out of her dress and my mouth
opened out of its own volition--I wanted to nuzzle her breasts, to suckle upon
them as if they were ripe fruit. She wore a sweet, airy, light perfume tonight:
reminiscent of lilies, of water, of spring. I sighed a little as she withdrew
and glanced over her shoulder.
"Athena." Helena snapped, talking to her in a firm, commanding voice. "Take off
your clothes and come here."
Naked, Athena knelt on the rug and cast her eyes down, flushed. I wondered how
much of it was acting and how much of it was true inexperience, fright. A lot,
I guessed, seeing how her pulse fluttered at her throat, how she clasped her
thighs so tight her fingers left white rings upon her flesh. Helena caressed
her hair, coaxed her to look up at Torsten. But it was me she was addressing.
"Athena is a virgin with men, you see. She claims they are of no use, says
she'd rather die than sleep with one." Helena closed her fist in Athena's hair,
tugging her head up when she threatened to lower her gaze again. "Isn't that
right, pet?"
"Yes, mistress," Athena said weakly.
"And these past few days, she has been behaving erratically, driving me
absolutely mad. But there is a line she knows not to cross with me. I will not
give you the details, as that is between us only, but yesterday, she crossed
it. And what do I do to you when you cross my line, pet?"
Athena closed her eyes in shame. "You punish me, mistress." She was truly
frightened, perhaps having thought to tease Helena, but not having realised
Helena would punish her like this--in front of others, through others.
"That's right. Since you so hate men, I might as well push your limits as you
have pushed mine." She shook Athena's head by the hair. "Look at him."
Athena's eyes prickled with tears of pain as she opened them. All of her skin
was covered in goosebumps and her large, dark nipples were crinkled, hard.
Helena looked from Torsten to Athena. "That's the man who's going to fuck you
tonight. Now, what do you say?"
A tear rolled down Athena's cheek. "Thank you, mistress."
Torsten knelt beside me, caressing my buttock, thigh. He was quite possibly
more aroused than any of us; I could see his erection seeking a way out of his
trousers, feel how his breathing had quickened as he watched Helena discipline
Athena. He did not say anything for a while, only relished the moment: he was
surrounded by beautiful women, by sex, by flesh, by femininity. And most
intoxicatingly of all, he was enwrapped by the sweet perfume of sadism. He
devoured Athena with his eyes: it was as if he were painting her body with his
eyelashes as he tilted his head, relishing her shivering flesh, the tears
glittering upon her cheeks.
I but lay there, quiet, observing them all.
Helena leaned in to kiss the tears from Athena's cheeks, then kissed her mouth.
"There's a good pet. Don't think I'm letting you off easily, though," she
laughed, then turned to me. She lifted her wrist and displayed her bracelet.
"Do you know what this is, Cleo?"
"No."
"In certain circles, the placement of a bracelet like this denotes how deep
you've sunk your hand into a lover's flesh."
My eyes widened in shock. Torsten chuckled beside me; Helena leaned back and
enjoyed the impact she'd had on me. "I've already punished her pussy tonight,
you see. I got it up to about here." She tapped the bones of her wrist. "She's
so sore she has barely been able to sit tonight," she said, leaning back on the
table, practically purring as Athena swallowed in shame, staring at her own
knees. "Therefore, I've decided it's her ass Torsten will fuck tonight. She's
always been prudish about allowing my fingers there, let alone my cock, so I
think it's about time we showed her what she was missing out on. Isn't that
right, Torsten?"
He rapped his knuckles against the bottle in my ass and smiled as I jerked upon
the rug. "You've come to the right man."
Helena nodded and pulled off her gloves. "But just as your Cleo here has to
wait, so does Athena." Helena spread her legs and lifted up the skirt of her
dress.
I gasped--I had been right; her pussy was bare, even fuller than mine, fat and
delicious between her thighs. I squirmed against my bottle, against Torsten's
thigh. I'd never tasted a pussy, but would have given anything to lick hers:
she was so close I could smell her, sweet and rich, could see the way her folds
were gleaming with arousal.
With a luxuriant sigh, she rubbed her pussy a little, then lifted her feet onto
the table, spread herself out like a pagan fertility goddess.
"Torsten." She smiled coquettishly.
He shrugged off his jacket and knelt beside her, so that Athena and I could
both see. He laid one hand on Helena's thigh, but did not touch her pussy yet:
instead, he cupped the back of her head and kissed her slowly, sensuously. He
kissed her with such skill that my pussy clenched in jealousy as I watched his
tongue flickering in and out of her mouth. Helena tried to pull his hand to her
pussy, but he tsked a little noise of disapproval into her mouth, sucking at
her lips and her tongue until she tore herself away, panting.
"You bastard." Her eyes were blazing like those of a wounded tigress. "I forgot
how good you were at this."
"Mm-hmm. It's why you make exceptions for me, isn't it?" He moved his hand
lower, running the very tips of his fingers along her inner thigh.
"I only make exceptions for faggots." She retaliated by wrapping her arms about
his neck. It was hard for her to balance on the table, so now only Torsten was
holding her upright. It was then that Torsten slipped not one, but two fingers
inside her pussy and she whimpered against his neck. "Fuck," she panted, "fuck,
fuck, fuck," as Torsten started to move his fingers inside her.
"And are my faggot's fingers bigger than a woman's?" he chuckled against her
ear.
"Yes," she gasped. "I always say that only a man--" she drew in a quivering
breath as Torsten slid his thumb to her clitoris and started to rub--"only a
man who's been on the receiving end knows how to give it."
Torsten nodded. "That's right." And at that, he pushed her down on the table
and buried his face in her pussy. Helena jerked, her back arching off the table
as Torsten ground his mouth into her--we could no longer see what he was doing
to her, especially as he had pressed his face so completely into her that we
could not see his tongue. I could only imagine it was inside her, flicking in
and out of her, and I moved myself on the bottle, desperate for friction. My
own cry was drowned out by Helena's as Torsten began to truly push his face
into her--oh, God, that moustache against her bare pussy, her clitoris
unprotected by hair! By now, I was shaking with arousal and envy.
Athena, too, was leaning forwards, warily, as if frightened that Helena might
accidentally kick at us, so furious were her convulsions. Helena squeezed
Torsten's head with her thighs, threw back her head and let out a long moan,
that moan breaking into small ululations as Torsten thrust his fingers inside
her. When he pulled back for breath, grinning, strings of her fluids dangled
from his lips. "That's three. Would you like some more?"
Helena thrashed on the table, Torsten fucking her with his fingers so violently
she was clutching the table in desperation, her knuckles white. "Yes," she
keened from between gritted teeth, between nearly-closed lips. She had clearly
not been expecting this, to be undone like this--it was a marvel to see someone
so domineering, so confident falling to pieces so quickly. I could not imagine
her like this with anyone else but Torsten: Torsten, with his skilled fingers,
Torsten with his ever-thirsty mouth. When he leaned down again, this time
moving his mouth higher so he could suck her clitoris, wedging four of his
fingers inside her, Helena was lost.
"Fuck!" she screamed, her eyes rolling back in her head, "Fuck, fuck!" in an
endless litany, completely surrendering to his fingers and his mouth. I had
never seen a woman in the throes of such ecstasy and wondered if this was what
I was like when he fucked me with his fingers: did I shake like this, convulse
like this, scream for him like this? What would I be like once he finally slid
his cock inside of me?
Helena screamed again, again, clutched Torsten's hair with her claws, roared
deep from her belly as she ground her pussy into his face. She took her orgasm
from him, took his mouth as violently as the men in the shed had taken it, her
voice snapping into hard little syllables as he continued to thrust and thrust.
He moved his hand, turning it, pressing downwards, now, wringing the last of
her orgasm out of her until she was shaking, her hands trembling upon his
shoulders. "Fuck me," she panted angrily. "Fuck me, you bastard."
He laughed as he let go of her, licking his fingertips. "And that's my cue."
He made Helena lie down on her side while he undressed, then climbed onto the
coffee table and spooned her from behind. Now, we could see everything: Athena
even sat closer to me so she could watch as Torsten slowly slid his cock into
Helena's pussy. As Helena moaned on the table, Athena gripped the strands of
fur on the rug, clearly as jealous of Helena as I was of Torsten. I nuzzled her
thigh in sympathy, but was rapt myself.
If I had had any doubts about Torsten's sexual tendencies, the play now
unfolding before us proved to me he enjoyed men and women with equal passion.
Slowly, oh, so slowly, he sank his long, fat cock into Helena's soft, fat
pussy, rocking into her with a cruel deliberation. Every few thrusts, he would
stop and pull out almost completely, chuckling wickedly as she swore at him in
her frustration. Only when she started to claw the table did he continue to
move inside of her; only when she let out a true moan did he push deeper into
her. She hated it, she loved it and she took it out on Athena.
"This is what you're missing out on, pet," she hissed, her words broken by a
long cry as Torsten started to fuck her faster. "This is what you can never
give me, either; oh, this, this--"
Torsten pushed himself in to the root, making Helena gulp for air against the
table. He took her by the hair and snarled in her ear. "'This'? As in a big fat
cock? A big fat faggot's cock deep inside your dyke's pussy? Hmm?" He thrust so
hard his balls slapped against her, loudly.
"Yes, oh, God, yes--"
"Tell me you want it. Tell me."
"I want your cock, fuck, oh, God, don't stop, please, Torsten, fuck me with
your cock--"
Torsten had had enough. He flipped Helena over until she was lying on her back,
her breasts falling out of her dress. He himself got off the table and knelt at
its foot, pulling Helena towards himself and lifting her legs over his
shoulders.
"Please," Helena wailed as he entered her again. "Fuck me. Oh, God, fuck me!"
With a grunt, Torsten started to thrust again, violently, as if he were
punishing her and not Athena. Shocked, I wondered if this was the result of the
rage I had stirred in him today, whether he was taking his frustrations out on
Helena. When was the last time he'd taken a woman like this? Had he taken a
woman like this since I'd arrived? Going by the fury with which he now fucked
her, it must have been a while--he was now making high noises in his throat,
ecstatic as he slammed into her pussy again and again. I could not help but
stare at his buttocks, his thighs, his back, his arms: the way his muscles
strained, flexed, the way each roll of his hips made Helena wail. By now, she
was rubbing at her own pussy, swearing and screaming as she came around his
cock, perhaps more than once, yet he kept on going.
The air smelled sweet, now, from her pussy; I inhaled it deep into my lungs as
I inhaled Torsten's cologne mixed with sweat. He and Helena were both loud, so
loud the neighbours must've heard, but they didn't care. When they weren't
making noises in their throats, the slap of Torsten's balls on her pussy was so
loud it echoed in the room, heavy drops of her juices dangling from his balls
every time he withdrew from a stroke.
"You're making me sore," she moaned after what must have been another orgasm--
she had been screaming and spasming so much I could no longer tell one orgasm
from another. "Please."
With a huff and a wicked smile, he refused to stop, only slowed down for a
while, licking the sweat off her neck, mouthing her breasts. "Do you think we
should let your friend have a taste?"
"Yes," she kissed onto his lips, laughing, unwrapping her legs from around him.
"Athena." She turned to her. "You so like the taste of my pussy. Would you like
to taste it deeper than you've ever tasted it before?"
Athena quivered; she had been kneeling in the same position for so long she
must've been nearly as stiff as I was. "Y-yes."
Torsten sat down on the table and leaned back on his hands, his cock hard and
gleaming; Helena beckoned to Athena with her finger. "Come here," she said.
"Come and suck it off his cock while I watch. Come on; there's a brave girl."
Like a frightened child, Athena knelt between Torsten's legs as Helena pulled
off her dress and leaned down to watch. Torsten said nothing, enjoying Athena's
inexperience, clumsiness, the delight Helena took in Athena's insecurity and
embarrassment. I now saw what Torsten saw in me, the idea of seducing a girl-
child: my breath stopped as Athena laid her trembling lips upon Torsten's
glistening cock. I saw shivers of ecstasy run through his body as Athena began
to lick him a little. Those shivers were not just because of the touch of her
tongue on him; the hesitation was what made that touch so sweet, so perverse. I
did not truly know whether I wanted to be in Athena's place or his. And the
first time she closed her mouth around the head, oh--Torsten, Helena and I all
moaned in unison. Emboldened by this, Athena took more of him into her mouth,
not able to take him very deep, but what she did she did in earnest.
"Do you like the taste, my dear?" Helena said, stroking the back of Athena's
head.
Athena whimpered, embarrassed even with her mouth full of Torsten's cock.
"No, that won't do," Helena said and coaxed her to tilt her head up a little.
"Look into his eyes and tell him how much you like it."
Athena took her mouth off Torsten's cock, shivering as she looked up at him. He
was a frightening sight: his eyes were even wider than usual, the firelight
shining straight through his irises, his pupils but focused little pinpricks.
"Yes, my dear?" he asked her, stroking her cheek.
"Your cock tastes good, master," she whispered, kissing it reverently. "From my
mistress," she quickly added, glancing at Helena.
"Good pet," Helena said and knelt on the floor beside her. She had a taste of
Torsten's cock herself: he leaned back and closed his eyes as they took turns
pleasuring him with their mouths. I could not see much of what they were doing,
but I could see the women's buttocks, pussies: both inches from me, swaying
softly as they served Torsten on all fours. Athena, too, was shaven, I saw, and
I wondered if Helena had not done this to her, for this very purpose. I could
imagine her keeping Athena chained as I was now chained, shaving and rinsing
her with her own hands, spoon-feeding her honey to make her mouth sweet for
kissing. Helena smelled sweet, Athena a little more bitter: beside Helena's
well-fucked, swollen pussy, Athena's had started to fill out, the brown inner
folds swelling open to reveal the moisture within.
They both got to taste his cock and I didn't; I groaned in jealousy.
"Please..."
"If you'll excuse me, ladies." Torsten smiled, then laid himself down on the
floor before me. He soothed me with kisses, his moustache still wet and sweet
from Helena's pussy. I had once heard Wickman say that that was all men like
him grew moustaches for: so that they could smell by day what they'd been
eating at night. I tasted Helena on his tongue, too, moaned into his mouth as I
sucked her taste off him. He guided his cock into my mouth and desperately, I
sought the places Athena had not licked, touched: swallowed him the way he had
taught me to in order to taste all of him, all of them to the fullest. There
was a faint taste of liqueur on his cock: from Athena's mouth, I presumed,
mixed in with her mistress's juices. I was drunk from both, from the little
pre-ejaculate I managed to coax out of him. I stared up at him, helpless, and
that's what made him spurt a little more on my tongue: his cock leapt in my
mouth as he ran his hand over my chains in sadistic delight.
I did not dare call him "Daddy" in front of others but I thought it, showed it
to him with my eyes, my mouth. In turn, he caressed my cheek, fucked my mouth
in the way that made me gag just a little, the way he knew felt good in my
pussy. "Thank you," I whispered against his cock when he withdrew, hoping he
would soon release me. Or perhaps he meant to keep me chained for much, much
longer and that was the reason why he now showed me a little mercy? He rubbed
my pussy and kissed me, but I moaned into his mouth in despair; I wanted him,
all of him, wanted him so much I ached.
"Soon, my child," he murmured and we both knew the secret meaning of the words,
the promise they contained. Feverishly, I calculated hours--twelve until the
post would arrive tomorrow, thirty-six until the same time Friday morning--
thirty-six hours at most, and I would be completely his. He lifted his hand to
his mouth and licked his fingers, smiled conspiratorially and I knew I could
wait. I could do it. For him.
He turned towards the table again and Athena was now resting her head and arms
upon it, her ass lifted high as Helena prepared her for sodomy. They were
closer to me, now, much closer; only Torsten's body separated us. He got up and
guided the women even closer so I could see them, see how Helena was working a
finger from each of her hands into Athena's ass. She had taken a bottle of
glycerine from her handbag and kept pouring small amounts of it onto her
fingers; she hooked a finger into Athena on either side and used them to pull
her ass open, a technique I'd never seen before.
Athena was stiff, trembling: she was biting her arms, but did not make a noise.
"It'll hurt more if you resist," Helena purred. "Or is that it? Do you enjoy
being forced open? Because we can do that, too." She pulled with her fingers,
holding Athena open for us to see. "Torsten, help me out."
Torsten spread Athena's buttocks as Helena kept on fingering her; I could see
Athena's pussy clenching despite her resistance. Torsten spat on Athena's ass
and at that, both Athena and I gasped. Rumbling low in his throat, Torsten
pushed his index finger between Helena's, pushing his spit inside of her,
sinking his finger in to the knuckle. Finally, Athena whimpered, her body
betraying her secret arousal: a drop of her sap beaded upon her folds, dangling
from her pussy. With a wicked laugh, Helena gave her a long lick, from clitoris
to vagina to ass, then stuck her tongue out so that Torsten could lean in to
taste it. He slurped at her tongue noisily, in that animalistic way of his that
so disgusted me, yet went straight between my legs.
"It's not every day you get to taste a virgin, is it?" Helena laughed onto his
lips.
"No, it isn't," he said, and when Helena turned to spit on Athena's ass again,
he glanced at me over his shoulder and smiled. His cock bobbed and I stared at
it, imagining it inside my pussy, spreading it, impaling it the way he had
impaled Helena, stabbing inside me until I would moan like I was being
murdered. I wanted to be slaughtered, wanted to be spread out on the altar of
his bed and be consumed by him, to die on his cock and be born again a whore. I
clutched my hands into fists and squirmed, clenching around the champagne
bottle.
Torsten laughed and turned back to Athena, yet spoke as if she wasn't there.
"She's so soft inside, too." He pulled his finger all the way out, then slid it
in again with a twist, feeling her from the inside. "Never been fucked," he
murmured as if to himself, inserting another finger so that they were now
penetrating her with four.
Athena howled, arched her back to pull away from the assault, but Helena put
her arm around her thigh and brought her hand to her pussy. "You're not going
anywhere, my dear," she said and rubbed at Athena's clitoris so that she was
squirming between their hands, Helena now pulling at her from the left with two
fingers, Torsten with two from the right.
"I can see right inside her," Torsten groaned from between his teeth, stroking
his cock with his other hand, squeezing so that he dripped onto his knuckles.
"Show Cleo. Lower your hips a little, that's it." He turned to me. "Can you
see?"
Even in the firelight I could see it all clearly, see the way the muscles of
her sphincter had now unfolded around their fingers, her pink flesh forced open
so that I could see inside her body. The sight felt more medical than sexual
and shocked me with its extremity; yet I shuddered as if it were I on that
table, held open by their hands, ready to be fucked.
"She's beautiful," I murmured, meaning it, and Athena moaned at my words.
"Beautiful," I told them again, even louder, now, and Athena sobbed into her
arms in shame-filled delight.
Helena withdrew her fingers and wiped them on Athena's thigh. "I think she's
ready." She moved to lounge on the rug next to me and took my head into her
lap, near the sweet scent of her pussy. She smiled and brushed my hair away
from my face. "Can you see from here?"
"Yes," I smiled.
She smiled back and gave me a little kiss, then ran her eyes admiringly over
Torsten's cock. The size of it was monstrous as he straddled Athena's small,
boyish hips and pressed it to her anus. "It'll hurt," Helena purred and I could
feel a shiver of joy run through her, see her nipples hardening. "It'll hurt so
much," she promised and curled her fingers in my hair, intoxicated from the way
Athena now stiffened and screamed in pain. Torsten's cock slipped off Athena's
ass as she jerked and started to struggle in a last-minute panic, sobbing with
the helplessness of a dying animal in the clutches of a giant beast of prey.
Yet Torsten showed Athena no mercy, his balls lifting as she fought him, his
laughter thin with cruelty as he covered her. With one hand, he forced her arms
behind her back and held them by the wrists, pressing her into the table. With
his other hand, he guided his cock to her ass again, spat on it and pushed. She
screamed again, but then fell into a complete silence: I remember being told
that a nurse could tell the levels of a patient's pain by the amount of noise
they were making. If they were still making noises they were fine, but if they
went completely quiet, that meant the pain had truly overwhelmed them.
And Torsten was overwhelming Athena, now, the brutality of the sight
overwhelming me, too: she was tiny underneath his tall frame, quiet, shivering,
her skin covered with goosebumps. It was like watching a child being molested,
the exact fantasy Torsten had had of me, and the satanic part of me hummed in
ecstasy as she took in the sight. I could smell Athena's skin breaking out in
cold sweat, and I could no longer hear her breathing: from what I could see of
her face from between their legs, her hair had fallen over her mouth and she
made no attempt to blow it away. Her eyes were closed and she did not move at
all: she was as still as the ancient marble goddesses they had named her after,
submitting to the desire of the Zeus now forcing himself inside of her.
He straddled her so that we could see everything, everything: the tip of his
cock as he dipped it in and out of Athena's virgin ass, a few inches in, then
completely out again, forcing her to open for him. He was huffing through his
nostrils, grunting low like the beast he was, the muscles of his thighs and
buttocks rippling underneath his skin. He had such complete control over his
body it had always astounded me; it was that control that charged his every
movement with such erotic power. And now I saw that control, that body used in
the way his daytime movements had only hinted of: to submit his victim to that
control, too, to make her body an instrument of his desire. What he had done to
me with his hands had been nothing in comparison to this. He swallowed Athena
with his power, turned her into a receptacle of that power, making her as
beautiful as he was.
He slid in and out more easily, now, and I could hear Athena making noises
again: Torsten released her hands and leaned over her, sinking so deep inside
of her she moaned, spasmed where she lay.
"Is that better?" he crooned, mocking. He began to move inside her again with
deep, long strokes; Athena gasped for breath but did not respond.
"Answer him, my dear," Helena said. I could smell Helena was wetter than before
and presently, she slid her hand to her pussy, masturbating as she watched the
scene.
"It hurts," Athena cried, clawing at the table. "It hurts."
"As it should, my dear," Helena said. "Do you now regret what you said to me?
What you did to me?"
"Yes. Yes! I'm so sorry, mistress. So sorry." She cried out in true pain as
Torsten buried himself to the hilt.
"Should I make him stop?" Helena asked.
When Athena didn't answer, Helena raised her eyebrow at me knowingly, then left
me to join them. She knelt on the other side of the table and shook Athena by
the hair. "It hurts, but it feels wonderful, too, doesn't it? Hmm?"
Without waiting for an answer, Helena looked up at Torsten, gifting him with a
little kiss. "How does her ass feel?"
"Fucking delicious," he growled into Helena's mouth, slowing down his thrusts.
He made his voice sugary, condescending, knowing exactly what his words were
doing to Athena. "She feels so good around my cock," he mocked, "so hot, so
soft, so tight," he purred, punctuating his words with a thrust so cruel Athena
wailed into Helena's face. Yet, he continued, laughing into her ear. "And she
loves it, too, I can tell."
Helena slipped her hand to Athena's pussy, slapped it and the noise it made,
oh, God, the noise--she was so wet she dripped from between Helena's fingers.
"My, my, Athena, what do we have here?" Helena laughed, ignoring Athena's
cries. "Why is your pussy so wet? Hmm? Why?"
When Athena refused to answer, Helena slapped her face. "Answer me."
Athena jerked between them, sobbed. "It feels good," she cried out in
embarrassment; I could hear the tears in her throat. "It feels so good, oh--"
"Then why did you lie to me, you little slut?" Helena slapped her again until
Athena was weeping openly. I could not see her face, only the way she spasmed
as Helena slapped her again and again, the way her ass and her pussy clenched
so hard Torsten was nearly pushed out of her. Torsten groaned in relish,
stabbing himself inside to his balls at every jerk of hers, abusing her ass as
Helena abused her face.
Helena twisted Athena's head up by the hair, turning her face towards Torsten.
"Look at him. Apologise, and tell him what you told me."
When I saw Athena's face, it took my breath away: her makeup was smudged with
tears, black streaks of it running down her face. Her lipstick was smeared from
Helena's blows and in her eyes, I saw complete surrender, complete submission
to the desires of those more powerful than herself: when she spoke, her voice
was small, the voice of a child apologising for her mistake.
"I'm sorry, master," she whimpered and that only made Torsten move inside her
faster, roll his hips to make her sobs higher, louder. "I love it, I really do-
-oh--!" She yelped as Helena started to rub her pussy again, to slap it, slip
into it with her fingers. Yet, Athena did as she was told and never took her
eyes off Torsten. "I love it. I love it--"
"Louder," Helena said. "What's he doing to you? What's he putting inside you?"
"Yes," Torsten crooned, fisting his hand in Athena's hair beside Helena's,
tugging on it. "What am I doing to you?"
"You're--you're--fuck--fucking my ass," she wailed, her words breaking,
snapping as Torsten plunged deep inside her. "You're fucking my ass with your
cock, and it's so big, and it hurts, and it feels so good, oh, God, oh, God,
I'm so sorry, it feels so good in my ass--"
Torsten rammed into Athena so hard, so fast her head was pressed into Helena's
breasts: now, she screamed, screamed and I watched as she sprayed Helena's
slapping, rubbing hand. Helena laughed, slapping Athena's pussy so that she
gushed, splashed all over: her fluids drenched Torsten's thighs, dripped off
his balls. I didn't know if she'd just emptied her bladder, didn't care; all I
knew was that she was still orgasming, making animal noises against Helena's
chest as they kept on taking her.
Helena took her hand and smeared it all over Athena's face. "That's it. That's
your come. The come of a girl who said she'd never fuck a man. You were wrong,
weren't you? Weren't you?"
"Yes," Athena gasped, then choked as Helena pushed her fingers deep inside her
mouth, forcing her to taste herself.
Helena held her fingers in Athena's throat until she coughed, spasmed:
casually, Helena glanced up at Torsten who was now enjoying Athena's
convulsions around his cock. Equally casually, she looked back at Athena. "And
now he's going to come inside you, pet," she said with a pitying croon. "He's
going to fill your little ass with so much come you will be leaking all night.
Leaking in the taxi, leaking in my bed, leaking tomorrow morning as I fuck your
ass with my hand."
Athena screamed on Helena's hand and with a shove, Helena left her. Helena
kissed Torsten, caressed his body, drank in his moans in turn. "Are you close?"
"Mm-hmm," Torsten said, devouring her mouth as she wiped the sweat from his
face, tucked strands of his hair behind his ears.
Helena knelt and spread Athena's buttocks with her hands. "Show me how open she
is."
Torsten pulled back, so slowly it seemed to take forever: my mouth filled with
saliva, my pussy trembled as I watched his gleaming, red cock slide out of her
ass. I'd never seen his cock so swollen, so huge; he must have been aching with
the need to come. Her ass must have been so tight, so tight--and now, as Helena
spread it, it was only a smooth, pink and black O, gaping open, abnormally
stretched from the size of his cock.
"It's a beautiful little hole," Helena crooned and pressed her mouth to it,
sinking her tongue deep inside Athena's distended ass, licking her on the
inside. Athena wailed and my pussy would not stop clenching; I was so near
orgasm myself, oh, perhaps I would be able to come without touching myself.
Just like I could come in a dream, because what was this if not a dream?
Torsten, too, trembled at the sight, keening high in his throat as he clasped
his cock, squeezing it in his fist. Helena heard him, then plunged four of her
fingers inside Athena's ass and lifted them to Torsten's mouth. "For having
been such a good boy," she smiled, Athena and I both gasping as he swallowed
her fingers, sucking the taste of Athena's ass off them as if he were sucking a
cock. Helena took her fingers out and slid them down his chest, his belly and
upon a whim, she took a taste herself: she swallowed his cock, moaning around
it, huffing through her nose in delight as she tasted Athena's ass off him.
Torsten cried high in his throat, his hips trembling, his balls tightening, and
I was sure he was about to come in her mouth.
Yet, Helena pulled back. "Give me more," she said greedily, guiding Torsten's
cock back inside Athena.
Torsten could not even speak; he was so close, now. With a disbelieving
whimper, he slid his cock into Athena's ass--it sank in so easily, now, Athena
wailing as he penetrated her--and plunged it straight back into Helena's mouth.
Helena moaned even louder, now, louder still as Torsten rocked into her, unable
to stop fucking her mouth. "Taste it," he hissed through his lips, "taste it,
taste her ass, fuck, fuck--"
Helena pulled back with a heaving gasp and guided Torsten back inside Athena,
her eyes gleaming feverishly, now. "Come inside her. Come deep inside her, so I
can watch you leak out of her ass. Come inside her."
Torsten grabbed Helena's hair and pressed her cheek to Athena's buttock. "Will
you taste it, too?" he moaned, his voice high, now. "Will you drink my come out
of her ass?"
"Yes," Helena snarled, "yes." In retaliation, she sucked on her fingers and
slid them between Torsten's legs. "Come for me." She sank one, then two fingers
inside his ass until he keened and lifted onto his toes, shaking all over,
shaking so that his thrusts became erratic.
"You little bitch," he hissed, rocking into Athena's ass, onto Helena's
fingers. "Trust you to know how to use your fingers, oh--"
Helena pushed her fingers in to the knuckle, Torsten's ass a red, raised ring
around them as she moved them inside him, curling them, hooking them. "Never
let it be said I don't know how to finger a little pussy."
At that, Torsten screamed. Howling at the top of his lungs, he slammed his hips
into Athena again and again, crying out in disbelief as Helena kept milking
him, thrusting her fingers deep into his ass. Even as he fell over Athena,
panting, Helena kept moving her fingers inside him, between his jerking thighs,
ignoring his pained cries. "That's it," she smiled. "Be a good little boy and
give her every last drop."
When he had done so and caught his breath, he whimpered a little and lifted
himself. When he pulled out, Athena's ass was red, wide, gaping: she gasped as
Torsten's come trickled out of her, her ass now so dilated she could not force
it to close until she had leaked fat rivulets of come all over her pussy. "Oh,
God--!" she sobbed.
Still shaking, Torsten grabbed Helena by the hair and sunk his own face into
Athena's ass, slurping loudly. Swiftly, he turned around, tilted Helena's face
towards himself and dribbled his come into her mouth. Helena moaned, shaking as
his come dripped onto her tongue, her lips, her breasts, jerking in delight as
Torsten chuckled, then spat onto her lips one last time. He let go of Helena,
shoved her aside like a rag doll and turned to Athena.
"And now, it's your turn." He sucked more of his come out of her ass, then
grabbed her by the hair in turn. Athena screamed in protest, tried to turn her
head aside. She winced, closed her eyes and pursed her mouth shut, but Torsten
pried her jaw open with his fingers and spat into her mouth. He spat three
times until he'd transferred all the sperm into her mouth, then forced her jaw
shut again.
"Now, swallow." He squeezed her jaw and pinched her nose until she was forced
to do so, writhing in horror and disgust. Torsten laughed, relishing her
revulsion, kissing her on the mouth as she squirmed until she'd swallowed every
last drop. "There you are," he purred as he finally let go, his eyes slitted in
delight.
Helena, however, had enjoyed her humiliation and was rubbing her pussy lazily,
shivering on the rug as she was now wringing one last, soft orgasm out of
herself. Athena was still horrified, wiping her mouth but in her submissive
state, she was unable to say a word from her shock.
I, however, found my voice again and cried out a reedy "Please."
Laughing, he bent down to spread Athena's buttocks again. "There's still a
little left in you. Come on. Shit it out. Onto my tongue." And now I could see
it all, hear it all: Athena's whimper of shame as she farted a little, as the
last of Torsten's come bubbled out of her ass and fell a pearly white onto his
red, cupped tongue.
Finally, finally he leaned over me, shining from sweat, glowing with
wickedness, his mouth wet from sperm. I screamed as he cupped my head and gave
me his tongue, funneling his come into my mouth. Yet it was a cry of
fulfillment, of ecstasy: finally, I had all I'd ever wanted, my reward, him.
His tongue was in my mouth, his hand was on my pussy and I needed nothing more.
He only had to rub my clitoris once, twice, and I came so hard it hurt: I shook
violently around him, sucking the taste of come, glycerine and ass from his
tongue. I drank him in, whimpered, drank in all the liquid flavours of sin, so
grateful, so grateful for his gift. He pushed his fingers inside of me, rubbed
my clitoris with his thumb and I came again, from the double stretch of his
fingers and the bottleneck: hours of frustration melted away as I howled and
shook in his arms, against the warmth of his body, against his heat and his
sweat.
He laughed, his voice full of amazed amusement. "Good girl." He pulled back and
nuzzled my face, his eyes lazy from satisfaction, all of him still warm from
sex. "You've been such a good girl."
I smiled and curled up against him, kissing him chastely on the mouth. We
rested there for a while and I could only watch him, adore him as he played
softly with my pussy, slipping his fingers within my wet folds. It would have
been perfect but for one thing: we weren't alone. I was shaken inside, wanted
to withdraw into a world that only contained me and him, my Daddy. I yearned to
call him that, but I knew I couldn't while the others were listening, and
frustration coiled within my stomach. I whimpered a little and cast my eyes
down. He sensed my meaning, flicked his eyes at Helena and Athena, and soon,
they gathered their things and left us.
When we were finally alone, he kissed me and held me close. He released my
wrists and ankles and I sighed in relief as he rubbed circulation back into
them.
"Thank you, Daddy." I beamed, loved the smile that lit up his face as I said
it. I wanted to keep on saying it until the end of my life, if only to see that
crooked smile.
"One more?" He smiled and brought his hand to the bottle, twisting it a little.
"You've been ever so obedient."
"Please," I whispered in my little girl's voice as he twisted the bottle inside
of me. I could feel the champagne sloshing inside the bottle, but he held it
level with the floor, forcing me to move upon it. "It's been there for so long,
Daddy," I whimpered. "It's hurt so much."
"And yet you kept it inside yourself," he murmured against my lips. "Waiting
for me to come and make it all right."
"Yes."
"It's all warm from the fire," he said, tapping the bottom of the bottle until
it rang inside of me. "And it's probably even warmer inside your ass," he
purred. "All warm and delicious."
I drew in a sharp breath, my ass clenching around the bottle. He gestured for
me to play with my pussy and I did so, panting against his chest, dizzy. "I've
kept it all sweet for you, Daddy," I whispered, so close now, "sweet and wet."
His breathing quickened until he was panting against me, too, panting between
our kisses. "Oh, I would love to taste it, my child," he chuckled, rumbled deep
in his chest. "But you must be thirsty, having lain here all night. Isn't that
right?"
"Yes," I cried, gulping in breaths as I felt the contractions of orgasm rise in
my hips, as I felt my ass loosen around the bottle. "Yes."
"Then it's only fair I should let you taste it," he purred. "Come, my sweet
little daughter. Come."
I shouted into his mouth as I obeyed, ground my knuckles into my pussy and
squeezed my fist between my thighs. I jerked so violently I heard the bottle
scrape against the bricks, screamed and screamed as he swallowed my orgasm from
me. He sucked it into his mouth, stayed so still that I was crashing against
his body like waves upon rocks. On and on I crashed until time was bent out of
shape; I flowed around him, wrapping him in my orgasm; I took him into myself,
kept him all to myself, my Daddy, my Daddy.
I was still shaking when he wiped the tears from my cheeks and kissed me into
consciousness. As he pulled the bottle out he smiled, wickedly, warmly. "You
love me, don't you?"
"Yes," I answered as I sat up, every limb on my body shaking. "I love you,
Daddy." I meant it, this time. It was not the love normal people shared, not by
any means: it was a special kind of love, a love only he and I knew. It was a
love dark, twisted, sweet, sweet as the bottle he now lifted to my lips. It was
a love as damned as his eyes as he shivered in ecstasy, watching me lick my
taste off the bottle, fellating it with perfect obedience as if it were his
cock.
"You love me so much," he hissed greedily between his teeth, working the bottle
in and out of my mouth. He took my hair and kissed me, licked the taste from my
lips, from my tongue. Yet, he was not satisfied; he needed to hear me say it
again. "Don't you, my child?" he panted as he brought the bottle to my mouth
once more.
"I love you so much, Daddy," I smiled, light-headed from joy and drank deep.
***** Chapter 6 *****
I was so exhausted I slept well that night. Still, Torsten must have been even
more exhausted, I presumed, because he didn't join me for breakfast.
Yet, when the doorbell rang, I nearly choked on my toast. The post! I had told
the old janitor's wife downstairs to bring it up as soon as it arrived. And in
the pile she brought me, I found what I had been looking for: a thick, brown
envelope with the stamp of the magistrate's office upon it. I couldn't wait a
second and opened it while she was still there: she nearly had a heart attack
as I screamed, leapt up and pirouetted. I thanked her and sent her on her way,
a dozen overjoyed Lauras bouncing in the mirrors as I ran down the corridor.
There it was, in black and white, sealed and signed and stamped: the court's
order that had gone through a few days ago, declaring Torsten as my father.
Attached to it were copies of our new records from the magistrate's office.
Full name: Laura Erika Sofia Barring
Date of Birth: 1 June 1923
Birthplace: Forssa
Guardian: Torsten Henrik Barring, Father.
I had a father.
I had a living, breathing father.
I had a living, breathing father who was my lover.
Squealing with joy, I ran to his bedroom. My racket had woken him up and he had
raised himself up on his elbows, his hair askew, looking like an indignant cat.
I leapt into his bed, pounced him, hugged him so hard he let out a loud tobacco
cough. He didn't even look at the papers, only took the envelope from my hands
and pulled me into a deep, deep kiss, laughing until he was as giddy as I was.
I pulled back and made a face. "Your breath stinks."
"Says the girl whose lips still taste of champagne and ass," he said,
chuckling. "You don't expect me to be the best of lovers before I've performed
my morning ablutions, do you?"
I quirked my eyebrow and pouted, mock-thoughtfully. "Hmm. I don't know. Perhaps
I should, considering how long you've kept me waiting." My joy had woken me up
completely and now curled between my legs as sweet anticipation. I slid my hand
into his pyjamas and as I had hoped, found half an erection. "Clearly it
must've known I was coming," I murmured as I slid my hand over his cock, urging
it to wake up properly.
He yawned and squirmed. "Let me go to the toilet first."
"What's the matter, Daddy?" I said with all the wicked, wicked sweetness I
could muster, sliding my hand to his belly, holding him down. "Am I pressing on
your bladder?"
His eyes flew wide, then narrowed. With a laugh and a shake of his head, he let
himself fall back onto the pillows. "Yes, Laura." He pulled back the sheets,
his pyjamas and lifted my hand to his cock. "It's a very naughty thing to do
when you know your Daddy needs to piss."
"But I love you, Daddy. I don't want you to leave me." Even as I said the
words, I knew I meant them as more than play, and so did he.
He reached out to caress my cheek. "Daddy's not going to leave you. You're all
mine now, and I will take good care of you."
My heart fluttered in my chest and I leaned into his hand. "You're all mine
now, too," I said quietly and clasped his cock. It was now softening in my
hand; he knew what I wanted. I adored his cock, the tender skin underneath my
hand, wondering how I could ever have thought it ugly. To me, him forcing
himself to soften for me meant more than all those times he had hardened in my
hand; no, an erection was an ordinary pleasure. To feel his cock soft in my
hands was the secret sign of our own special, extraordinary pleasure. On the
train, he'd told me he hadn't shared it with anyone else and I'd made him swear
to keep it that way. This pleased his criminal nature, added to the delight he
derived from the perversity of the act, saving an unacceptable act for the
person with whom it was most unacceptable. Nevertheless, we had not had the
chance to indulge in this particular sin since, and would there ever be a day
more appropriate for it than today?
I pressed a little on his bladder, teasing him. "This is all mine, too. Isn't
it, Daddy?" I laid my head over his thighs, just as I had done on the train,
looking up at him.
He nodded. "Your first act as my daughter," he whispered with a satanic
reverence, his eyes blazing as he petted my hair. "Tell me. What's the present
you want from your Daddy?"
"Well, Daddy, I'm ever so thirsty."
"Mmm-hmm? I've got a big drink for you right here, but I must warn you, it's
very strong. It's only for brave girls."
"I'm brave. I'm very brave, Daddy."
"I also know you are a very clever girl and know the names of so many things
already. Now, tell me, what's the name of the drink you're after?"
I made a show of thinking, biting my finger; squirmed in his lap with the
delight of the child who had just been complimented. He'd called me clever, and
I wanted to prove it to him, to make him proud. "Piss, Daddy."
He hissed, and I could feel his cock twitching a little underneath my palm.
"That's right. You are a clever girl. Now, go on, tell Daddy what you want."
"I want to drink your piss, Daddy."
He hissed again in utter delight, his eyes pale blue slits. He pretended to
hesitate, clasping his hand over mine. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather have a
lemonade or something?"
"Don't tease, Daddy," I pouted.
"And it's only Daddy's piss that will do?"
I gave him an exaggerated nod. "Only yours, Daddy. Nobody else's."
"Very well, then. Now, I need you to listen very carefully so we won't make a
mess. Open your mouth wide, wide, that's it, open up--" his breath hitched as I
took him into my mouth; his cock twitched a little against my tongue. "Now,
close your lips around it, tight. Good girl. I will do it slowly, but you must
remember it will be very bitter since it's morning. Do you think you can take
it?"
"Mmm-mm," I nodded and sucked a little.
"All right," he said, and with a last soft caress on my cheek, he laid himself
down on the pillows and closed his eyes.
The first little trickle was the strongest, so strong it stung my tongue. I
tasted tobacco, salt, the sugar from the champagne last night, but even the
sugar could not mask the bitterness. It flooded my mouth, filled my cheeks and
he stopped, struggled to control the flow of his urine until I could swallow
the first mouthful. It prickled in my throat, sickened and aroused me at the
same time. His morning piss, all the poisons his kidneys had processed and
ejected into his bladder now flowed into my mouth. And now he was offering them
to me as a sacrament, as a sign of our final union as father and daughter. I
drank him in, drank his poisons as I had drunk the spiritual poisons of his
lessons. I drank the traces of sperm I could taste swirling in his piss, left
over from last night's orgy; tasted the sweeter urine, now, the taste of it
lighter as he reached mid-stream. I did not count seconds this time, only
relished the long moments as he pissed and I drank, gulped him down, let him
flow golden down my throat.
He opened his mouth and he looked drunk, more intoxicated from this than he'd
ever been from opium. "My daughter," he murmured, his hand trembling on my
cheek, "My daughter," trembling more as he forced himself to slow down again.
Another might have thought he was trembling in the throes of love, of
tenderness--yet he trembled with power; this, I knew. Didn't Zeus once enter
Danaë as golden rain? There, again I caught myself thinking of him as Zeus; but
how could one use terms other than mythological of a man who did not make love
as mortals did? There was nothing about him that was normal, and with his piss,
with his sperm he had washed away what little of me had been normal. And that
was why I loved him so, trembled so in my love as I consumed him.
I whimpered a little in disappointment when I realised he was empty, and laid
my head on his belly to catch my breath. "Thank you, Daddy," I said and kissed
his hand.
"Come here," he said and pulled me to lie over him, tasting himself from my
mouth. I lay there for a while, resting in his arms as he played with the
waistband of my pyjamas, his fingertips skimming the tops of my buttocks. "You
are the sweetest little daughter a man could hope for."
"You're the sweetest old man a little girl could wish for," I smiled against
his cheek.
"Mmm, and I'm going to spoil you tonight," he purred and slipped his hands
between my buttocks, kneading at my pussy's lips, spreading them with his
hands. He laughed against my ear as he realised how wet I was, how heated:
soon, I was panting against his shoulder. He kept on massaging the sides of my
pussy, avoiding the slit entirely, going far too slowly for my liking.
"Please, Daddy."
He squeezed my buttocks and inhaled through his nose, sighing happily. "Please,
what?"
"It hurts--down--down there," I whispered, blushing just like an innocent would
have, averting my eyes, curling up on him as if in shame. "Where you're rubbing
now."
He only chuckled and clawed at my inner thighs, pulled my pyjama bottoms down
and squeezed, slapped my ass and my pussy until I squirmed on top of him.
"Daddy!"
"Oh, I'm so sorry," he said in a saccharine voice. "Would you like me to kiss
it better?"
"Yes, please."
"Then, turn around; lie down on your back. Show me where it hurts."
Awkwardly, I pulled off my pyjama bottoms and when he himself undressed
completely, I pulled off everything else, too. I sunk back into the huge, soft
pillows, but for his pleasure and mine, I kept my legs closed. When he saw the
demure look on my face, his cock bobbed so that it was at half-mast. He saw my
eyes follow it and clasped it in his hand, stroking it softly. "Not yet," he
laughed, took his hand off his cock and knelt before me, his hands on my knees.
"Come on, don't be shy. Where does it hurt? Your special place?"
"Yes," I whispered, averting my eyes the way the child me had done in a school
doctor's office. "Down there."
"Let me have a look."
I made a mock struggle, but firmly, he spread my legs and laid himself down
between them. Gently, worshipfully he framed my pussy with his hands. It was
the first time he had seen it shaven in daylight, and I remembered the colour
of it as I had watched myself in the bathroom mirror. It was all pale cream and
pink candy, a delicacy; no wonder his mouth was now even wetter than usual,
hanging open wide. His nostrils quivered and shamelessly, he inhaled me, a
little noise vibrating in his throat as he sampled my pussy's new freshness,
sweetness. He rubbed the tops of my pussy's lips with his thumbs and by now, I
was so aroused I could feel myself pulsing underneath his hands: with every one
of his rubs, my pussy tightened so hard it was as if it tried to curl in on
itself, to suck him inside itself, so desperate it was for penetration.
"It is a lovely little pussy you've got," he smiled. "I wouldn't say it looked
normal, however."
I frowned. "Oh?"
He tutted and shook his head. "Oh, no, no, no, my child." He spread it with his
thumbs. "It's far more beautiful than any normal pussy I've seen." He rubbed
again, again until my hips jerked, until my body pushed involuntarily back into
his touch. "I'd say it's quite extraordinary."
I was now so aroused I was squirming, clawing at the sheets with my fingers.
"Just like you, Daddy?"
He took one of my hands in his and laced our fingers, then leaned down and
kissed my belly. "Just like you and I, my little Laura. Just like you and I."
He squeezed my hand. "Now, tell me where you want me to kiss it."
Again, I averted my gaze, then moved my hand to the top of my slit, my pussy
dripping, pulsing wet heat onto the sheets as I spread my folds, pulled back
the hood of my clitoris. "Here?"
He pressed a kiss between my fingers, his lips so soft I could barely feel
them. But I could feel his breath, hot, each exhalation of his making me aware
of just how wet I was, how open I was.
"Right here?" he asked.
"Yes, Daddy," I said and withdrew my hand, shivering.
With a soft hum of pleasure, he began to kiss just above my clitoris, just at
the spot I'd told him I touched when masturbating. He did not remain there,
however: pleasuring himself even more than he was pleasuring me, he lapped at
my pussy, lapped at it all over. He covered my entire vulva with his saliva,
making it shine for him, flush even darker for him, ignoring my cries for
mercy. He licked at every square inch I'd revealed with the razor, conquering
every last part of my skin he had not touched yet, making my pulse flutter
underneath his lips. He sucked on my vulva's lips, reached inside me with his
tongue, tasting every dip, every peak, every fold of my flesh on offer.
He was huffing, slurping, panting and he disgusted me; he transfixed me with
his eyes, his mouth pressed deep into my mound and he chuckled. Every vibration
of that chuckle went straight to my womb, made my belly dip with tremors and I
hated him, loved him. His monstrous eyes, his monstrous noises, his monstrous
lips and teeth and tongue, all determined to swallow me whole as I had
swallowed him. He was slow, too slow and I couldn't bear it. My pussy was so
swollen, so packed with blood it felt as if every one of his licks, caresses
left a bruise.
"Please, Daddy, please," I begged. "Please, it hurts; please, make the pain
stop."
"I can think of a few things I could do to make the pain stop, my dear," he
said, smirking, licking off the strings of my sweetness hanging from his nose
and his crooked teeth. "The best medicine for your kind of pain would be this
thing right here," he said and gave his cock a stroke, but soon hissed and let
go again. "But it's a medicine best taken in the evening. And I need all my
strength for what I've planned for you tonight, my child," he grinned, with a
dark promise in his eyes.
"Tonight?"
He nodded. "Yes, tonight." He sucked on two of his fingers and gently, very
gently he slipped them inside my pussy. "I'm going to make it so good for you,"
he crooned, his eyes slitted from pleasure. "So, so good."
I moaned, shook, yet he continued to move his fingers in a gentle rhythm. I was
so close already, so close even two fingers were perfection, perfection as he
curled them upwards. "Daddy, please--"
He licked my pussy again, again. "Mmm. Going to make my little girl melt, just
like she is melting now."
"Yes?" I stammered when he stopped talking, arching my back off the bed as he
sucked my clitoris. "Please, tell me. Please."
He took his mouth off me and rubbed my clitoris, just at the top of it with his
other hand's thumb instead, with exactly the sort of pressure I myself used.
His words were soft, silken, wet. "Is that better?" he said. "Do you like
listening to Daddy's voice as he fingers your little pussy? Is that it? Hmm?"
"Yes--yes--!" I moaned as I clenched around him, pinched my nipples, my feet
slipping upon the sheets. "Please," I sobbed. "Please tell me."
"Mmm. Well. First of all, I'll do what I promised and fuck you in this little
hole right here," he hissed and slid his wet fingers deep inside my ass.
I moaned, spasming upon the bed as he hooked his fingers inside of me, sending
white flashes of pleasure through my guts, my womb, my entire body. I shivered
underneath his icy, unyielding gaze, my breasts bobbing; I thrashed upon the
bed. The slight pain delayed my orgasm a little, but I knew I was about to come
undone any moment, now, any moment.
"Good girl," he purred, tilting his head like a cat. "Does that hurt?"
I glared at him, accusing, a wounded child. "Yes, Daddy. Why are you hurting
me?"
"Because I like it," he said, his laughter cold, dry, creaking in his throat.
His sadism took my breath away, made tears of joy spring to my eyes, made my
voice little, small. "Stop," I whimpered, lied. "Please, Daddy, stop."
He shook his head. "No. I don't think you quite understand, my child. From this
day on, you are mine." His mouth was open, so open it was slavering, his eyes
wide from true mania. He shook more than I did, trembled, panted, and he ground
his hips into the bed. "Your little pussy is mine, your little ass is mine,
your little mouth is mine and I will use them as I please. And tonight, I'm
going to fuck all of them so hard you will cry."
But I was crying already, sobbing hysterically underneath him, tears running
down my temples, all the way into my ears but I didn't care. I was his, his.
With every one of my protests, every one of my little girl's cries I gave more
of myself to him: fed that sucking maw of darkness within him that wanted to
devour all innocence and goodness, fed the child in me to the monster inside
him, the virgin to the dragon.
And oh, how he violated me with such perfection, oh, how he tore me apart: on
and on he kept fingering my ass, making my pussy melt onto his mouth so that he
might drink from me, from his beloved daughter. He licked his way up from my
pussy to my belly, licked the sweat from between my breasts, lapped at my face
until he had drunk all my tears. And there, he hovered, laughed cruelly as I
wept and I wept, sucking each new tear into his mouth with a bottomless greed.
"Whore," he murmured into my wet ear, "slut," he panted into the other, and I
was so far gone I could hear him no more.
He returned his mouth to my pussy, woke me up with sharp sucks, bites; even
pulled his fingers out for a brief while, forcing me to return to
consciousness. "Come back, my child," he murmured, nipping at my thigh. "I am
far from done with you yet."
"Yes?" I croaked. I could not hold my head up to look at him; it lolled back
onto the pillows.
"Yes; look at what's going inside of you tonight." He glanced underneath
himself, showed me how hard he was, how the head of his cock was gleaming from
arousal. "And that will hurt, too; oh, that will hurt you even more than this."
He spat on his fingers and pushed them back inside my ass, fucking me with them
slowly. "It'll hurt so, so much, my dear," he tutted, shaking his head. "I'm
going to push my cock so deep into your pussy, so deep into your ass, so deep
into your throat you will beg for me to stop, but I won't. Whether your little
virgin holes will be able to take it or not. No matter how much you will cry, I
won't stop until I am sated. Do you understand?"
"Daddy--" I saw it, imagined it, his cock stretching all my orifices, pumping
me full of come, leaving each one of them gaping, red, dripping--I shook
hopelessly from my tears, nodding hysterically. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm
yours; please let me have your cock, Daddy, please, I'm yours--"
He laughed and smacked his lips. "Are you going to come?" He moved his fingers
inside me faster, faster, slapped my pussy and rubbed it, his voice a harsh
demand. "Are you going to come for me?"
"Yes--" I trembled around him, the waves of orgasm beginning their first rush
through my pussy, my ass, my womb.
"Then let me see you come. Daughter."
With a hoarse cry I let go, surrendered, let all of myself come on his hands,
let myself fall apart underneath his cruel smile. He sliced me open with his
gaze, vivisected me and I lay there, hypnotised: it was as if he were sucking
my very soul out of me, inhaling it, drawing it out of me with his fingers,
with his eyes, with his breath. Staring blindly up at him, my body danced to
the rhythm of his fingers; I undulated underneath him in ecstasy, the waves of
pleasure snapping, breaking out of me, shivering out of my flesh until all left
my body and I lay limp. Yet, even as I started to whimper in pain, he kept on
fingering me, unheeding of my cries.
He took his fingers out and stabbed them inside of me again, curling them so
hard I bent double underneath him and howled. He pushed me down and licked my
pussy, fucked my ass with his fingers until he'd had his fill, until he'd
tasted me, violated me enough for his liking.
Finally, he wiped his fingers on the sheets and gathered my shaking body into
his arms. "Good girl," he laughed, kissing the last of my tears from my cheeks,
his eyes glittering like shards of ice.
And underneath that ice I shivered, shivered still. He pulled the bedcovers
over us both, curling up around my body, holding me so tight I could barely
breathe.
"And that's just the start," he smiled, stroking my waist. "We're going to do
so much together, you and I."
"I should like that," I said, my voice still quiet, high. I laced my fingers
with his and kissed his hand, my heart expanding with the dreams he had
awakened within me. We would do everything together, take over the world
together, rule over it as king and queen, my father and I.
I smiled and pressed my ear against his heartbeat.
***** Chapter 7 *****
All day, he treated me like a queen: he took me shopping, bought me new
dresses, hats, bought me the most sumptuous of lunches at the finest restaurant
in Stockholm. And all the while, I was aware of how this was a most subtle form
of masturbation for him: grooming me into something that gave aesthetic
pleasure to his mind now, and would give sensual pleasure to his body later
tonight. He drank in my expressions of surprise as I saw the price tags, drank
in the greed that flashed through me as he deliberately ignored them.
It was my money he used, but having gone shopping by myself would not have been
nearly as rewarding: it was he who taught me to truly indulge, to waste like a
true aristocrat. He told me he had affairs in London, in Paris; strings he
could now pull to double or even triple our fortune, now that he had it at his
disposal.
Yet, I did not trust him to manage those affairs right--no one would have.
Thus, after lunch, I started to do some research of my own. I went through the
phone book and consulted professionals well-versed in financial matters, and
arranged to meet with the best of them--well, the ones that were rumoured to be
the best--the following week. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and
saw a new hardness, firmness as I spoke on the phone, a new determination, that
steely look I had seen upon the faces of the female entrepeneurs Torsten had
introduced me to. As I put the receiver down, he looked at me through the
reflection in astonishment. I could sense he was slightly insulted, but that
annoyance was overwhelmed by surprise, even a slight awe.
"My, my," he said and embraced me from behind in front of the mirror. "So you
are determined to become a right little businesswoman, are you?"
"One of us has to be," I smiled.
"Are you saying I'm useless with money?"
"No. I'm not saying it. I know it."
He glared and squeezed my waist in warning, but did not say anything. He'd
heard it often enough and by now, it had become something of a badge of pride
for him. I leaned back against him and smirked. "Perhaps one of these days,
I'll be the one buying you pretty frocks."
He slid his hands to my belly and hissed against my cheek. "Don't give me
ideas."
"Perhaps we should go to Paris," I continued, seeing how his eyes flashed with
heat; the transvestite, the homosexual underneath the sugar daddy stirring at
the very thought. "Think of it. I would buy you the most beautiful of gowns,
rent the most beautiful male prostitute in town and watch as he fucked you." I
imagined myself lounging in a chair in a luxurious hotel, a glass of champagne
in hand, imagined a handsome young man with his hand up Torsten's sparkling
dress, fingering him like one fingers a woman.
He was imagining it, too, and more, so he tore himself away with a moan, taking
me by the shoulders. "But not tonight. Off to the bathroom with you, my child."
I shaved and rinsed myself even more thoroughly tonight, feeling my pussy grow
wet as I filled my ass with the warm water. I could not stop thinking of his
cock, of how wide it was, of how long it was, how deep it could penetrate me.
If the head of it would pound against that curve in my body that made the
insertion of the nozzle difficult, if his cock would slip past that, past even
the back of my womb, deeper than it could ever penetrate my vagina. I shivered
as I released the water, groaned as I saw I was still not completely clean. It
took me several rinses to cleanse myself completely and it took nearly an hour
until I could be absolutely sure no more water was coming out.
By the time I was finished and made my way to the living room, I was so
exhausted I fell onto the rug, curled up close to the fire. Thankfully, it was
still early in the evening and we weren't in a rush: he was about to take me
dancing tonight, but we weren't to leave until seven. It was now only half past
five.
He arrived carrying several flat boxes of clothes and set them on the coffee
table. When he saw my state, he sat on the rug and lifted my head into his lap.
He didn't even need to ask me what was wrong: clearly, he had cleansed himself
this way many times as a part of his own games. No, he was impressed; he lit a
cigarette and took a deep drag, exhaling the smoke through his nostrils with a
satisfied smile. It pleased his ego to see I had done this for him, that I had
exhausted myself in preparing myself for his pleasure.
Without saying a word, he reached between my buttocks and pushed a finger
inside. I whimpered against his thigh in pain. I was sore, so sore and I hurt:
I had tried to return moisture inside myself with glycerine but that had stung,
too. And that was exactly why he tugged with his finger, now, exactly why he
twisted it, feeling me on the inside as he kept on smoking. When I twitched,
gasped, he finally took his finger out, held it up to the light and inspected
it. "That's nice;" he murmured, "quite nice indeed."
He threw his cigarette into the fireplace and licked his fingertip, smirking at
me. "Last taste of your ass while it's still virgin," he explained, sucking his
finger clean with relish. I whimpered again at the sight, the sight of a man in
a smart tuxedo, with slicked-back hair and a perfectly trimmed moustache
casually tasting the flavour of his daughter's ass like some aperitif.
Something to rouse his appetite, to spread warmth into his belly in preparation
for the feast to come, I thought, and pressed my thighs together in delight.
"Delicious," he murmured, then leaned down to kiss me, rubbing my lower back in
soothing circles. "Do you want a little something to perk you up?"
"I'm not sure," I said, still feeling slightly nauseous. "I think right now, a
drink would only make me feel worse."
He rustled in his pocket and lifted out a piece of bright red, soft candy. "How
about one of these?"
"You've never fed me candy before, you know," I said, smiling, laughing up at
him. "Some molester you are."
He smiled, tilted my head up and put the candy to my lips. "It's because I want
you especially sweet tonight, my child, sweet as sugar. Now, open up."
I did not let him push the candy into my mouth immediately, only brushed my
lips against it, flicked my tongue out a little to taste it. He drew in a sharp
breath and joined the game: he dipped the candy into my mouth, smeared it
against my lips until they were covered in sugar. When I opened my mouth wider,
he snatched the candy away, the wickedest of smiles lighting up his face. "Ask
nicely."
"Please, Daddy," I said, smiled up at him. I opened my mouth wide and stuck out
my tongue.
He pushed the candy into my mouth, his fingers lingering upon my tongue. "Good
girl."
I laid in his lap and sucked, chewed on the candy as he caressed my hair,
tasted my mouth with a few kisses now and then. I was feeling better now,
warmer, slightly more awake. I sighed happily into his kiss.
"Thank you, Daddy."
"Are you ready to get dressed, my darling?"
I nodded eagerly.
"All right, then. I've brought you something special tonight, but first, your
adornments." He reached above the fireplace and took out the jewellery box.
As he decorated me with the cuffs and the collar, kissing each restraint as he
snapped its lock shut, my eyes filled with tears. I smiled at him, whispered
"Thank you," and felt so deliriously happy I wondered if he had not injected
the candy with some sort of drug. He must have, because I felt the telltale
sparks, prickles of an euphoric stimulant bursting within my nerves, flooding
my muscles with a rush of vigour, of joy. Yet what caused the drug to unfurl so
fast was my mental state, the state of surrender where I felt weightless: I was
as light as a feather as he lifted me to stand up and held me against his body.
"I have the best Daddy in the whole wide world," I whispered against his chest,
drunk from ecstasy.
He laughed and ruffled my hair. "And I the prettiest daughter, and she will be
even prettier in her new dress. Go on, open your presents."
He had not attached the chain to my cuffs, so I could move freely. I knelt
beside the table and started with the smallest box: as I had predicted, the
panties were of innocent, soft white cotton, with little lace ruffles around
the legs. The garters and the stockings were white, too, like those of a bride.
I pulled them on eagerly, posed for him a little as he settled in his chair and
watched. Finally, I opened the largest of the boxes, lifted out the dress and
stepped into it. It was all white, too, and breathtakingly beautiful: the top
part was a strapless bodice made of thick silk, boned well to emphasise my
waist and lift my breasts. From my hips, layers upon layers of white tulle and
lace cascaded down onto the floor. The only part not white was the thin, black
belt meant to encircle my waist. Yet I could not close its clasp, embarrassed,
wondering if I had put on weight.
He stumped his cigarette and got up, gesturing for me to stand before the
mirror. "Allow me."
I'd zipped the dress up at the side, not realising the folds at the back had
hidden lacing. The bodice was not nearly as stiff as my grandmother's corset,
but oh--as Torsten tugged at the laces with his fingers, loosening them at the
top to make room for my breasts, tightening them in the middle to cinch in my
waist, a shiver of erotic delight ran through me. He is wrapping me up like a
present, I thought dizzily; something he can tear open later. My pussy
tightened between my legs and I shivered again as he pulled at the laces,
adjusted them until my body had reached a shape that pleased him. Deftly, he
tied the laces up with a bow and tucked them back inside the folds of the
dress.
He closed the belt clasp, then rested his hands on my shoulders. "There we
are."
Sharp-toothed, he smiled at me through the mirror, adored my hourglass waist,
the way the dress cupped my breasts and lifted them like a lover. He stood
there for a while, letting me take in my reflection, the reflection of the new
Laura. The girl he had embraced in the mirror in Forssa seemed distant. This
Laura had lost the child's softness from her cheeks, and an adult woman's face
was now emerging from that softness: a face beautiful, determined, firm. This
Laura had plucked and pencilled her eyebrows, kohled her eyes so many times her
gaze now held a hardness, sharpness, a cruelty to match his. This Laura's mouth
was now fuller, because she had learned how to paint it; the lips now more
swollen, more relaxed from having learned to love fellatio. And upon her throat
and her wrists, warmed by her pulse now gleamed the bands that bound her to her
father, her mentor, her lover.
He clasped his hands around my waist, his fingertips touching each other
easily. As he bent down to kiss my ear, his voice was trembling from arousal.
"My little girl's all grown up." The words he had said in Forssa, but now they
were truer than ever. Yet, simultaneously, just as he had brought out the
harlot in me, so had he brought out the virgin in me: never had I known such
innocence, such purity as I did whenever he asked me to play the little girl
for him, asked me to reveal my deepest thoughts and desires to him through my
letters, through that sweet little girl's voice whispering in his ear.
I had never been allowed to be that little girl, cherished by her father,
pampered, held. I had only ever been scolded and beaten by old women, brought
up by an old man whose idea of love was a pat on the head and a chocolate bar.
I had never known a father's love until Torsten, and this twisted form of it
was the only way in which I could truly understand it. I was too bitter to
understand goodness, too cynical to give a second thought to loving my fellow
man. Little wonder, then, that only Torsten could have broken through to me
with his own bitterness and cynicism, touching me to my very core. He
understood the whisper of the Devil on the wind, he understood the vamps and
the cads, he understood Milton's Lucifer as I did: he would rather reign in
Hell than serve in Heaven. Therefore, it made sense that I could only truly
feel pure when I knelt at his feet, ruined, swallowing his love in the form of
his come, his piss.
Lost in thought, I kissed his hand, my voice a quiet whisper. "On the day you
found me again, all the other children had pledged to follow Jesus and had been
accepted into the arms of the Church." I shook my head. "I never wanted that. I
only ever wanted the Devil."
"And I came," he murmured, hugging me against himself, caressing my neck, my
breasts. And he looked like the Devil himself, too, I mused, swooning from the
drug; the peak of his receding hairline, his long black eyelashes, the tips of
his thin moustache all sharp with satanic beauty. The vast blue of his eyes was
that of those lakes in which forcibly converted pagans washed off their
baptisms, and I wanted to be immersed in them again and again and again.
The Rococo clock chimed softly; it was half past six.
"That's our cue, my dear." He turned me around, took my hand and kissed it
slowly, clasping my palm firmly in his hand. His lips felt like a brand, his
moustache prickling my skin, sending a pulse of blue-white fire through my
hand, my arm, straight into my heart. I drew in a sharp breath and closed my
eyes: my heart flooded with that liquid fire until it spilled over, ran down my
body, down, down and pooled between my legs, sparking there with sweet delight.
I caressed his sleek head with my hand. "Come, Daddy. Take me dancing."
***
And dance we did, treading the ballroom floor until we were both exhausted. It
helped me release the excess energy swirling within me from the drug, helped me
forget my arousal for a while. It must have done the same for him, too: from
time to time, I could feel his erection pressing against my belly, but if the
orchestra blasted out one of the faster jazz numbers, it would soon go down as
he struggled to keep up with me.
Short of breath, Torsten slumped into his chair and gestured for the waiter to
bring us another pair of drinks. "You'll be the death of me," he panted as he
mopped his face with his handkerchief.
"Gladly," I laughed, panting a little myself. As the waiter brought our drinks,
I made a face at the sweetness of my cocktail. "Why do you keep ordering this?
I told you it was vile."
He raised his eyebrow at me over his glass. "I said I wanted you to taste sweet
tonight," he smirked and clasped my hand.
"It's still disgusting. Will you excuse me for a moment? I need to go and
powder my nose."
He didn't let go of my hand, only downed his drink and set it back on the
table. "Sit down."
"I won't be long."
"No, I want you to sit down."
I did. "Who is it?" I looked around the ballroom to see if he'd spotted someone
important. He often pointed people out to me, educating me about the rich and
the famous of Stockholm through the juiciest gossip.
He shook his head. "Nobody." He leaned in to whisper in my ear. "It's just that
I'm thirsty."
My eyes widened and I pulled back in such shock that I must've looked
conspicuous. I flushed scarlet, looking around, hoping nobody had noticed. "Are
you joking?" I hissed in his ear.
He tutted. "No. We'll stay here for a while yet, an hour, maybe. I'll buy you a
few more of those cocktails, and then we'll go home." His eyes twinkled
mischievously. "What do you say to that?"
I glanced around myself again and lifted my glass to my lips, my hand shaking.
"I think you're a sick bastard."
And he knew what I meant by that; his face lit up in the wickedest of smiles.
"Another?"
I was intensely aware of each sip, now, of each mouthful of fluid as it
travelled down my throat, my belly, my guts, as my liver and kidneys slowly
processed it into urine. I could feel my bladder filling with each sip,
shivered with the need to contain it. And he loved it; loved to watch me
squirm, cross my legs. He even forced me to dance with himself one more time,
clasping me so tightly against himself I was in pain. "You utter bastard," I
repeated against his chest and as he laughed, I felt his erection pressing
against me again. Against my bladder, my burning bladder--I could not think of
anything except relieving myself and as we returned to our table, I refused to
finish my last drink. "Please. Let's go home."
He sipped calmly from his own drink, quietly; he relished it, knowing exactly
what the sight was doing to me in my tortured state. He glanced at the clock.
"Five more minutes to go, my child. In fact, I think I should go and powder my
nose."
He left me there, left me fuming with my nails pressed into my palms. I could
have left, now, and he would have deserved it. Or I could have run to the
ladies' room and returned before he did, and he would never know.
But of course, I didn't. I thought of that day on the train, of how he had said
he would return the favour, of what I had thought of in the train toilet. The
muscles around my urethra spasmed violently; it was as if someone was trying to
stick a knife into my pussy. I would get him for this, oh, I would get him for
this.
When he returned, he brushed his hand against my cheek as he passed me by. He
had left it unwashed deliberately; it smelled of his cock, of piss. I shivered
again, the stabbing pain now so awful I had to get to my feet to try and ignore
it. "Let's go."
He was still grinning like a devil as we left the restaurant, arm in arm.
In the taxi, he laid his hand on my belly. He did not press, only let it rest
there, watching my face all throughout the ride home. The taxi driver must've
thought I was pregnant and that Torsten was feeling for our child, but he
couldn't have been more wrong. I flashed daggers at Torsten but he remained
quiet, smirking until the cab arrived at his apartment.
The moment we were inside, I slammed him against the wall and tore off his
coat, clutched his tie in my fist and pulled him into a kiss. Furious from the
drugs, the alcohol, from him I bit his tongue, clawed at his hair, snarled into
his mouth. "Bastard, bastard, bastard," I repeated in an endless litany.
It was then that he grabbed me and slammed me up against the wall opposite: the
mirror nearly fell off its hinges as he spread my legs and lifted me, so that
his erection was pressing against my pussy through our clothes. I cried out in
pain, howled, howled into his mouth as he bit my tongue and pulled my hair in
turn.
"Do you want me to piss on you here, right now?" I whimpered, because I was
about to.
"I can think of a better place for that," he laughed and carried me to the
bathroom, just a few feet away. He kissed me hungrily and clawed at my dress so
that I could hear fabric tearing; once the dress pooled at my feet and I was
only wearing my panties, he lifted me again and laid me down in the bathtub.
He reached for his bow tie, about to undress himself, but decided against it.
My heart pounded in my chest as he descended into the bathtub in his perfectly
cut designer tuxedo. He laid himself down at the bottom of the tub--it was
wide, designed for at least two, if not three people--and gestured for me to
straddle his face.
Still angry at him, I ground my pussy into his face, suffocated him with my
white cotton. "Is this what you wanted, you dirty old man?" I hissed. "Is this
what you wanted?" Cruelly, I twisted my hand in his hair. I looked down at him,
his mouth completely covered by my pussy, his nose pressed into it, his eyes
staring at me in lustful hysteria. I ground myself against his mouth, rubbing
my scent all over him. "Is this what turns you on?" I spat. "Sniffing a little
girl's pussy through her little white panties? Answer me."
His face was flushing, the veins on his temples raised and he panted heavily as
I lifted myself to let him answer. "Yes," he gasped, inhaled with relish. He
brought his hands to my buttocks, squeezed them, slapped them, snarled. "It's
such a sweet little pussy, the sweetest, oh--" he choked as I shut him up with
it again.
"Tell me what you want, dirty old man," I hissed. "And how much you want it.
Then I might even give it to you."
He dragged in a drowning breath as I moved back; he stared furiously into my
eyes. "I want your piss. I have wanted to taste it ever since that day on the
pier," he keened, smacking my ass again, sliding his hands inside my panties so
he could better squeeze my buttocks. He rubbed his mouth against my pussy,
sucking it, biting it, his words a sharp, rapid litany. "Wanted to sink my face
into this and smell it, have your sweet little girl's piss fill my mouth so I
could drink it--"
I groaned, so aroused now I was not even sure if I could piss, even if I was in
pain; my bladder was hurting so much. I let go of his hair so suddenly the back
of his head thunked against the enamel; I relished the spark of pain in his
eyes.
I panted on top of him, considering him. "You are a sick old fuck."
"Yes. I am a sick old fuck," he grinned. "Now, give it to me."
"Ask nicely."
He clawed at my buttocks. "Please piss in my mouth, Laura."
I sat on his face, closed my eyes and breathed. It felt impossible to urinate,
impossible. My pussy was so swollen it felt my urethra was swollen shut, too: I
groaned, pressed into his mouth, focused all of myself on my bladder so I could
let go. All the while he stroked my buttocks, panted heavily through his nose,
stared up at me and waited.
Finally, finally I could feel a little trickle escape my pussy, then another
and then he was screaming into me. Oh, God, how lovely it felt; I shuddered
with the release that now felt orgasmic as his moans vibrated against my pussy.
I drenched my panties, drenched them all the way to the back, wetting his chin,
his throat, his chest: I even pulled back a little so I could watch myself
trickle all over his neck. He keened, lapped at my pussy with desperation,
coughing, gagging as I poured myself inside him: he pulled my panties aside so
I could direct the stream straight into his mouth. Keening myself, I watched as
he closed his throat with the back of his tongue, as I slowly filled his mouth
with sharp, yellow, sugary piss.
As he closed his mouth and swallowed, I did not stop the stream but scooted
back, pissed all over his neck, his chest, his belly, drenching him as I had
wanted to for weeks. He moaned, moaned as I pissed all over his crotch, too,
over his erection, outlining it in his trousers; he pulled me back to catch the
very last spurts into his mouth. I squeezed with my pelvic muscles, squeezed
every drop onto his tongue, suffocated him with myself as he drank me in. He
lapped at me, lapped at my pussy, my inner thighs, sucking off every drop he
had missed. When he finished, he was still staring at me maniacally, his
moustache soaking wet.
"You're unbelievable," he murmured, reverently, then pulled me into a kiss. I
pressed myself against him and drenched myself, too, wallowing in my own sugary
sweetness, undulating on top of him.
Yet, I had had enough of this game; I was desperate to be fucked. I pulled and
tugged at my panties, kicked them aside, then pulled his cock out of his
trousers and stroked it in my fist. I had waited for weeks, had waited for a
lifetime; I could not wait any longer. My pussy was dripping, my hands were
shaking; I needed him inside me.
"Fuck me," I said. "Fuck me. Now."
Huffing through his nostrils, he glanced around the tub, then found what he was
looking for: the glycerine. He poured a little onto his palm, slicked his cock
with it until my hand was smeared, too, since I refused to let go of him. By
now, he was trembling. He clasped his hand over mine on his cock and gestured
for me to sit on him. "Put it in your ass," he hissed. "Put it in your ass."
I took a deep breath and sat on his cock. It hurt, oh, God, it hurt, even if I
started with little dips, in and out, stretching my ass slowly. Yet this was
what I had wanted, the deepest, cruellest, most painful of deflowerings. This
is where I had wanted him to enter me first and I shook, sobbed as the head of
his cock slid past the tightest muscles. I could hold on no longer because
gravity was weighing me down, forcing me down on his cock: crying out deep in
my throat, clutching the sides of the bath, I watched myself sink all the way
down onto his cock, my pussy dripping in thick, heavy beads onto his pubic
hair. I shook, shook and whimpered but he was inside me.
He was inside me and I looked up, trembling. I was so overwhelmed from the
penetration I couldn't even weep: my eyes were dry, yet I was sobbing, sobbing
as he pulled me into a kiss.
"Shh. Good girl. Good girl. Good girl," he murmured, caressing my hair, my
buttocks. "Daddy's little girl feels so good, so good, so good," he continued
his croons, kissing my ears, stroking my back.
I could feel his cock pulsing inside of me, hardening even further. It hurt, it
hurt so much, pressing so deep into my guts I felt nauseous, yet my pussy was
glowing with heat. My pussy loved it, loved to feel his weight and width behind
itself this way, and I had never been as wet in my life. I slipped my hand to
my pussy and rubbed it, and as he kissed my sobs from my mouth, I felt the pain
start to blossom into pleasure.
He noticed my cries had changed from those of pain into those of delight; he
laughed against my lips, stroking my hair from my face. "How does Daddy's cock
feel inside your ass?"
I ground my forehead against his. "Wonderful. Oh, God, so wonderful." Because
the pleasure was now maddening; it was ripping through me and I found I could
not contain it. I was afraid I would come right now, come too fast--but as soon
as I had thought it, the orgasm flashed through me, as fast as lightning and
just as powerful. I screamed as its waves tore through me, so violent I shook
all over, spasming on top of him in some bizarre, erotic seizure. Yet I could
not stop, could not stop moving on his cock, could not stop rubbing my pussy. I
had just come harder than I had ever come in my life, covered in my piss, his
cock in my ass and still, that was far from enough. "More. Please. Daddy.
More."
"Oh, it'll be a while until I'll stop, my dear. That, I can promise. Turn
around, so you're facing the wall. That's it."
As I sat on his cock again I had to face my own reflection in the mirrored
wall. There was piss even on my hair from where I'd lain over him, I saw; my
mascara was running from my sobs, my lipstick smeared from violent kisses. It
was a wasted whore looking back at me from the mirror and I loved her: it was
as if a long-lost older sister was now looking back at the younger Laura,
telling her she would see herself like this one day. That she would have broken
free from her chains, that she would have got to experience all the
debaucheries she had dreamt of, that she would one day be as happy as this.
Because I was happy. So happy, delirious as I leaned forwards and rode his
cock, imagining what he must have been seeing--his cock sinking inside my
asshole, my buttocks shaking. It was then that he smacked my ass, first the
left buttock, then the right and I cried out in joy, in laughter, panting
against the mirrors. I looked at him over my shoulder and he was ecstatic,
leering; strangely like a youth who had had his dirtiest dream fulfilled.
"Do that again," I said, and he did: his smacks ringing in the room, I kept on
riding him, melting from pleasure.
As I sat on him with all my weight, I had no idea why I had been so afraid of
him penetrating me so deeply. At first, it hurt when he pushed against the back
of my womb, but only after a few strokes the head of his cock slid past it and
ecstasy exploded through my spine. I could no longer tell where one orgasm
ended and one began, the waves of one blending into the other, rising and
falling as I rode his cock. I found my pussy gushing, spraying his trousers and
I wondered if I was pissing again, but then I remembered Athena. That's my
come, I thought, laughing in awe as I shuddered on top of him, coming and
coming, splashing onto his balls.
"Enjoying yourself?" he laughed, his voice now high from pleasure.
I turned to look at him over my shoulder, clasped his hand in mine. "Yes. Very
much. Thank you, Daddy."
He shook his head. "I could do this all night."
"Don't make promises you can't keep," I grinned.
He raised his eyebrows in mock-shock. "I never do. Lift up a little. Let me see
how open you are."
I didn't want to leave him but I raised my buttocks, so high I could see them
in the reflection from the opposite wall myself. I let out a little noise as I
saw how I gaped, just as Athena had gaped: my anus was but a smooth, pink
hollow which now clenched shut into a little pink asterisk.
It was then that he pushed both thumbs inside my ass and spread me, stretched
me open once more. I keened, my pussy dripping in strings as he played with my
ass; I was desperate for him to continue. "Please, Daddy. Please fuck me some
more."
"You want me to put my cock back in this dirty hole again, is that it?" he
hissed, smacking my ass.
"Yes. Please."
He pulled me down, plunged his cock back inside with such speed it hurt, so
that I saw my eyes widen in the mirror like I was about to be sick. But I loved
it, loved the way he now moved my ass on his cock, forcing me to ride him
harder, faster, serving his pleasure.
"Such a dirty little hole you want my cock in. Isn't a girl like you supposed
to want it in your pussy? Hmm?" he crooned. We both knew how clean I was, yet
the risks still aroused him, aroused me even more. I thought of him in the
shed, of what Ibrahim had guessed to be his fetish and I moaned as I remembered
the sight. I shuddered on top of him, rubbed my pussy as he continued.
"Such a dirty little girl. First she pisses all over me and then she wants to
smear her dirty ass all over my cock." He tried to speak slowly to tease me,
but his voice was now so high he must have been close, whipping himself closer
to orgasm with his own words. "You've made my cock so dirty, so greasy," he
snarled. "And that won't do; no, that won't do at all. Do you know what I'm
going to do to a dirty little girl like you?"
I rubbed my pussy faster and bit my lip. "Please, Daddy. Tell me."
He forced his cock as deep as it would go and hissed. "I'm going to make you
suck it clean."
"Oh, God--!" Like he had done to Helena. Secretly, I had been jealous, so
jealous, but now I shivered in disgust, in delight. "Please--"
"That's right. Turn around. Where I can see you."
I turned around, moved to brush my hair from my face, but he snatched it in his
fist. His balls were drawn high, his cock gleaming, shining with glycerine,
with my anal mucus. He lifted it so that it was now but an inch from my mouth,
sweet and slick.
"Now, be a good girl and suck off every drop of your filthy ass." He shook my
head by the hair. "Every single drop, do you hear me?"
My pussy pulsed with heat at his words; I had to stroke myself, had to. "Yes,
Daddy," I gasped.
"Then, suck."
I did as I was told, moaning as I slid my mouth onto his cock, my pussy
clenching against my hand. The few smears on the champagne bottle last night
were nothing compared to this, nothing. I could taste not only the glycerine
but also my own flesh; a salty, musty taste that was not of his cock. His cock
had been clear, shining and yet this act was filthy, so filthy I was pushed
close to the edge once more. I opened my eyes and he was watching me with his
eyes half-closed, sharp, cruel.
"Good girl," he murmured. "Taste your ass. Taste your shit."
I screamed around his cock as I came again, in revulsion so exquisite it was
pleasure. My limbs convulsed against the sides of the bath and I nearly fell
over: I had to straddle his leg, ride my hand, never taking my mouth off his
cock as I came undone on top of him. I sucked myself off him, sucked every last
smear off him, licked him, worshipped his cock, swallowing the taste of my ass.
And then I was swallowing him, too: his balls jumped against my chin and with a
high cry, he flooded my mouth with come. He cried out my name and for that, I
moved my head just the way I knew he wanted me to, sucked him with just the
right pressure to give him the utmost pleasure. I kneaded his balls, massaged
his cock until I had drunk every drop, until the last of his cries had died
out.
He pulled me to lie down on top of him and licked my mouth. "I love the taste
of your ass, too," he murmured, smiling. With a soft sigh, he let himself fall
back, winced as he hit his head on the enamel again. He grinned, shook his
head, gazed up at me in adoration. "What did I ever do to deserve a daughter
like you?"
"Wicked, wicked things," I murmured against his cheek as I stretched on top of
him. "I think we need a shower."
He glanced down at himself and burst into laughter. I joined him in his
laughter and kissed him, hugging him tight.
***
We spent a long time in the shower, luxuriating underneath the warm water. I
washed him gratefully, worshipfully, smiling up at him as I sponged his
genitals, the cleft of his buttocks. In turn, he sat down in the tub and took
me in his lap so that I was leaning back against his chest. There, he washed me
like I was a child, shampooing my hair, showering my pussy and ass with
especial care. I was more tired than he was, and now that I had been able to
take my frustration out on him, I was so relaxed I positively melted in his
arms.
"Don't fall asleep on me yet, my darling," he murmured, slapping me between my
legs until I yelped. "The night is still young." He cupped my pussy
possessively, squeezing it in his hand. "And I've still got this little thing
to fuck."
I groaned half in exhaustion, half in pleasure. "Then take me to bed."
He turned off the tap. "I will. Come on."
Instead of the electric lights, he'd had the master bedroom lit with candles.
"I appreciate the effort," I said as I patted my hair dry, then threw the towel
over the nearest chair. Immediately, I noticed the assortment of candy
displayed upon the dresser and my stomach churned; I made a beeline for the
bowl. I'd put two sweets in my mouth when I realised I might have made a
mistake. "These are not drugged, are they?"
"It's rude to talk with your mouth full. And no, they aren't." He poured us
both a glass of brandy. "Get this down you instead."
I tucked my feet underneath myself and curled up on the bed in my dressing
gown, one hand full of sweets, a glass of brandy in the other. He remained
standing at the foot of the bed, sipping his drink, watching me with a curious
look on his face.
"What are you staring at?" I asked, my mouth still full of candy.
"Just imprinting the scene upon my memory, that's all," he said with a smile.
Then I realised how I must've looked: oh, he had brought the candy on purpose,
I was sure, hoping to see me exactly like this. Barefoot and munching sweets in
his bed, still seemingly a child, ready for further debauchings. The idea made
me puff up with vanity for a while: I smiled at him, curled my toes against the
white satin sheets, letting him have a good look at his child bride.
But it was then that a sudden fear made my heart lurch: once he'd taken what he
wanted, once he had made the girl he wanted into a woman, how long would the
charm last? When there was nothing left in me to corrupt, would he turn his
attentions to something, someone else? I swirled the brandy in my glass,
staring at it, feeling like an idiot. I swallowed thickly, holding back tears.
As soft, as lithe as a cat he slid into bed, his silk dressing gown rustling as
he settled beside me. "Laura." He lifted my chin and forced me to look into his
eyes. "I presume it's not the sex you are scared of. What is it?"
I closed my eyes, tears rolling down my face. "What happens when I grow up?" I
choked. "What will happen to all... this?" I glanced around myself, the
candlelight, the candy, the silver bands still upon my ankles, neck and wrists.
"Will it end the day I turn eighteen and you will have had your fun with me? Or
earlier?"
"Shh." He seemed confused, uncertain himself--I was sure a rake as old as
Torsten was used to becoming bored with one perversion after another,
accustomed to the numbness that followed even the wildest of exploits.
"What you and I have is something different," he said, with a firmness that
sounded to me like he was convincing himself of this, too. It was clear he had
been thinking about this himself, and before he could disguise it, I saw a
vulnerable look flash across his face. In the candlelight, taken over by
emotion, soft and warm from the shower, he looked even more like a woman than
before.
He was as if a woman, and lived through women. Torsten Barring, the kept man,
my family had called him: living on credit and the diamonds of his mistresses.
He would be nothing without his women, my great-aunt had said; too spineless,
too wasteful, too effeminate himself to ever become a strong, determined man in
charge of his own fate. No, his fate was ruled by women, she had said; he was
like one of those foolish kings always ruled by the whims of his mistresses.
God forbid the Barring fortune should ever be left in the hands of women, she
had said, then cast a scornful glance at me.
Child or no, I was still the rightful heir. And I could rule him if I wanted
to, had always somehow known it. That day on the pier when I had taunted him
with the gold of my pubic curls, all those letters in which he had called me
Cleopatra, all those times he'd called me his little empress--it was I who
ruled him; it was he who needed me.
Because what would he be without me? An aging playboy, wasting his life away
when I could, as he had said, raise us both to glory? The prospect both excited
and frightened me. Deep down inside, I knew I could do it, be strong where he
wasn't, but there also was--perhaps always would be--a hollow, child-shaped
emptiness in me, an emptiness that only he could fill. And that hollow
emptiness was now roaring, howling; the child in me was afraid.
I took his hand and rubbed it with my thumb. "Promise me something, Torsten."
His eyes flashed. "If you think I would ever leave you--"
I shook my head. "No. It's not that." I cupped his cheek, blinked away tears
from my eyes. "Listen."
He cupped his hand over mine. "I am listening."
My voice broke; my tongue was thick from sugar, from tears. Yet I forced myself
to look into his eyes. "Promise me that I will always be your little girl." I
could not look at him any longer, too ashamed of my words; my head fell down
and I sobbed. "It's all I--all I ever wanted. You can ha-have the m-money, you
can have everything--"
"Oh, Laura." He hugged me, then; held me so tightly he was crushing me against
his chest. He kissed me, kissed me again, kissed me until I was breathless.
"You will always be my little girl," he murmured into my mouth, "Always." His
own eyes were glimmering with tears as he pulled down my robe, pulled down his
own and covered me with his body. "You will always be my little girl," he said
again as he guided himself inside me. I was not very wet yet and it hurt, hurt
even as I tried to spread my legs wide for him. He wasn't even fully hard, yet
penetrated me still, hardening as he started to thrust inside me, as I wept
around him.
"Daddy's little girl," he murmured, kissing my face, my shoulders, my breasts;
"Daddy's sweet, sweet little girl," he groaned as I grew wet around him, as my
pussy opened for him. I wrapped my arms around his neck and cried, wept as he
hurt me, hurt me so perfectly, deflowered me as I needed to be deflowered. He
may have torn my hymen in the limousine, but this was what I had wanted: to be
taken in his bed, roughly, weeping underneath him. He had promised to make me
cry, and I was crying now, wasn't I? And he drank each tear just as he had
always drunk them, with moustachioed kisses that burned with brandy, until my
entire face was glowing, raw.
Yet, even that wasn't enough. I started to push back into his thrusts, stared
up at him, urging him to fuck me harder, faster. "Hurt me," I said, sniffling
loudly, swallowing my tears. "Hurt me."
He groaned deep in his chest, lifted my legs onto his shoulders until I was
bent double underneath him. "Like this?" he asked and thrust into me so
brutally I howled, stabbing into me again and again, the pain making me shiver
underneath his weight.
Yet it felt wonderful, wonderful. "Yes," I cried, my head thrashing upon the
pillows. "Yes, please, please, Daddy, fuck me, fuck me--"
"I will." He sank both of his hands into my hair, clutching it in his fists,
panting into my face. "Your pussy smells so sweet, like candy," he leered,
looking down at himself, the full length and breadth of his cock sinking
between the plump lips of my pussy. "And you saved it all up for your Daddy,
like the good little girl you are." He angled his hips and thrust lower,
deeper, pressed his face into my shoulder, making me sob in his ear. Yet he
would not stop, would not stop pushing his cock as deep past my womb as it
would go. "Sweet little sugar pussy," he hissed, relishing the words; oh, how
long he must have dreamt of this night, when he could finally whisper those
words in my ear. "All mine, all mine."
And I loved it, loved every slithering hiss; I became all sweetness, all pussy,
all candy for him. With my sugary mouth I kissed him, with my little pussy I
squeezed him, with my highest, softest voice I whimpered underneath him. "It
hurts, Daddy, it hurts."
That only made him fuck me harder, so hard I was pushed back on the bed, the
pillows falling onto the floor one after another as he roared on top of me. I
was now so wet the slap of his balls was loud, ringing in the room; I screamed
from the bottom of my belly and hung onto the metal bedframe as it clattered
against the wall with his thrusts. Finally, finally he butchered me as I had
wanted to be butchered. I clutched my thighs tight around him, stared into his
eyes and rubbed my pussy, so close to orgasm now. He had taught me how to find
the most tender parts inside of myself but now he was pounding, stretching
those parts with his cock and the sensation was unbelievable: all of me was
expanding, unfolding around him, blossoming underneath him. I stared at him,
stared at him and screamed, more wet noises filling the room as I flicked my
hand on my pussy.
"Daddy, please--"
"Is my little girl going to come?" he asked, slowing down his thrusts.
"Don't stop, don't stop, I'm going to kill you if you stop--"
He shook his head. "I won't." He balanced himself on the bed, rolling his hips,
his cock moving inside me in such a perfect circle that it made me howl into
the ceiling. He rolled his hips again, let out a huffing laugh against my face
as I howled once more. "Is Daddy's favourite little pussy going to come? Hmm?"
He rolled his hips again.
"Yes--"
"Yes? Your little sugar pussy's going to come? All over my cock?"
"Yes!" I shouted and with one deep breath, I was gone. As I exhaled, my entire
body rippled around him, my pussy clenching around his cock, his wonderful,
hard, thick cock, the cock it had wanted inside of itself for so long.
Underneath my eyelids flashed memories of sunlight, of lake water, the knit
black fabric of his swimsuit and the bulge of his cock shining through it. And
now, that wonderful piece of flesh I had so craved was satisfying me to the
fullest. I stared up into his eyes, stared as he pushed as deep inside me as he
could, and stayed still.
I made animal noises, dying noises, yet could not stop staring, could not stop
shaking, orgasming around him. My pussy refused to stop, sucking at him with
its muscles, with every contraction of its orgasm, as if wanting to draw him
inside of my body forever. Had I been a normal woman, I would have wanted a
child, would have wanted him to impregnate me there and then but no, a child
was not what I wanted: I wanted him, wanted to swallow him whole. But if I
swallowed him, I would have no Daddy, I thought deliriously as I fell slack
underneath him. And I loved him like this: outside me as he was inside of me,
his weight heavy on top of me, his gaze penetrating me to the depths of my soul
as his cock was penetrating the depths of my flesh.
I shook underneath him, shook in aftershocks. "Daddy."
He laughed, panted a little as he laid himself down on top of me. "Yes?"
He had not come, and I knew I wasn't sated either. Did he know what he had
started? Had he sensed that once he had taken me like this, I would be
insatiable? Because I felt insatiable. I pressed my fingernails into his back,
struggled underneath him.
He raised himself up on his arms, observed me as I squirmed, measuring me with
a smile. "What's the matter?"
I did not answer, only smiled at him and continued to struggle, half-heartedly
but enough to tease, enough to make his eyes flash in excitement.
"Oh, so you liked it when I was rough, is that it? And now you want more?"
He pinned my wrists onto the bed and my heart started to beat faster. I panted
underneath him and nodded, still unable to say a word. My struggle was not
calculated but instinctual, atavistic, coming from somewhere deep inside of me.
He had awakened some part of me that was so young it did not yet know language:
it only spoke with its body, it only spoke with cries. Perhaps he had made me
revert into an animal, I thought as I wrapped my legs around his waist,
offering my pussy to him, to my chosen mate. I nodded again, struggled a little
harder. He responded by squeezing my wrists so hard my hands went cold; a
convulsion of ecstasy broke through my body.
He began to move inside my pussy again, slower this time, slower, focusing on
observing my face, the movements of my body instead. At times, he paused, let
me wait for the thrusts, laughed as I pleaded for him with little noises,
laughed louder as he stabbed into me so hard I howled in pain. On and on he
went until we were moving together, moaning together, shaking together in a
perfect rhythm. Ours was a dance performed by two beasts, entranced within our
own space, our own aura; our hot, moist, fragrant nest of sex.
Yet even in this sweet heat, there was still something in me that was restless,
still something that wanted that restlessness to be torn apart, scattered into
the winds. So I squirmed underneath him again and when he bent down for a kiss,
I bit him. He pulled back, furious; rammed brutally into me. I shrieked in
delight and he did it again; yet even that was not enough. I hissed underneath
him, thrashed, delirious. A realisation, a desire so dark came over me I could
not voice it while looking into his eyes. A desire so wrong, so utterly twisted
I had to pant it into the pillow, so quietly that perhaps he could miss it,
perhaps. Yet I said it, mouthed it into the satin, closed my eyes and let
myself fall.
"Rape me, Daddy."
I did not look up at him, but he stopped and I could feel he was shaking: I did
not hear him breathing at all. Quietly, softly he withdrew from me. I was about
to open my eyes, about to ask him--
But then I was on my stomach and he had twisted my arms behind my back so
painfully I could feel my joints stretching, burning. I screamed into the
pillows, screamed as he pushed me down, as he kicked my legs apart. He waited
until I had stopped kicking, he waited until I had stopped screaming, he waited
until I was quiet, still.
Only then did he part my buttocks with his hand and he spat, spat again, spat
loudly, messily over my asshole. He started to push his cock inside my ass and
it hurt, hurt so much I nearly fainted. His cock felt even more enormous, now,
forcing my ass open, his thrusts pushing the very air out of my lungs. I could
not breathe from the pain. I was being split in two, impaled, and as he began
to move inside me, I was as limp as a rag doll, only a piece of meat used for
his pleasure; I adored him. He grunted on top of me like an animal, clawed at
my back with his free hand, smacked me, pinched me, pulled my hair until I was
sobbing.
"That's what you get for hurting your Daddy," he hissed into my ear, tearing at
my hair. "Apologise."
"I'm sorry, Daddy," I panted, "I'm so sorry."
He pressed his cock inside of me, laid himself on top of me with his full
weight, looping my hair around his wrist. "That's not good enough. Will you
promise not to do it ever again?"
"No!" I spat, defiantly.
"Is that so?" He yanked my head back and shouted, his spit flying into my ear.
"Is it because you like to see me angry?"
"Yes!" I cried in true fear, in true love-madness. "Yes!"
He shoved my face into the pillows. "Little bitch." He took my wrists and
opened one of my bracelets, then snapped it shut around the other so that my
wrists were now cuffed together behind my back. When I cried out in protest, he
pulled my head up by the hair again, twisted it towards himself so he could
look me in the eye. "That's better. You see, now I have both hands free so I
can do this."
He lifted my head higher and slapped me.
I screamed, jerked more from shock than pain as the blow echoed through my
body. It was not the hardest blow I'd ever received, but never in my life had I
enjoyed one so. I whimpered as the ripples of it transmuted into those of
ecstasy, made me quiver underneath him. Never had a blow gone straight between
my legs like his did now, making my pussy clench, clench against his balls. My
ass clenched even harder, spasming around his cock, making him groan in cruel
satisfaction.
He slapped me again, again, using my body's reflexes to satisfy his cock, his
blows and the pleasure I derived from being used so making my head spin. I was
swooning, hanging upon his hands and his cock, and from what little I saw of
his face, he was majestic. He seemed even taller than before, larger, the red
veil of pain before my eyes painting him into the very Devil himself, the
Barring curse made flesh. He chuckled low in his chest, purred, fucked my ass
with slow thrusts, his balls slapping lazily against my dripping, heated pussy.
"This is what you really wanted, then, was it?" he crooned, his eyes flashing.
"None of that sweet lovemaking, none of that normal pussyfucking." He shook his
head and slapped me again, regarding me with the haughty sneer of the true
aristocrat. "No, no, no, no; this is what your little pussy likes best, isn't
it? When I fuck you in the ass? Look between your legs, little Laura, look."
He let go of my head and I could see I was dripping in strings onto the bed:
not just any strings, but fat, long strings, heavy beads flowing down from my
pussy onto the bed. I howled, but he forced my head down and fucked my ass
faster, making me watch as those strings clung to his balls, whipped around his
thighs, as more flowed from my pussy at the simple joy of having my ass being
taken by force.
He grabbed my hips, speeded up his thrusts. "Perhaps next time, I will open
your ass with my hand first, force myself to remain soft until you're open for
me. Do you know why, my child?"
"Why?" I panted, snorted into the pillows, wetting the satin with my spit.
He wrenched my head back and hissed in my ear, the sibilants wet, slithering
out of his mouth. "So I can fill your asshole with piss."
I screamed, jerked back from him, but he slapped me once more, forcing me to
look in his eyes, fucking me ever faster. He was keening through his nose, and
from his movements I could tell he was close. "Then I will fuck your little
ass, fuck you just like this, fuck you full of come. And when I lift my cock
out, lift it out for you to suck like the little whore you are, what will you
taste then?"
I knew what he wanted me to answer, gritted my teeth and howled from between
them, shaking as he pounded into me. He wanted me to say the words, wanted me
to trigger his orgasm, wanted me to push him over the edge.
And that's exactly why I delayed, out of spite; out of the desire to use my own
power over him, to hurt him a little when he was most vulnerable. When he most
needed me. "You dirty bastard," I hissed, delaying even further.
He slapped me again. "Wrong answer. What will you taste? Three tastes. One of
yours, two of mine."
I stared up at him, furious, forced my ass back onto his thrusts. He pushed
back, so hard white lights danced in my vision and I could not hold back any
longer. The little girl in me shivered underneath him and whimpered the words
he wanted to hear. "Piss and shit and come."
Helpless, he shouted into my face; helpless, he shook as he started to come
inside me. He slammed me flat against the bed, crushed me into the mattress
with his entire weight and ground into me, groaning loudly on top of me as he
emptied his balls inside my ass. And I loved it, loved every second of it, the
way my breasts pressed painfully into the bed, the way my pussy wet the sheets
as he kept sliding in and out of me. He cried out in astonishment, coming so
long he could not believe it himself, his claws digging into my shoulders as he
shuddered between my legs.
Still shaking, he released my wrists, clasped my hands and laid on top of me,
still buried deep inside of me. "I love you," he murmured into my wet hair,
"Love you," shuddered again and fell still.
I squeezed my ass around him, making him yelp. The yelp amused me; therefore, I
squeezed again and grinned at him over my shoulder. "I love you too, Daddy."
Even as he softened, even if we were both so tired our limbs were trembling, we
continued to make love, continued to taste each other for the last few hours of
the day we became father and daughter. I laid on top of him in turn, sucking,
swallowing his softening cock; for long moments, I revelled there, relishing
the taste of his sperm, the salty sweetness of my ass. With the same, languid
slowness he relished the wetness of my pussy and the loose, sperm-slick heat of
my ass; he tasted me, fingered my ass until I had no choice but to come on his
hand. With three fingers, then four, he made me come once more, sucking my
pussy, swallowing my fluids, swallowing the waves of my orgasms into himself.
In the heat of our incest, we both became red, raw, unfurling, heaving like the
most grotesque, exotic flowers: turning the bedroom into a dark hothouse,
suffusing it with the perfumes of our sweat, our sexual fluids.
When we finally broke apart my jaw was aching, my throat so sore I could barely
speak.
"This is going to sound sentimental," I croaked against his chest, "but I am
quite sure this has been the best day of my life so far."
He laughed into my hair. "Do you know, it might have been the best day of my
life as well. So, either that means we're both sentimental fools, or that today
truly has been an extraordinary day."
I laced my fingers with his and kissed his hand. "I vote for extraordinary."
He cupped my face and kissed me slowly, gently, sighing into my mouth with
utter happiness. "Call me Daddy again."
"Daddy," I said, smiling up at him, giddy from joy, my heart as light as a
feather. "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy."
"Daugher, daughter, daughter," he laughed into my mouth and kissed me again. "I
love you, Laura Erika Barring."
"And I love you, too, Daddy," I whispered and curled up in his arms.
***** Chapter 8 *****
For the next few months, I continued my research into the world of finance;
Torsten spent most of his time in idle pleasures. I suppose I should have been
angry at him--perhaps other women would have--but mostly, I derived endless
amusement from what was now settling into an arrangement. I was the businessman
husband holding the purse strings, marking everything down in our books,
negotiating investments, shares; he was the vain, frivolous wife who could
spend an entire day shopping for clothes, exercising and grooming himself. By
day, I wore the trousers; he focused on looking pretty. This caused much
confusion and consternation amongst my business partners: men would interrupt
me, talk over me, address Torsten instead of me simply because he was the male.
At times I fumed, wondering if I should steal his clothes and wear a false
moustache just so I would be acknowledged. Yet, I remained firm--this was a
growing experience for me, a chance to learn how to assert myself, and I was
getting better at it day by day. Eventually, to the shock of many, I took to
literally wearing trousers when I went out on business and stopped taking
Torsten with me. Soon, or so I heard, I had developed a reputation as a
formidable, shrewd businesswoman to be reckoned with.
And yet, every night at the stroke of six, that shrewd woman melted into a
little girl, melted into her Daddy's embrace. Torsten would usually have been
resting all day, gathering his strength for the adventures of the evening, and
that suited both of us well: on most days, I would be so full of stress I
needed the most intense of diversions, of sexual acts to finally push me over
into full relaxation.
One day, he took me dancing until I was exhausted, then dragged me into the
restaurant's broom closet and fucked me in the ass. I remember I hadn't
prepared myself and told him so, yet he slammed me face against the wall. "Do
you think that's going to stop me?" he said, dipped his cock into my pussy to
slicken it, spat on my ass and pushed inside. It hurt, it hurt so perfectly
that I shouted, bit into my hand. I was too loud, he said, so he wrapped his
white scarf around my throat, strangling me and releasing me until stars danced
behind my eyelids, until I came violently on his cock.
My knees buckled; I fell to the floor and he held me there, refused to let me
turn around. "Just a moment, my child," he said and tied his scarf around my
eyes. "You've always liked a little taste of danger, haven't you?" he purred,
took me by the hair and guided his cock into my mouth. I moaned around it,
sobbed on the floor, not knowing what I was tasting. The taste was the same,
salty, sweet, musty--yet not knowing for sure was what made me come on my hand,
come screaming around his cock as he filled my mouth with his sperm.
On other nights, I was so strung out he drugged me and led me to the Old Town,
to the bars lit only by red lamps. There, he would spread me out on the seats
and finger me, slowly, the opium slowing down the sensations so that it seemed
to me he was fingering me all night. Sometimes Helena joined him, and they
would begin to fill all my holes with slick fingers until the very images of my
nightmares came true. They would stretch me, curl their fingers inside me until
I spasmed between them, helpless; the opium pulling, stretching my convulsions
into infinity.
One night, Torsten and I both wore tuxedoes, two gentlemen on a night out. I
could feel he was half-erect all night from watching me in masculine attire.
Like a right little brat, I teased him all night, acted like a cocky youth,
even blew smoke in his face. I taunted him for his femininity because I knew he
enjoyed it, called him names, called him a limp-wristed sissy. I watched his
hand tremble as he sucked on his cigarette, watched his eyes flash with cold
blue rage. When we got home, he knocked off my top hat, plucked my cigarette
from my mouth and slammed me face down over the piano.
"I'm going to fuck you like the little faggot you are," he snarled, fumbling
with his fly.
"Like the big faggot you are?" I laughed, laughed even as he forced himself
into my ass, fucked me so hard Chopin's notes fluttered like leaves onto the
floor.
***
Faggot or no, there were still a few arrogant businessmen who would only talk
to Torsten. One of these men was the owner of a major newspaper, one Torsten
and I wanted to acquire. Only for financial reasons, you understand, not for
propaganda--the Swedes had always been such a disgustingly democratic and
sensible nation they would not have been easy to corrupt through the press.
Torsten had often launched into bitter rants on the subject over drinks. The
Southern Europeans were falling to fascism just like that, he'd said, snapping
his fingers, because they all shared a passionate and heated nature; the
Germans loved discipline more than anything else and relished the opportunity
to submit to the will of a dictator. He had always wanted to be a dictator,
he'd slurred, but would you look at the sons of Svea-Mamma? Such fine,
upstanding citizens but without a shred of passion or masochism to their
natures. No, he had grumbled bitterly; they were made of too much common sense.
But maybe, just maybe we had a doorway to at least some power through the
newspaper--perhaps we could use it as a bargaining chip, should a nation like
Germany one day invade us. We should try and grab as much power as we could,
just in case: then we might have a chance of retaining at least some of that
power, at least some of our money in case the worst happened. Thus, Barring
Industries had snatched smaller companies, then medium-sized ones, and now
waited for the big fish. We had been keeping an eye on the aging man, ready to
take control as soon as he was ready to relinquish the paper to a younger
generation.
Yet he outright refused to listen to me, thinking I was just a little girl, but
had been far warmer towards Torsten whenever we had met outside his office.
Torsten saw his opportunity and took it. Perhaps it was Torsten's thwarted
desire for power that now made him turn on his charm, made him give the
performance of a lifetime. I watched in awe as Torsten moved his body, his
hands, his eyes in the subtle gestures of the hypnotist, listened as he lowered
his voice to a sensuous pitch, the rhythms of his words lulling the old man
into a trance. Torsten flattered him as if he were about to seduce him; he made
him feel admired, powerful--even if that power was about to be snatched from
him. I was distinctly reminded of vampires who aroused their victims so that
their blood would rush faster, warmer; so that the vampire might more easily
see his victims' veins, know where to sink in his fangs.
"The offer is most certainly tempting," the old man said, puffing on his cigar,
resting in his chair after a sumptuous lunch. "I'll need a few weeks to think
about it, however."
He told us he always spent May in Paris, and asked Torsten to visit him there.
No mention was made of me, even if I was sitting at the same table, even if it
was my money we were offering him. I pressed my fork into my palm so as not to
stab the old man in the eye with it. Keep calm, I told myself. We will have the
last laugh. Just stay calm. I smiled pleasantly until we left, then turned the
air blue as we climbed into Torsten's car, cursing the old man to the lowest of
hells.
Torsten put his hand on my thigh. "Haven't you always wanted to travel to
Paris?"
"Yes, but my calendar is crammed full for the first two weeks," I growled. "I
can maybe cancel some of the appointments, but not all of them. And it'll take
some days to get there."
"I'll wait for you." He pecked a kiss on my cheek. "By the time you arrive, I
will have wrapped the old fool around my little finger and sealed the deal.
Then you and I, my dear, can focus on relaxing and enjoying ourselves."
"If you say so."
***
The two weeks I had to spend without Torsten were torture. Before he had left,
I had exhausted him with lovemaking, had ridden him all night, had sucked his
cock even in the hallway when he had been fully dressed and about to leave for
his train. But after a few days, I could no longer smell him on myself; I
cursed myself for having allowed the maid to change his bedclothes because now
they no longer smelled of him either. Still, I lingered in his bed, trying to
inhale the last few traces of him from one of his coats, closing my eyes and
imagining his weight pressing me into the mattress.
He had told Helena and I that we could play together while he was gone; said he
looked forward to hearing about what we had got up to. And Helena was good, oh,
she was fantastic; Helena with her fingers and her mouth and her toys. I
enjoyed our play, enjoyed the nights when she taught me how to lick and finger
a pussy, how to move my hand when a woman was riding my thigh. I adored her
body, spent many nights with my face and my hands buried in her soft, warm,
undulating flesh. When she laid underneath me, it was as if her entire flesh
was perfumed--no, made of fragrance: I would spend long hours inhaling the
scent of her herbal cigarettes, her cool, sharp and spicy perfumes and
underneath it all, the peachlike sweetness of her pussy.
But while she had a sadistic streak and knew how to take me roughly, she simply
was not Torsten. Even as she fucked me with her hand, making me kick, spasm,
drip into her mouth, I was cheating on her mentally. Whenever I needed to come,
I closed my eyes and imagined Torsten. Sometimes I visualised him sitting next
to us, the way he had done before on those long opium nights, smoking, asking
Helena to push her hand in further. Yet she never got her hand to enter me
completely, whether she was playing with my ass or my pussy, and I felt I was
letting her down somehow. Something in me was resisting, even as I was
orgasming: the deepest she ever got was the widest part of her hand when she
was fucking me in the ass, yet I never told her I imagined her hand to be
Torsten's. I'd never been so stretched in my life, yet I felt empty.
Torsten sent me letters from Paris, asking me how I was and I told him about
Helena, told him how much I missed him. He told me he missed me, too, and how
much he was looking forward to my arrival. He told me he had had playmates
himself--the men of Paris were beautiful indeed, he told me--and while they had
amused him to an extent, he said he missed our games. He had grown to like his
twisted form of fatherhood, he said, and everything else felt like
masturbation, now.
That was exactly how I felt about Helena, I told him, and wondered if it was
because of the homosexual nature of our amusements. By now, I knew I was as
bisexual as he was, yet wondered if it wasn't the stark contrast between our
physical bodies that attracted us to each other so. He was taller, darker, I
was shorter, fairer; he was made of bone and sinew, I of flesh so soft and
undulating even a corset couldn't completely contain its movements. And we
complemented each other: by day, he was the feminine man and I the masculine
woman. By night, we exchanged those natures for those of the fragile little
girl and the dominating, powerful man--exactly the roles the world would have
wished for us to play, exactly the roles we had refused. To think that those
roles, for people like us, were perversions, breaks from our real selves! What
did that say about us?
Quite a lot, he told me, pleased at this insight. He sent me his love and told
me to think about him on the train.
As if I could stop thinking about him. The very motion, the very noise of the
train brought back the obvious memories. The smell of the train toilet aroused
me, the roar of the train's wheels made my nipples so hard they chafed against
my brassiere. In my sleeping car, I laid myself down on my side on the bottom
bunk and masturbated, rubbing my clitoris, imagining my hand his. When I was
just about to come, I slipped my other hand between my buttocks from behind,
just like he had done. Trying to imitate his cruelty, I pushed as many fingers
inside my ass as I could and sobbed into my pillows as I came.
***
By the time I arrived in Paris, I was exhausted. Torsten's hotel was not far
away from the station, so we walked; I said very little. He squeezed my hand
tight, reassuringly, looking even a little worried as he saw my state.
When we arrived at the hotel, he checked me in as Mrs. Barring. When we got to
his apartment, he took off my scarf, my coat and led me to the bed. He held me,
kissed me, told me that yes, we were to spend the next few weeks here as
husband and wife. To the outsiders, of course, to deflect suspicion;
nevertheless, my heart leapt at the idea. We were far, far away from Stockholm,
now, and nobody but the old businessman knew we were father and daughter. Here,
we could be lovers openly, and the idea--as well as the risk in it--made me
perk up immediately.
Torsten had asked for coffee and lunch to be brought up, and the coffee woke me
up even more. "How's business, by the way?" I asked him over the table.
He mopped his mouth, leaned back and lit a cigarette. "Done and done."
"But that's marvellous!"
"I may have slipped something into the old man's drink to, shall we say,
lubricate our negotiations. He's leaving tomorrow, by the way, so we don't have
to worry about him spying on us, either."
I stroked his leg with my toes. "Well done."
He blew out a plume of smoke and chuckled in satisfaction. "And here I thought
my skills of persuasion were getting rusty."
I licked jam from the corner of my mouth and continued to stroke his leg. "I
don't know; they always worked on me."
He looked at me up and down lazily, lasciviously. "Finish your coffee, my
child. We've got so much catching up to do."
***
That afternoon, we made love almost as normal lovers did. I laid myself down on
the bed naked and he slipped in beside me, taking me in with his looks and his
touches, possessing each part of my body anew. Slow, unhurried, he ran the heat
of his hands over my face, my neck, my breasts; with the heat of his lips, he
kissed my belly, my thighs and finally my pussy, setting me alight. His mouth
felt so wonderful I nearly wept, but the only sound that left my throat was a
laugh, a hoarse laugh of utmost happiness.
"That's the spirit," he murmured and looked up from between my legs. "I do like
to see my little girl laugh."
I caressed his hair and smiled down at him. "I missed you so much, Daddy."
"Did you, now?" He smiled into my pussy.
"Yes," I said, and heard my voice was small, brittle.
Ever since I could remember, Torsten had meant freedom to me, and I wondered if
he knew it. I wondered if these past few weeks had not been a lesson from life
itself, showing me exactly how much I needed him, needed to be liberated by
him. My affairs in Stockholm had chained me, weighed me down with the shackles
of responsibility, of being a grown-up. But as he enfolded me in his arms, he
took it all from me, stripped it from me until I lay exposed underneath him
quivering, bare. With each kiss, each caress I felt the strain of adulthood
melting from me, swept away by his hands. His wonderful, wonderful hands: with
them he sloughed off the cold, hard millionairess, exposing the child at her
core.
To think that he had only thought to molest that child, but that by now this
had turned into a ritual both of us needed! I desperately wanted to be pure,
fragile, small, and in his arms, I was allowed to be that. And in me, he had
found the perfect instrument through which his creativity, his own dark,
twisted life force could flourish. Through me, he composed endless sadistic
nocturnes, melodies that had existed in his head for years and years, erotic
masterpieces to which only I could give shape and form.
The idea of living without him terrified me, now, and I clung to him, helpless.
By the time he had put on my cuffs and closed the collar around my neck, I was
sobbing into his mouth.
He smiled at me, hushed me as he spread my legs and entered me. "I'm here, my
child. I'm here."
I wrapped my arms around his neck and sighed into his shoulder in joy.
***
In Paris, we could do things we couldn't even dream of doing in Stockholm. We
walked hand in hand on the street, talked and walked and touched as lovers did.
And all the while, I wore my collar and cuffs. He had never taken them off; he
said he wanted to see me wear them at all times. This aroused me beyond
measure--to wear the tokens of his love, of my sexual submission to him in
public, to flaunt the secret only he and I knew.
As we sat in the cafés, he would sometimes brush his fingertips over the silver
and smile. Whenever he did so--or, indeed, whenever he surreptitiously slid his
hand under my skirt underneath the table--a rush of heat would run through me,
and more often than not, I would sip my coffee too fast in shock. I suspected
he wanted me to burn my tongue on purpose, I grumbled, but he made up for it by
buying me ice cream for dessert. To retaliate, I would lick and suck upon my
spoon as lasciviously as I could in public, sometimes even slide my foot
between his legs, massage his cock with my toes. We could not leave until his
erection had gone down, of course, and I loved to watch as he fumed at me from
across the table, forcing himself to soften.
He showed me all the best shops in town, including the ones that catered to
certain kinds of special customers. There was one ladies' couturier who, in his
back room, would create bespoke evening gowns for gentlemen as well--for a
price, of course. I ordered an elegant blue velvet dress to be made for
Torsten, one that needed to be worn with a corset like mine. I had always been
fascinated by his tiny waist and his wide hips, the contrast between them so
extraordinary: most women would've killed to have an hourglass figure like his.
I wanted to see how that already exaggerated curve could be exaggerated
further, reshaped by cotton and steel. I had played dress-up games for him for
so long, I said; wouldn't it only be fair of him to return the favour?
I peeked behind the curtain as the tailor took his measurements: even from ten
feet away, I could tell Torsten was trembling. I saw he was half-hard in his
underpants; the tailor ignored this like the professional he was. The outfit
would take about a week to deliver, the tailor said--the corset would require
several fittings.
The anticipation of this heightened Torsten's perversities, sharpened them. The
knowledge of his impending transformation made him act even more dominant
towards me, to the point of brutality. He told me there was a trend among the
prostitutes of Paris to rouge their wares: he cuffed me to the bedframe and
shaved me himself, then took my lipstick and thoroughly painted my vulva, both
the inner and the outer lips with it, painted even my anus. He would daub a
little rouge onto my skin and then spread it, massage it into my sex with his
fingertips, tutting as I dripped so that he had to mop me with tissue paper and
start all over again.
I thought he would take me there and then, but he forced me into my tightest,
shortest dress, my highest heels and took me to a certain bar, a bar favoured
by exhibitionists. We would sit in our booth like a normal couple, but he would
cuff my hands behind my back, render me so helpless I had to beg him for sips
of my drink. Now and then, when a gentleman of a certain type would walk past
our booth, Torsten would lift my skirt and display my rouged pussy to the
passerby. No touching was allowed at the bar, only looking: these gentlemen
would peek, smile, perhaps pass their hands over their groins as Torsten spread
my pussy for them, showed them how swollen, how wet I was. By the time
Torsten's fingers were glistening from me, he decided it was time to take me
home. He cuffed me to the bedframe again; the foot of the bed, so that I was
kneeling on the floor. There, he fucked me furiously, fucked me like a cheap
whore until all the rouge had worn off.
***
Some of Torsten's humiliations were more refined. On our first weekend, we got
a box at the opera, the best seats in the house and a bottle of champagne. Yet,
he appropriated the bottle and only filled his own glass. I had been drinking
too much coffee that night and was restless, buzzing, thirsty; I was desperate
for a drink to calm myself down. But all the way into the interval--and it was
a long opera--he would slowly sip the champagne, glance at me from time to
time. I didn't want to start a scene, so I sat and fumed. I couldn't
concentrate on the opera at all--I tapped my feet, clenched and unclenched my
fists, counting the amount of lightbulbs lining the stage. And from the corner
of my eye, I saw him watching the opera intently, ignoring me, drinking.
When the interval came, the bottle was nearly empty. I leapt from my seat,
furious. "I ordered that champagne. If you're not going to give me any, I'm
going to get some elsewhere."
He closed his hand around my wrist. "Where do you think you're going?" He
twisted my silk glove, twisted it until it burned my skin. "Sit down."
He took his cock out and pissed into my glass, then quickly tucked himself back
into his trousers. He held the glass up to the light to admire it: his piss
foamed, sparkled yellow, just like the champagne. He smiled and held the glass
out to me. "There. I was just warming it for you."
I was this close to slapping him, knocking the glass from his hand so that it
would spray all over him. Yet at that same moment, the waiter from the bar came
to ask if we needed anything.
Torsten smiled at him charmingly. "Leave the bottle. I was just telling my wife
how excellent this vintage was. Please. Do take a sip, my dear."
The waiter nodded in unison with Torsten. "It is our finest. Madame would love
it, I'm sure." He stood there, hovering.
I glanced from the waiter to Torsten, who was now grinning from ear to ear. Oh,
the bastard--
"Go on," Torsten said softly, his eyes daring me, his mouth wet, greedy.
I had no choice but to accept the glass. I hated myself for shivering in
arousal as I swallowed a mouthful. Torsten's piss tasted acidic, sweet,
revoltingly delicious, better than any wine ever could.
The waiter bowed and leaned in with his mouth open, waiting for my verdict. I
smiled at him sweetly and dismissed him with a nod. "It's exquisite. Thank
you."
"Is it, now?" Torsten smirked after the waiter had left. He ran his gloved
fingers over his fly.
I flushed and turned my face away from him.
For the rest of the evening, he kept refilling my glass; our box was situated
so that none of the people who spied us through their lorgnettes and binoculars
suspected anything. I sat there calmly, elegant as any lady in my diamonds, in
my sparkling red dress and long white gloves, sipping from my flute of golden
liquid.
***** Chapter 9 *****
Chapter Notes
     This_Lalique_brooch inspired the one Laura was wearing.
At society balls, we were a magnificent sight: Torsten tall and majestic in his
tails, I in dresses far more imaginative than the ones you could buy in
Stockholm. At one such event, I emerged from my furs dressed only in a single
sheet of ingeniously cut, draped and pleated white silk that flowed down my
body like water. The fabric was as sheer as alabaster, only held together by a
Lalique brooch in the shape of a dragonfly nestled underneath my breasts.
"Undo the clasp and undo the dress," he whispered in my ear, and all night, he
made me wait for the moment he would. He would brush his fingers against the
brooch as he passed me by, as we danced, leaving me flushed, trembling against
him. I felt I was being sucked into his eyes, falling into their sky as he spun
me and twirled me. I imagined that if he undid the brooch now, I would still
continue to dance, naked, held against his fully dressed body as people
watched.
He brought his hand to the clasp and twirled me once more, smiling a sharp
smile. He undid the clasp and held it, held it as I quivered against his body,
my nipples hard and dark, pointing through my dress. I whimpered against his
neck but with a deft snap of his fingers, he closed the clasp again. I squeezed
his fingers and dug my nails into his back, but all I could feel was the rumble
of his laughter against my chest.
"You would let me do anything to you, wouldn't you?"
"Yes," I said, staggered in my steps as I realised what I was saying. It was
not just play: I truly would. I was afraid of him, afraid of myself, of
everything I was capable of with him. But most of all, I was frightened of how
long I had burned with him and yet kept on burning. When would I be burned out?
Could one keep falling forever, without crashing? These amounts of sex and
drugs and greed had killed weaker people, yet the gods must have found us
amusing enough to keep us alive a while longer.
I was trembling so that he drew me to a balcony, away from the crowd. The night
air was full of the sweet scent of flowering trees, the sounds of lovesick
birds, as if all of Nature was having sex around us. I leaned my hips against
the balustrade, rested my eyes on the moonlit garden below and drew deep
breaths, let that sweetness fill my lungs, calm me down a little.
He put his arm around me, reached between my breasts and undid the clasp.
My dress fell open at the front, pooling upon the balustrade, exposing my
breasts. I could not move, could not breathe. Somewhere down below, a fox
screamed in its heat; somewhere behind us, the orchestra played a slow waltz.
He laid the brooch upon the folds of my dress and I stared at it: the full-
breasted lady emerging from the dragonfly smiled back at me.
"Whiter than the moon itself," he murmured against my shoulder, bringing his
hand to my breasts. He caressed them softly for a while, but knowing I could
not turn around without exposing myself, he became more cruel, pinching my
nipples between his nails. He tugged at my nipples, squeezed them until I was
shaking against him, biting my lip in order not to moan out loud. The pain made
me dig my nails into the balustrade, made my pussy tighten hopelessly as if he
were fucking it there and then, his sheer audacity making me wet between my
thighs.
I heard a man and a woman talking behind us and stiffened. Yet, the couple did
not follow us to the balcony, imagining we were sharing a moment of romance,
Torsten the gentleman with his arm draped protectively around the woman he
loved. They let us be, let Torsten continue his torture until I was sure I
would come just from his touches upon my breasts.
I pressed back against him, my heart pounding against his palm. "Please take me
home. I can't bear it."
"In a while. Do you remember what day it is today?"
It wasn't my birthday yet; that would be in a week--oh. I did remember, now.
And what shocked me the most was that I realised what I had thought of this
date as, where I had filed it under in my mind's cabinets. Not Confirmation
day. Not The day Grandfather died.
"The day you came for me," I whispered, my voice soft, fragile.
His laughter was sweet and dark.
He brought both of his hands to my breasts and cupped them from below,
squeezing them painfully as if offering them to the moon, to the forest, to its
beasts in some pagan sacrifice. Deliriously, I wondered if he wouldn't tear
open my chest and offer them my very heart; slay me where I stood. I would have
preferred it to the maddening pain I was now in, most of all the mental pain of
being denied so. He knew the pampered child in me wanted everything
immediately, knew exactly how much willpower it took from me not to explode in
his face. I had clawed at him before, hissed at him, spat at him, but now he
had me trapped, unable to demand that he fuck me now. The risk of public
humiliation was a restraint more powerful than anything he had used on me
before: I choked on it, was crushed by it, swallowed a sob deep in my chest.
He turned his squeeze into a caress. "I've got a very special treat waiting for
you tonight, my child."
"Oh?" my voice was reedy, dry from want.
"Oh, yes," he purred. "Something you've never had before. Something so
delicious I think it's going to make my little girl's mouth water."
"I want it," I gasped, not even knowing what it was. A drug, a fetish, some act
we had not performed before--how many were there left, even?
Yet, whatever it was that he wanted to give me, I would take. I wanted to see
all the way into his filthy mind, wanted him to show me everything, just as he
had promised: everything. His perversions were sweets and I, the greedy child
wanted to devour them, become drunk from them, to lie in a torpor of sugar.
I shuddered in his arms as he draped the top of my dress over my breasts and
reattached the clasp. He checked that I was decent and kissed my hair.
"You've been such a good girl tonight. Daddy's going to reward you well."
***
I stood in the living room of our suite, watching him as he arranged all the
items he needed for tonight's games. I shivered despite the heat of the
fireplace and wrapped one arm around myself, but remained quiet. He pulled the
leather armchair closer to the fire and on a little table next to it, he placed
a richly lacquered box, perhaps a jewellery chest. Beside it, he set a bottle
of glycerine and asked me to give him my lipstick.
"Have you cleaned yourself?"
I nodded.
"Good," he grinned at me over his shoulder as he kicked the rug off the floor.
"So have I."
My eyes flew wide and he laughed, cupped my head in his palms and kissed me.
Yet it was a cruel kiss: he squeezed my face with his hands, sucked and bit my
tongue until I screamed into his mouth. When he pulled back, his eyes were
glittering with ice.
"Guess what arrived today." He undid the buttons on his vest, his shirts and he
slid my hand inside.
I felt thick, hard cotton, reinforced with steel. "Oh."
Smirking, he pushed my hand away. "Stay there."
Slowly, he undressed for me, but there was nothing teasing to it, no; even this
he turned into an act of domination. With the corset, I had fancied to make him
into my fetish, my pleasure object, but in his exhibitionism, he took his
pleasure of me instead. Each one of his smiles, each item of clothing he
shrugged off himself and threw onto the floor was a command, a threat of
violence if I did not give him my full attention. I had thought to take him
with my gaze, but instead, he now took my gaze and submitted it to the service
of his body, demanding worship. Each slow, precise, elegant movement of his was
a look at me, each glance of his an adore me.
Without a word, I unclasped my dress and sank to my knees.
He laughed warmly. "Good girl." He was now clad in only the white corset and
his trousers, his braces dangling around his hips. He grinned and squatted in
front of me. "You thought that just because your Daddy was a faggot, you could
be the one on top, is that it?"
I let my head fall in shame, stared at my hands, played with the waves of white
silk about my knees. "Yes, Daddy."
He lifted my chin with the tips of his fingers. "And you were wrong, weren't
you?"
"Yes, Daddy."
"I could punish you," he said, smiling at me, amused. "But you behaved so well
at the party I'm going to reward you instead, just like I promised." He got up
and put his hands to his fly. "You wanted to watch me, and watch me you shall.
But you must not touch me--or yourself--until I give you permission. Is that
understood?"
I nodded.
"Good." He kicked off his trousers and stood before me wearing only the corset
and a matching pair of white stockings.
It should not have surprised me that he looked utterly beautiful. His regal
posture was further enhanced by the corset, his hourglass waist making his
shoulders look broader, a sharp masculine contrast to the curves of his hips. I
wanted to be a man myself that moment: to wrap my hands around his waist, to
dance him like a woman, to wrap his legs around my waist and push my cock
inside of him.
But it was then that I realised he had shaved himself, completely: the corset
ended just above his pudendum, now completely bare, his cock and balls looking
strangely vulnerable. His cock was hard, but his skin looked softer, now. It
was a flushed, delicate pink, far brighter than I'd ever seen it when it had
been covered by black hair.
He cupped his cock in his hand and lifted it, displaying himself. "Do you like
what you see?"
"You are beautiful," I murmured.
He smiled and stepped closer, lifted his balls out and offered them to me. "You
may kiss them."
"Thank you, Daddy." I bent my mouth to him, kissing his flesh chastely, loving
the softness of his skin against my lips. I mouthed his sack with utmost
tenderness, nuzzling it, his scent now fresher, cleaner. This scent aroused me
more than his sweat or his musk ever had done and I inhaled him greedily,
memorising it in case I should never smell it again. It was a scent somewhere
between that of a man and a woman, now; that of the true androgyne. I had never
smelled anything as wonderful before and I told him so, whispered this against
his thigh with utmost sincerity, even if it may have made me sound like a fool.
"That is a beautiful thing to say, daughter," he responded, caressing my cheek
with the backs of his fingers. "Perhaps I will make this into a habit," he
smiled. "Do you want to see more of Daddy?"
I nodded eagerly like a child.
He walked up to the table, daubed some lipstick on his fingertip and slipped it
between his buttocks. My heart pounded in my chest as he crossed his ankles and
bent over the chair, his legs straight and his ass lifted high into the air.
"Come closer."
I knelt behind him. For a brief moment, it was as if I were looking at a woman.
The curves of his hips, his ass were so wide, rounded; the stockings framed his
buttocks beautifully. The way he had crossed his legs and tucked his balls out
of the way made his perineum bulge out like a little pussy: I gasped as I saw
how the seam of flesh running down it was as pink as a woman's slit. But the
most shocking thing of all was his anus--rouged, pursed, swollen: as he heard
me gasp, it clenched a little, inviting my touch. I could smell the powdered
rose petals and the fragrant plant oils in the rouge, a sharp little note of
sweetness as his ass pursed again, like a little mouth now that he'd painted it
like one.
The swelling of the folds was grotesque, voluptuous; the muscles of his anus
were even raised like little lips. A whore's cunt, Mr. Ibrahim had called it.
How many cocks had it swallowed while I had been gone? How many fingers, toys
had entered it while I'd been away? I was torn by jealousy and a wild desire to
kiss it, tongue it, my pussy pulsing as a new rush of blood flooded my hips.
He glanced at me over his shoulder and smirked. "What's the matter? Cat got
your tongue?"
I swallowed. Before I could think, the words had escaped my lips. "Daddy, your
pussy's beautiful."
His ass clenched more violently, now; his breath snapped in his throat. I had
been bold with him, but it aroused him, made him curl his fingers against the
armrests. So I became even bolder, perhaps too bold, but I needed to know. "How
many men fucked you while I was gone, Daddy?"
He shook his head. "You are an impudent little girl. If you must know, only
two." He daubed more rouge over the bud of his anus, making it wet, shining.
"The rest of the time, I preferred to play by myself." He pressed his fingertip
inside himself, painting himself even on the inside. He hissed as he twisted
his finger, all the while looking at me over his shoulder. "I did this and I
thought of you, watching. Just as you watched me in the shed. You enjoyed that,
didn't you, my child?"
I leaned forwards instinctively, my mouth watering as I watched his red finger
fucking his ass, dipping slickly in and out of it. "Yes." He had been thinking
of me.
"And you've wanted to play with my ass ever since, haven't you?" he said,
pulling his finger out, wiping it on the chair.
"Yes," I said, trembling so that I even forgot to call him Daddy. His anus was
the only thing I saw, my eyes fixed on nothing else as he turned around and sat
on the chair, spreading his legs over the armrests so that his ass was lifted
out over the edge of the seat, offered before me.
He spread his buttocks with his hands, skimmed his cleft, massaged the sides of
his anus the way he loved to massage the sides of my pussy. He lifted his balls
out of the way so that I could see him better. It was then that I noticed a
small, white, faded scar just underneath his balls. I was curious, but did not
want to ask what it was--men of his generation often had scars from some war or
another, and I did not wish to pry.
Yet, he noticed I was looking. At first, he seemed a little annoyed at the
interruption, but then smiled. "That, my dear, is my insurance that no little
brat will ever get in the way of my fortune."
It took a few seconds for me to realise what he meant. But why--? Why he had
never told me? I thought they only performed things like that on animals, on
the genetically unfit, on lunatics--had he been locked up in a lunatic asylum,
I wondered? Was shame the reason he had not told me?
I reached out to touch the scar, and he let me. I ran my fingers over it. I
felt somehow cheated, yet at the same time I felt relief--I had been deathly
afraid of pregnancy, for the obvious reasons.
"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked, softly, still more confused than anything
else.
"Perhaps simply because you like being sodomised so much," he said, reaching
out to caress my cheek. "And I have told you now, haven't I?"
I stroked the scar with my thumb. "I'm glad." I still wondered if he had been
sterilised against his will, if he was refusing to tell me something--his
answer had been no answer at all.
But what did it matter, now? All in all, I felt a relief, and it must have been
a relief to him as well. This must've been why women adored him--so many things
clicked into place, now. It clearly did not affect his performance, and he was
the most sexual being I had ever met. So why should I press him about it? If
anything, I felt guilty for breaking the scene, the mood.
Therefore, I stopped touching him, sat with my hands on my knees and let the
little girl step out once more. I pressed a switch within myself and a soft,
curious Laura stepped out; not the cynical, older Laura, but a younger Laura
excited at the prospect of learning new things. With a gentle, sweet voice she
addressed her father again.
"Show me, Daddy."
He let out a sigh of delight and started to stroke his cleft again, his
fingertips a little smeared from the rouge. "What do you want to see, my
child?"
"I want to see everything," I said and leaned forwards, smiling up at him. I
knew I was close enough so that he could feel my breath on his anus, saw it
tremble a little between his fingers.
"And what do you see, now?" he said, his voice lower, now, his cock twitching a
little on his belly from arousal.
I dared move a little closer still, so that my lips were nearly brushing his
ass. "Daddy, you said you'd show me something that'd make my mouth water." I
smiled. "You were right."
"Go on, then," he said, huffing a little, the corset constricting his
breathing, arousing him even further. "Give Daddy a kiss."
I took a deep breath and pressed my lips to his ass.
I had wanted this for so long, so long, ever since I had glimpsed his anus,
caught a flash of it in the train car. I moaned as I opened my mouth and tasted
him for the first time. I flicked my tongue out, flicked it again, again; the
shudder that went through his body was unlike anything I had felt from him
before. It frightened me to see him convulse so--I had never seen him shake
like this, not even in the throes of orgasm. And all this just from a little
touch of my tongue? I had not reacted like this when he had been licking my
ass; it seemed his sensations were closer to what I felt whenever he was
licking my pussy. Perhaps this part of him did, indeed, correspond to the
woman's vulva: I had read some men, especially men with homosexual tendencies,
had more nerve clusters around and inside their anuses. Perhaps this explained
it. Yet no medical textbook could ever have prepared me for the way he now
moved, heaved, panted into the ceiling as I lapped at him with my tongue.
He was so ecstatic I didn't even need to focus on technique, so I let go and
focused on my own pleasure instead. I pressed my tongue into him roughly; I
licked off all the lipstick from his folds until none remained. I wanted to
taste him, nothing artificial; feel the true taste of the living, pulsing flesh
underneath my tongue. The rouge gave way to a unique, salty-sweet taste, a
taste that hinted of metal: not unlike the taste of my own ass but deeper,
stronger.
Yet there was not enough of this taste upon him, not nearly as much as on the
slick, rich smears of myself he had offered me off his cock. His ass was so
abused, so swollen I knew it had to be like mine: so well-trained it could
produce a little additional mucus of its own, accustomed to cocks sliding in
and out of it. And I craved that taste, that taste only the ass of a sodomite
had. I made my tongue hard, stiff, stabbed it into his ass in my search for
that taste: his silk-clad thighs slipped, trembled around my head and he
moaned.
When I pulled back to catch my breath, his eyes were wide, his hair wild; his
cock hard and jerking upon his corset. He keened high in his throat and
snatched my head up by the hair.
"Did I tell you you could stop?" he hissed.
Without waiting for a reply, he pushed my head down and forced my mouth onto
his ass. I sunk my tongue deep inside his asshole and moaned into it, half from
sweet suffocation, half because I knew how the vibrations of my moans would
travel through his pelvis, how they would be trapped inside his torso by the
corset. He had taught me so much, and now I was repaying him for all his
lessons.
With a deep, anguished groan he wrenched back my head, so violently strings of
my saliva splashed upon my breasts. He was panting rapidly, shallowly,
strangulated by the corset, his cock dragging a wet stripe across it. I gulped
in air, swallowing, trembling as I dangled there, held up by his hands: he was
so near orgasm he was looking straight through me. I just smiled at him,
smiled, licked his taste from my lips like the child-whore I was.
With an abrupt shove, he let me go and I collapsed on the floor, panting,
wiping my mouth. He took his legs off the armrests and leaned forwards,
considering me for a while, his eyes flashing. He was aroused, yet irritated,
frustrated; the look in his eyes made a shiver of terror run through me. In
this state he looked unpredictable, feral.
"Laura, Laura, Laura." He shook his head. "I'm very disappointed in you. I give
you an inch, and you take a mile. Didn't I tell you you were not going to be on
top tonight?"
I did not answer, curling up on myself a little. I could tell he was thinking
of ways in which to punish me. I had been too eager, too bold. He had wanted a
more serious Laura, a more fragile Laura at his feet tonight. And now, as I
realised my mistake, that fragile Laura started to emerge.
"I'm sorry, Daddy," I whispered and truly meant it. Sometimes I enjoyed his
punishments, but tonight, I did not want him to take me out to be looked at,
touched by others; did not want him to leave me alone for hours, chained to the
bed.
He dangled his hands off his knees. "Are you?"
I took my position in front of him, on my knees, my head lowered. "Yes," I
whispered. "I am very sorry, Daddy."
He took my bracelets and cuffed them together at the front. "It's my fault," he
murmured, annoyed at himself. "I made you too restless at the party, didn't I?"
I nodded.
"And now, you need pain."
I nodded again.
He leaned back and lit a cigarette, slung one of his legs over the arm of the
chair. He smoked, masturbated there for a while, moving his finger in and out
of his ass. That was part of my punishment; he smoked more slowly than usual,
licking his finger from time to time, then returning it to dip and curl inside
his ass, reminding me of what I couldn't have.
Finally he exhaled, took his finger out, stumped his cigarette. "I will give
you pain. But not yet." He took the box from the table and held it in his lap.
"I was going to share these with you," he said and snapped open the box. In it
lay two long, thick cocks made of rubber, one black with a heavy set of balls,
one red with a short leather strap attached to its rounded end. They were works
of art; tears sprung to my eyes. He had been waiting for tonight, had been
saving these up for me, and now I'd ruined it all. I shouldn't have been so
over-eager, so impudent; I shouldn't have asked him about the scar.
"I'm so sorry, Daddy," I said, truly repentant, the tears finally escaping my
eyes. "You've been so good to me and I've been such an ungrateful brat--"
Calmly, he set the box down on the table and slapped me.
He slapped me because I needed to be slapped, and I loved him for it. I sobbed
even louder, now, so he hit me on the other cheek. He remained calm, as calm
and as cold as marble, towering over me in his chair, looking into my eyes
after each blow. He brushed my hair from my face, but I whimpered again and he
slapped me once more. He kept going until I grew quiet; after, he let me
collapse in tears with my head in his lap. He lit another cigarette and petted
my hair until my sobs had died down.
And all the while, he remained erect: waiting for me, ready for me, and that
was what broke my heart the most. He had time. He would wait. He would not
leave me.
He put out his cigarette and rubbed my shoulder. "There. Did that help, my
child? Are you ready to continue, now?"
"Yes. Thank you, Daddy," I whispered and kissed his wrist.
He took my head in his hands and kissed me deeply, passionately. "I missed you
so much when you were gone," he said, gently. "Now, let me show you what I was
doing while thinking about you, my child."
Again, I took my place on my knees as he spread his legs on the chair's
armrests. He poured some glycerine into his hand and started to stroke his
cock, hissing in delight. "Have you ever seen a faggot masturbate?" he grinned.
I had caught glimpses of men with toys in the brothels, but never clearly;
besides, those images were somewhat dimmed because of the drugs I had seen them
through. "Vaguely," I answered.
"Then think of this as another lesson."
He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He slicked his right hand with
the glycerine; he slicked his cock and balls, spat on two of his left hand's
fingers and twisted them inside his ass. Fascinated, I watched as he pleasured
himself the way he knew best: even in my present state, I was aware enough to
memorise certain movements he made, the exact places where he squeezed his
cock, the way he rolled his palm over the head. He loved wetness, loved a good
slide; that much I knew from having pleasured him with my mouth. Yet I wondered
why he didn't use the glycerine on his ass as he opened it, first with two and
then three fingers, only using his own saliva. Perhaps he, too, found the taste
too sickly-sweet and loved his own taste so much he didn't want to taint his
own flavour with that of the glycerine. I was jealous of his long, thin fingers
as they dipped deep into the folds of his flesh, reaching far deeper inside of
him than my own fingers ever could.
Yet his fingers weren't enough. His eyes drunk from lust, he took the red
rubber cock and laid it upon his lips, kissing it as worshipfully as if it were
made of flesh and blood. My breath stopped in my throat as I watched the way he
licked and mouthed the head, the way he lapped around the glans, the way he
finally closed his mouth around it. I had only seen him suck a cock from afar;
now, he was doing it right in front of my face. I could hear him breathing
heavily, huffing through his nostrils, heard every little gag as he took the
cock as deep into his mouth as he could. He curled his fingers inside his ass
so hard he was trembling; he closed his eyes and for a few, brief seconds, he
swallowed the cock into his throat.
When he pulled back he was gasping, coughing up thick strings of phlegm. When
he saw me staring, he laughed and wiped his mouth on the dildo. "There are boys
in the Montmartre who do this," he rasped. "They'll suck you so deep, force
themselves to gag on you until their throats produce a thick, slick mucus, much
slicker than normal saliva. And then you can fuck them with just that," he
grinned.
He spat on the dildo again, then brought it to his ass. He pushed, dipped it
inside of himself a little, but the head would not go in. Yet, he refused the
glycerine and turned to me instead. "I believe you have something that could
help?"
He lifted the dildo and exposed his ass to me. I had not touched my pussy all
night, but it had been wet for hours: I shivered as I touched it for the first
time, rubbed myself a little when scooping my sap onto my fingertips. With it,
I smeared his ass, then spat on it, spat on it again.
"Thank you. Now, that is the behaviour of an exemplary daughter," he purred as
he started to dip the toy inside of himself again. "Oh, God--" he cried, and at
that, I saw he had managed to insert the head. He twisted it a little, let out
a series of stuttering gasps as the head slid fully inside, nestling inside his
body. He sat there panting, staring at the ceiling for a while, clearly
overwhelmed by the pain, by the intensity of the penetration itself. Squirming
a little in discomfort, he pulled the dildo all the way out and spread out his
ass for me. "Spit."
I did as I was told, barely able to resist a lick. Mesmerised, I watched my
spit bubble around his asshole as he dipped the dildo inside himself once more.
Helena had tried her toys on me, and after the first try, I had declined:
knowing how hard the ridges of a rubber cock could feel inside a pussy, I was
terrified of how one must have felt inside the ass. It looked absolutely
brutal: the folds of Torsten's ass were stretched out around the toy, the skin
twisting from side to side, loosening as he fucked himself with it.
Whenever he pulled back the dildo, the muscles of his anus would bulge out
around the glans. If he pulled the dildo out completely, those muscles would
unfold and close again with a violent spasm, his body ejecting the toy by
force. But from the experience of his cock inside of me, I knew how fantastic
that complete withdrawal, that excretory spasm felt. Sometimes we had barely
even started and he'd made me come that way, just from the pleasure of having
his cock pulling completely out of me, then dipping in and out once more.
And that was exactly what he was doing now: giving himself that pleasure of the
full withdrawal, moaning as he tugged at the muscles of his ass with the flared
head of the dildo, until his cock was dripping in strings upon his stomach. He
was ruining his corset but he didn't care: his sap dribbled messily over his
fingers, his knuckles, even more so when he slid the dildo in at an angle where
it must have been touching his prostate. Such was the pleasure that now
overwhelmed him: his eyes flew open, his tongue trembled as his mouth gaped
open wide.
He rolled his palm over his cock, scooped up his own wetness and used it to
slicken the dildo to the root. "More," he croaked and I gave him my spit, gave
of my pussy until the rest of the dildo was gleaming, shining in the firelight.
He groaned and twisted on the chair, tilting his hips, fucking himself, rolling
the dildo inside himself until it had sunk inside his body to the root. "Do you
like watching me?" he hissed rapidly, his eyes closed, panting against the wing
of the chair. "Do you enjoy watching your Daddy fuck himself in the ass?"
"Why do you think my pussy is so wet?" I asked him in my sweetest voice.
"Ah--!" he moaned, his mouth so open his tongue was pressed against the
leather. "Tell me. Tell me."
I leaned closer. "I love watching you like this, Daddy," I continued, resting
my head on his thigh. He had told me not to masturbate, and now, the slightest
movement made my pussy ache; all I could do was to flex my thighs, clench my
inner muscles, but that only made the ache inside of me much worse. "I love
watching my Daddy with a cock in his ass."
"You do, don't you?" he smirked, looking down at me, attempting a lazy drawl,
but shaking too much from the depth of the penetration to succeed completely.
"My little voyeuse. You loved to watch me being fucked, didn't you?"
"Yes," I smiled. But this time, I wasn't jealous, even if my pussy was
desperate to be fucked. I loved the red slide of the dildo inside his ass,
loved the way his thighs clutched the arms of the chair, the way his entire
body opened more and more in its greed for pleasure. He stroked his cock faster
and I wanted to see him orgasm, wanted to see how explosively he would come
with a cock inside his ass. "Please, Daddy. Please show me more."
He moaned, throwing his head back, moving forwards a little so that his hips
were lifted higher. He slid towards me until he had bent himself double, his
knees near his ears. He fucked himself faster and faster, thrusting the dildo
inside of himself, his hand shaking upon it. "Fuck--"
He pushed hard, clasping both of his hands over the end of the dildo and
trembled, then paused to draw in a deep breath, the deepest of breaths. He
pushed once more, exhaled and whimpered high through his nose, high as he
forced the dildo to sink inside of himself to its very root--and further. In
shock, I watched as his ass gave and swallowed the entire dildo. I could not
believe my eyes, but the toy had disappeared, nestled inside of him, the
muscles of his anus pulsing hungrily around the leather strap that now dangled
from his ass. He covered his face with both hands, now; he made high-pitched,
feminine noises, his entire body spasming and shaking as he forced it to accept
the intrusion.
Never in my life had I seen a display of such sexual gluttony, such
insatiability; I realised my mouth had fallen open. I had not expected this,
not even of him, not having even known such an insertion was possible. He must
have done this before, must have; otherwise he wouldn't have been able to take
it all with only our own fluids.
His hands trembled upon his face as he whimpered into them, his ass clenching,
unclenching as pleasure and pain fought against each other within his body, one
wanting to eject the cock, one wanting to keep it where it lay. He was
breathing so fast the corset must have helped him to calm down, to force his
body to submit to this extreme form of penetration. I could only imagine how
lightheaded he must've felt as he drew his hands from his face, his hair
falling in strands over his forehead.
The shock on my face must have been quite a sight, as once he opened his eyes
and saw me, he laughed. "You can touch it if you like."
In awe, I laid my fingers over his anus; felt the outlines of the dildo through
the muscles of his ass, the way it was now stretching them from the inside. His
anus was bulging out so much I could clasp my entire palm over it, and
tentatively, I pushed a little, making him gasp. I didn't want to hurt him, and
it must've hurt, must've, so I turned my touch into a soft caress, running my
hand over the strap dangling from his ass. "How does it feel, Daddy?"
"Wonderful," he murmured quietly. He stroked my cheek. "Daddy did this and
thought of you, just like that, at his feet, watching." He was so overwhelmed
by what he was now experiencing that I fancied he might even cry; his eyes were
wide, wet. He had waited for this, had waited to show me this, oh--I smiled at
him, then, and my smile made him tremble more, made his fingers flicker against
my cheek. I showed him how much I loved this, showed it by kissing the strap,
kissing his asshole with a loving reverence.
"You look amazing, Daddy."
He looked as if he was about to pass out from joy, from the pressure on his
nerves, from an orgasm, or all three at once. With a little laugh, he let go of
me. "Come here." He moved backwards on the chair very carefully, his gaze
turned inwards as he tried not to hurt himself, sitting down as he now did,
with the full weight of his body on the dildo. "Stand up."
I had to brace myself on the arm of the chair as I did so; getting up with my
hands cuffed was not easy. He looked up at me and pressed a soft kiss to my
wrists. "Has Daddy been neglecting your little pussy?"
I pressed my thighs tighter together and smiled back at him. "He has made it
very wet."
He slipped his hand between my legs. He had denied me so long that the tiniest
touch now made me shiver all over, his fingers sliding across my pussy like
silk; my clitoris was so swollen he found it immediately. A sharp little cry
left my throat and I tried so hard not to rub myself on his hand; his touch
felt so good I wanted to cry. "Thank you, Daddy."
"That is very wet indeed, my child. And so hot, too; you're positively burning
up." He grinned up at me, gifting my pussy with a little kiss. "Would it help
if you sat on my cock for a little while?"
Oh, God. My pleasure would be nothing, nothing compared to his, but... what if
I hurt him? I wanted to ask. What if I damaged him? But the words would not
come out of my mouth. It was not for me to question him; it was not for me to
decide. I had to trust him, trust that he knew what he was doing.
"I would love to, Daddy," I whispered.
"Come sit in my lap," he said, warmly, gesturing for me to wrap my cuffed hands
around his neck. As he guided himself inside my pussy, it hurt a little; I was
so swollen, so desperate and his cock was so hard, so huge it felt like it was
penetrating all of my torso. Yet it was he who was wearing the corset, he who
had eight inches of rubber inside himself and the full weight of a woman upon
him and his face, his face--
"Laura--" he mouthed without a sound, his eyes rolling back in his head. He
stiffened underneath me, barely breathing, only trembling quietly, beautiful. I
did not dare move; I only sat there, ready to get up just in case I hurt him by
accident. His hands fluttered upon my buttocks, then fell off them. He lay
there for a long while and I tried to imagine what he must have been feeling:
the extreme pressure upon his prostate, upon his spinal nerves, the pleasure my
pussy must have given his cock as I felt him stir a little inside my body. He
could die here, and for a moment it looked as if he might: as perfectly still
as a mystic, he sat in complete, catatonic silence.
I did not break this silence. I only sat on him and waited, waited patiently,
trying to stop even my pussy when it clenched now and then, greedy to have him
move inside itself. After a while, he brought his hands to my buttocks again
and opened his eyes. The smile on his face was ecstatic, the midwinter of his
eyes vast, bright.
"It feels wonderful," he murmured.
"I don't want to hurt you, Daddy."
He pulled me closer and kissed my breasts. "You aren't hurting me. Please;
move. Ride me a little."
That he even said "please" showed me how overwhelmed he was, still: that, and
the corset and the dildo forced him to stay almost completely still. But I saw
that he adored this, loved being confined like this, restrained like this. I
began to roll my hips a little, and he sighed in pleasure against my breasts.
With every rise and fall of my hips, I imagined the way the cock must have felt
inside him, penetrating him as he was now penetrating me, trapping him in a
magic circle of pleasure. I wanted to see his face, so I coaxed his head back a
little with kisses. I said nothing, only looked into his eyes and smiled,
caressed his hair as I rode him, pleasuring my own pussy and his ass
simultaneously.
To think that I was fucking him, fucking his ass while I took his cock like
this, took my own pleasure of him as he took his of me: I was fucking both the
womaniser and the sodomite. How many women could boast of having taken a man
this way? And the look on his face, oh--he frowned as if in pain, his brow
crinkling in desperation, the veins on his temples standing out, his lower lip
trembling. His noises told me he was overwhelmed by pleasure, but for a moment
it looked as if he were my victim, as if I were the one ravishing him, forcing
his body to pleasure mine.
He keened through his nose; I leaned down over him, my hair falling around his
face as I kissed him on the mouth. He was so beautiful I did not even think of
my own orgasm: his cock felt so wonderful inside me, so satisfying, yet the
greatest pleasure I derived was from feeling him rapturous underneath me. He
wanted to come; I knew it and I wanted him to do so. I took my hands from
around his neck and brought them to the laces at the front of his corset. I
knew from experience how a sudden inrush of oxygen could bring about the most
powerful of orgasms, and he knew it, too, his hips jerking underneath me as he
realised what I was about to do.
I nuzzled his face, squeezed him with my pussy.
"Please, Daddy," I whispered onto his lips. "Please let me feel you come."
He purred and thrust up into me, urging me to ride his cock faster. "Does my
little girl want a pussy full of come?"
He had hardly ever come inside my pussy, and now that I knew it was safe, the
very thought made me moan, clench around him in delight. I pressed my forehead
against his and panted into his mouth. "Please, Daddy. Please fill my pussy."
"Go on," he whispered against my lips. "Make Daddy come."
I undid the laces and tugged at them, wrenched the front of his corset open,
releasing his chest. He dragged in a heaving breath and stared up into my eyes
in surprise: he swallowed, gagged and he was gone. He groaned from deep, deep
inside his chest, from his belly, an animal groan, his nails sinking deep into
the flesh of my buttocks. "Laura--" he cried and I felt his cock leap inside my
pussy, his balls tightening again and again as he came inside of me, howling
into my shoulder. I held him close and rode it out of him, rolled my hips, drew
his sperm out of him with my body.
And all the while, he kept on staring up at me, his hair falling into his eyes,
moaning in disbelief as his orgasm continued on and on, like a woman's. The
dildo forced more come out of him at every one of his contractions, the volume
of his ejaculation unlike anything I had ever felt before. And for the first
time in my life, the sensation of his come hitting my womb did not fill me with
a cold fright. No, I relished it; relished the fact that even his semen was
abnormal, gloriously sterile: never meant for reproduction, only pleasure. It
was unnatural, twisted and therefore, perfect; I milked him, drawing every drop
of his perversity into myself, imagining he soaked through my every cell,
saturating me with his wickedness.
He hugged me to himself; his hands, his arms clutched my back as his breathing
slowed down underneath me. He had his face pressed into my shoulder, then my
breasts; I wondered if he wanted to hide it from me, to compose himself. Yet
that in and of itself revealed to me how shaken he was, how overwhelmed he was.
I envied him for that enormity of pleasure, my own body still humming with
arousal.
I had not cared for my own release, but now, a sudden melancholy came over me.
There was something missing.
I loved seeing glimpses of his vulnerability, enjoyed the sense of power I felt
when he melted underneath me. Yet it was not in my nature to dwell in that
enjoyment, no; it was his strength I yearned for, his power; more than
anything, I yearned to be crushed by him. Sexually, my very nature was that of
someone who needed to be taken; I was never meant to be the active partner, the
one dominant. I yearned to worship, to kneel, to adore; I yearned to have him
turn me inside out with pleasure. There was still that child-shaped emptiness
within me that needed to be filled, and only the strong Torsten could fill it.
And now that he had already come, that empty part of me was scared of losing
him, losing its father in the crowd.
I wanted him back.
"Thank you, Daddy," I murmured against his cheek. From the tone of my voice, I
hoped he could glean the melancholy I felt; that I needed him still.
He leaned back with a soft sigh, measuring me. I felt myself near tears, and he
saw this upon my face: swiftly, he slipped two of his fingers underneath my
collar and curled them, so that his knuckles pressed against my throat. My
breath stopped and I quivered in utter joy, my pussy clenching around his cock-
-I could feel he was still hard, had not softened much. He released his fingers
and I inhaled quickly, shivering in ecstasy around him. As he watched me, his
eyes lit up with dark glee and I could feel his cock pulsing inside of me,
hardening further.
"You would like some more." It wasn't a question, only a statement. He slipped
two more fingers underneath my collar and curled them so hard I couldn't
answer. My eyes bulged and I stiffened, shaking as electric waves of pleasure
ran through me, bringing me closer to orgasm than I had ever been before. He
was so deep inside of me I could feel his pudendum against mine: both shaven,
now, slick, our mounds pressed together like those of tribades. He relaxed his
fingers, smiled as I heaved on top of him, shuddering, my pussy fluttering
around his cock.
"Thank you, Daddy," I sighed again.
He poured some glycerine onto his hand, then started fingering my ass with it,
kissing me slowly. When I whimpered into his mouth, he chuckled. "I promised
you a special treat tonight. Did you think I would forget?"
"I don't know," I confessed, gasped as he slid his fingers inside of me, only a
thin wall of flesh separating them from his cock. "Please, Daddy. Please don't
ever stop."
He tutted, kissing me on the mouth. "But I'm going to have to, my child; at
least if you want something more than my fingers. You would like to have
something bigger in your ass, wouldn't you?"
"Please."
He reached for the table and picked up the black dildo. He laid the flat bottom
part of it against his chest, clasping the heavy balls so that it was pointing
upright, the head near my mouth. He nodded towards the glycerine bottle. "You
do it."
My heartbeat grew faster, my pussy wetter around him as I slicked the dildo
with my hands. All the while, he watched me and smirked, relishing my shivers
of anticipation, the goosebumps that broke upon my skin at the very thought of
having the dildo inside of me. It was oversized, bigger than his cock, bigger
than the red toy still nestled inside of him. It was as wide as Helena's hand
and I was afraid of it; afraid it would never fit, that it would hurt me. And
yet he wanted to put it inside of me, fuck me with it. I had no choice, and my
hands shook so that I nearly spilled the glycerine as I put the bottle back on
the table.
His smile became crueller and crueller; he rocked his hips a little, fucking me
shallowly. "Don't be scared," he mocked. "You are a big enough girl to take it,
aren't you?"
"I don't know, I--"
He lifted my chin with his fingertips. "I know you can. You do want to make
your Daddy proud, don't you?"
"Yes," I said, terrified but stirred by his words. I would show him. I would
make him proud.
"Turn around. No, don't move off my cock, just turn around. On your hands and
knees."
He moved to kneel behind me, still penetrating me. He tugged at my asshole with
his thumb, slickening it further, then pressed the dildo against it. "Open up."
I breathed out as he started to press the head of the dildo inside. He never
withdrew his cock from my pussy, however, and I was seized by a sudden panic. I
screamed, tried to pull back from him, but he grabbed me by the hair and
twisted it in his fist until tears sprung into my eyes. "Where do you think you
are going?"
"I can't, I--"
He shook me by the hair. "Yes, you can. In fact, you can and you will take
whatever it is that I choose to give you." He leaned over me and kissed my ear.
"Do you know why?"
"Why?" I shivered as he pressed the dildo deeper inside of me, dipping the head
into my ass, forcing the muscles to yield.
"Because I can see right through you, Laura," he chuckled in my ear as the
dildo slipped deeper, deeper. "Have I ever given you anything you didn't want?"
My only answer was a sob. He was right, right: this was exactly how I wanted
it. Whenever he had introduced me to a new perversion, I would be frightened at
first--but only because of how much I relished it all, already knowing I would
succumb. Whatever he desired, I desired, too; only I realised it later, with a
little delay, as a child learns from her father. I wondered if there was
anything in the world I wouldn't do for him and love, and the realisation of
this horrified me and liberated me simultaneously. It's as if with his touch he
could turn any act, any object into one of pleasure, like a witch-doctor
imbuing talismans with his power.
"That's right," he murmured as my body ceased to resist and started to open for
him. "Nothing but the best for my daughter, remember?"
Finally, the head of the dildo sank past the muscles of my ass and I screamed
again, trembling upon him, nausea filling my guts. He was inside, inside, and
it hurt like hell. My toes curled, my spine stiffened, tears ran down my
cheeks: I was in agony. He only let my head fall and grabbed my hip with one
hand as he pushed the dildo in with another. I let out a hopeless wail as I was
filled, letting my head and shoulders collapse onto the floor.
He didn't let go. "Shhh. You can take it."
"I'm trying, Daddy, I am--" I groaned into my hands, still stiff from pain.
Slowly, slowly he began to fuck me with the dildo, stretch me with it. "That's
it. Good girl. Now, tell me. What's this little ass for?"
I knew what he wanted me to answer, but I also knew he was expecting me to give
the wrong answer first. We'd played this game before in his bedroom, back when
he was still using only his fingers to open me, to teach my body to accept
penetration. When he had first started to train me, train me to become what I
wanted to be: the perfect harlot. I had wanted him to teach me and now he was
reminding me of it; reminding me of what I truly wanted to be, how much I still
had to learn. And never were his lessons more intense than with anal sex: my
ass could take far more than my pussy could, plunge me into pleasures far
deeper, far more explosive than other forms of sex ever could. It was through
the sensory overload of anal penetration that he helped me transcend pleasure
itself, dissolve into ecstasy. And now, with his verbal prompt, he was using
the familiarity of that game to draw my focus back to him, return my focus to
the devotion I carried for him in my heart.
So I forced my voice to sound innocent, gave him the answer he expected. "It's
for shitting, isn't it?"
"No; no, no, no, my sweet girl. You shit, what, once a day?" He laughed. "And I
play with your ass more often than that, don't I? Just like I promised you I
would. So what's it for? Hmm?"
I groaned into my hands. "Your cock, oh--"
"Mmm. And not just for my cock. Didn't we agree to that?"
"Yes, Daddy."
"Remind me. What did you want me to train you with?"
Oh, the bastard, the utter bastard. "Your--your cock. Your toys. Your fingers."
"Mm-hmm. And what else?"
He twisted the dildo a little, turning it so that he could angle it to meet
just the right spots, right beyond the curve of my womb, a spot that usually
made flares of ecstasy pulse through me. But now, the flares were a mixture of
pain and pleasure; the glans of the dildo was so hard it hurt unlike his cock
did, yet it pressed upon that spot harder, too, making my pussy trickle. I
sobbed helplessly as I was flooded with so much arousal it dripped down his
balls, yet I couldn't come yet, couldn't come. I was too full, too stretched
for my muscles to contract with an orgasm and the bastard knew it.
"Your mouth," I whimpered. "Your hands, oh God, your hands--"
"Yes, now you remember," he purred. "See, this is why I am doing this to you."
He leaned down to kiss the nape of my neck. "So that one of these days, I can
insert my entire hand."
"Oh, God, Daddy--"
He bit into my neck, bit me like an animal and I screamed, screamed, thinking
of his hand, his giant hand sinking deep inside my ass, the way I had seen
Helena fuck women and I, no, I couldn't take it, couldn't. But he would make me
take it, make me love it and I had no choice but to love him, love all of him.
It was then that something in my mind snapped, gave.
My head spun with vertigo and I could not breathe; I could not think. I but lay
there, with my face down and my ass in the air, only accepting his movements
inside me, a receptacle for his desire. I was so far gone concepts like pain
and pleasure became meaningless; I was beyond both. As I could not come, I was
submerged in a sea of endless little pleasure-tremors, my fingers and toes
twitching upon the floor, my vision swimming with white. The tears upon my
cheeks dried; I could not weep even if I wanted to, even if I wanted to wash
his feet with my tears. Because this was what I had wanted and he had known it,
had realised I needed to be pushed like this, undone like this. I was so
grateful, so grateful.
For a while, he let go of the dildo, took me by the hips and fucked me
shallowly, the end of the dildo pressed against his stomach. Beyond my
insensate haze, I realised he wasn't doing this to prolong his own pleasure,
but mine: stimulating my nerves, massaging my body on the inside until I was so
overwhelmed I lost myself, just as he had done.
Yet I could not remain in that place forever, and neither could he. Quietly, he
withdrew and turned me around. He sat in his chair again and arranged me to
face it, so that I was squatting on the dildo in front of him. He let me rest
there for a while, giving me time to float out of my trance. With kisses, with
caresses over my shoulders and little pinches on my breasts he drew me back
into normal consciousness. Little by little, I awoke and kissed him back.
He chuckled and nipped at my lips. "Better?"
"I love you," I murmured into his mouth, drunk from joy.
"I shall take that as a 'yes.'" Pleased, he withdrew and lit a cigarette.
He leaned back in his chair, draped his legs over its arms again and to my
shock, I realised the red dildo was still inside of him. He smirked, ran his
hand over the leather strap, tugging on it a little. He pressed his anus with
his hand and hissed in delight. "I saved this for you. Come here; watch."
He put out his cigarette, then rearranged himself so that he was bent double,
just as before. Never taking his eyes off me, he started to masturbate again,
rubbing his cock and the end of the dildo in a slow rhythm. "Do you want to do
the honours?" he said, holding out the strap.
My pussy had woken up, too; it now clenched and instinctively, I rocked myself
on my own dildo. My ass no longer hurt even if the stretch was intense; I felt
more relaxed, now, as I leaned towards him. "What do I need to do?"
"Just don't pull it out all at once. Tug very gently, slowly. Do you think you
can do that?"
I nodded and slipped two of my fingers through the leather strap. I wanted to
make it good for him; therefore I licked my other hand's thumb, pressed it to
the muscles of his anus and started to massage them so that the dildo moved
inside him a little.
"Oh--oh, keep doing that," he gasped, his words rapid. "Yes, just like that.
Good girl. Good girl, oh--"
I tugged a little longer each time, stretching out his anal muscles. He'd kept
the toy inside himself for so long the muscles needed to be loosened again,
relaxed so that they would let the toy out. My pussy trembled, dripped over my
dildo as I watched his asshole open for me, saw more and more of the red rubber
peeking out, his muscles unfolding around it like some bizarre, exotic flower.
"You're beautiful, Daddy," I whispered, reverently, worshipfully as I let the
dildo slide inside of him again.
He shook his head and laughed breathlessly. "I dreamt of you doing this for so
long. And you've dreamt of this too, haven't you? Playing with your Daddy like
this?"
"Yes," and as I said it, I tugged gently. Finally, his ass gave and the dildo
slipped out: quickly, I stopped it with my hand so that only the last third of
it remained outside of his body.
"Thank you." He extricated my hands. "Touch yourself, my child. And tell me
when you're close."
I rocked back on my dildo and smiled. "Thank you, Daddy." I loved being able to
finally, finally play with myself: by now, my pussy was so swollen it felt
strange, unfamiliar. The dildo no longer felt painful at all; as I rubbed my
clitoris, the stretch felt absolutely wonderful. I was so proud of having taken
it, but prouder now as I rode it with ease, showing my father how much I loved
it. The only thing that stopped me from coming immediately was the sight of him
doing what he did; it fascinated me completely. He, too, masturbated, pushing
the dildo in and out of himself with slow, shallow movements. I was hypnotised
by the red of the dildo, the dark pink of his ass, the movements of his hand.
And he adored me for it, leaned back in his chair with a purr. "You do so love
watching me, my dear. But what do you think of when you see me doing this, I
wonder? What were you thinking of as you watched all those men fucking me?" His
breathing grew more rapid. "All those cocks sliding in and out of your Daddy's
ass?"
I groaned in shame, but forced myself to look him in the eye. "I wanted to be
one of them."
"You wanted to have a cock, is that it? And fuck your old man in the ass?" he
hissed, mock-scolding, but I could see he was shivering in delight.
"Yes," I said. "And I wanted--" I stared at his dildo, stared as it gleamed red
and wet, sliding in and out of his body. Before I could stop myself, I had
licked my lips.
"You wanted to taste me, didn't you?" he purred with a pitying croon, letting
every word fall from his lips with slow, cruel precision. "You wanted to taste
my ass off their cocks, just like I did. Didn't you?"
"Yes," I cried, casting my eyes down. I was getting close, oh, close, but I
could hold back. Just for a while longer. I didn't want to stop this, didn't
want to stop watching him, listening to him as he lashed me with his words.
"Well, now." He leaned back, relishing my shame. He pushed the dildo in as deep
as it would go, then pulled it out slowly, demonstrating it to me. "So is this
what my little girl wants? Hmm?" He showed me how shining, how wet the dildo
was, slick from nothing but spit, the fluids of my pussy, his cock and his ass.
It gleamed bright in the firelight and my mouth watered, but he plunged the
dildo back inside of himself again, groaning.
I, too, groaned, but in disappointment. I had to have him, I had to. "Please--"
He shook his head. "I've kept it inside especially for you, you know. Wanted to
make it all warm and wet for you." He punctuated his words with deep thrusts,
exaggerated moans and hisses of delight. "That's why I wanted to come all over
it when I was inside of you. To make it all nice and sweet for you, my child."
He moved the toy faster and faster, panting, staring at me, taunting me. "Make
it all tasty for you."
"Please, Daddy, I--"
"Are you close?"
"Yes!"
"Good. I want you to wait just a little longer. When you are about to come, I
want you to say nothing, just open your mouth wide. Do you understand?"
"Yes, but please, Daddy, hurry, I--"
He threw back his head and groaned, fucked himself so hard with the dildo his
cock was dripping over his hand. When he let his head loll to his chest again,
he was trembling; his eyes were manic. "Is this what my little girl wants?" he
drawled. "Hmm? Is this the taste she wants more than anything else in the whole
wide world?"
"Yes, Daddy!"
He narrowed his eyes and clicked his tongue, hissing angrily at me. "I don't
think you quite understand, my child. I want you to beg."
"Yes," I sobbed, helpless, the waves of impending orgasm rippling in my hips.
"Please, Daddy. Please let me taste your ass."
He pulled the dildo all the way out, his ass but a wide, quivering red and
black O. He gasped, just on the edge of orgasm himself but cruelly, he plunged
the dildo inside of himself once more and growled. His eyes were ice, sharp
shards of ice piercing me, cutting me into shreds.
"Beg."
By now, my voice was so high you could truly have mistaken it for a child's.
"Please, Daddy. It's just like you said, I--I want it. I want it more than
anything else in the whole wide world. Please let me taste your ass."
He pulled the toy out again and I could see all the way inside of him, his red,
heaving, slick wet flesh--and I could not bear it any longer. I opened my
mouth.
He held the dildo over my mouth and it dripped from him, dripped; a clear bead
dangled just over my tongue.
"Suck."
He pushed the toy into my mouth; his taste exploded upon my tongue. He fucked
my mouth with his ass, all salt and sweetness and flesh and must, each little
flavour triggering a new flare of ecstasy through me. My orgasm was so violent
I screamed around the toy, around his taste, convulsing between his legs and
against the chair. I forced myself so deep on my own dildo it hurt, penetrated
by him from both ends at once, drinking in his juices, and nothing had ever
tasted as wonderful. I was tasting him on the inside, tasting his living flesh,
devouring the taste of the deepest recesses of his body. This, this was my
Eucharist, this partaking of the Devil's flesh; I choked, sobbed, shivered in
gratitude. And through my watering eyes, I saw that he was coming, too: his ass
was gaping open, then clenching shut, gaping again, his cock spraying streamers
of come all over his belly, all over his ruined corset. He was shouting loudly,
so loudly his voice echoed through the entire apartment.
Yet this was the most beautiful, the most perfect thing I had ever seen, felt,
tasted, experienced: I was still coming as the red dildo slipped from my mouth
and I fell upon his ass instead. I lapped at his asshole's salt, lapped at his
sweet red flesh while it was still gaping open, sobbing as the last of my
orgasm's waves broke upon my bones. I did not stop even as he cried out,
shaking, closing his legs around me. His white silk stockings struck sparks
from my hair as he clutched my head with his thighs, forcing my face into his
ass, suffocating me. I could not breathe; all I could taste was him, his flesh
until everything grew dark, dark except for a few pink flashes of his skin. I
sunk into his suffocating taste, into his suffocating flesh and let his
darkness overtake me.
I regained consciousness a little while later. He had rearranged the rug in
front of the fire and was spooning me from behind. I was still naked; he was
still wearing the corset and the stockings, his legs tucked behind mine. I was
so tired I couldn't speak, even if I felt I should say something. But after
what we had done, a simple "I love you" or "Thank you, Daddy" would not have
been enough.
Therefore, I only took his hands in mine; his beloved, beautiful hands. I
kissed them, kissed both of them and I clasped them against my heart.
Softly, quietly, he nuzzled my hair and kissed my collar.
***** Chapter 10 *****
We spent the last week of our holiday in a hedonistic rush, a voluptuous hurry;
hoarding sensations, experiences. We clung to Paris, rutted against its
restaurant seats, snatched orgasms off each other's fingers in its parks,
fucked in its back alleys like the drunkards and the whores. The Stockholm I
had so dreamt of as a child now loomed on the horizon as grey, cold,
puritanical in comparison.
"We should stay here," I panted against Torsten's mouth as he locked us in a
ladies' toilet and guided my hand inside his trousers, inside the silk panties
he was wearing underneath. "We should never leave--" I continued, even as he
straddled my thigh and sat on my fingers.
"We'll come back," he moaned as he began to ride my hand. He was slick inside,
so hot his flesh felt feverish in the chilly toilet. He snatched a kiss from
me, groaned against my cheek as I curled my fingers, fucking him like a woman
fucks another. "And one day, we'll stay," he whimpered into my shoulder, his
voice growing higher. "And never leave, oh--"
Groaning loudly, he came into his panties, rubbed himself languorously over me
until he was completely spent. He laughed a little and kissed my ear. "We'll
die here. I'll make sure of it."
***
I had always looked forward to the first of June, it being my birthday, but as
we had to leave on the third, its approach depressed me. He saw me smile less,
laugh less and in turn, he would turn his caresses more violent, more brutal
than ever before. We went out riding for hours and even as I dismounted my
horse, fatigued after the long ride, he could see that I was in a foul mood.
Instead of going to his own dressing room, he followed me into mine and locked
the door behind us. He stood there and watched as I stripped, he still fully
clothed in his top hat, black tailcoat and white trousers. He tapped his riding
whip against his booted calf but he needn't have; I knew why he had come.
When I was completely naked, he hooked my cuffs to the coat rack so that I was
dangling from it. We had not exchanged a single word and did not need to;
finally, he silenced me completely by stuffing my panties into my mouth. He
took a step back, measuring me from head to toe as if committing the purity of
my skin, my unblemished flesh to memory. He did not smirk as he so often did;
his eyes were cold, stern, looking inwards. He stood there and let me wait,
wait; knowing anticipation would heighten my pain, heighten my fear, my
adoration of him. He loomed over me, tall, beautiful, and I felt his very
presence asphyxiate me, as if he had reached into my very chest and crushed my
heart in his fist.
You flow like a Baudelaire poem, I thought as he twirled the whip in his
fingers, then swiftly clasped it and raised his arm in a perfect arc, with the
muscular control of a dancer. Precise, refined and cruel. As he let the whip
tear into my flesh, made my body dance to the rhythm of pain I hung onto that
thought, repeating it in my mind like a refrain: Precise, refined and cruel.
When he took me home and fucked me, every movement of his body over mine was
agony. I wept underneath him as he punished me anew with his caresses, dug his
fingers into my welts and my bruises. The pain he gave me purified me, washed
me clean and I was sobbing underneath his hands, sobbing as I ground myself
onto his cock. I cried, I laughed, fell apart underneath him as he fucked me,
took his fill of me.
When his cock had sated itself, he fucked me with his hand instead. His fingers
slid inside my ass so easily I choked on a moan, spasmed upon the bed. He
rolled his knuckles inside me, tugged at the muscles of my anus with them and I
was shivering, staring into the ceiling, my lips stuttering nonsense words. He
managed to insert his hand up to his palm and curled his fingers, curled them
until I screamed, until I wet his mouth with the force of my release. Yet he
did not stop moving his hand inside of me, feeling the walls of my flesh with
his fingertips. In my delirium, I fancied that he wanted to possess me so
utterly that one day, he would crawl inside of me and wear me like a suit of
flesh.
***
When my birthday arrived, so did the blue dress. That day, he offered himself
to me as a present, to play with as I pleased. This, of course, was due to ego
more than anything else, and I thought I would make him suffer the
consequences. If he was to play the girl for me all day, I said, the ego would
have to go first--and then, the moustache. Oh, the shock on his face as I took
his razor and started to lather up foam! After that day, he would draw a
moustache on with a pencil until his own grew back, but for that single day, I
wanted him smooth.
I watched him in the bathroom, watched as he shaved his genitals, his ass, his
legs, even the few sparse hairs on his chest. By the time he got to his face,
the razor shook in his hand so that he made a little cut on his cheek. He
looked on the verge of turning around, reneging on his promise, but I wiped his
cheek and told him to continue.
When he had finished, he stared at his reflection like an outraged cat who had
just been given a bath.
I embraced him from behind. "Feeling a little naked?" I said, kissing his
shoulder.
He nodded and rubbed his face. "It's not very... me."
"You look at least ten years younger, you know." I turned so that I could look
at his face properly. I caressed his lips: their unnatural redness, wet
glossiness stood out even more, now, making him look even more of a sensualist.
"And it's not such a masculine face, now," I said more quietly. Now, the
moustache did not disturb that femininity of his I had always adored: it did
not distract one from his long-lashed, huge eyes or the cruel, scarlet curve of
his mouth. I traced that curve with my thumb. "You're beautiful."
He kissed me violently, as if to compensate, but in his kiss I could taste
feverish excitement. If I had wanted to be the vamp, so had he, and that night,
I let him be that: his transvestism had been a mere fetish before, but now I
encouraged him to truly become a woman, not just a caricature of one. I gave
him a smart, short black wig and arranged it against his scalp in finger waves,
so glossy and neat no one would have known it was a wig. I applied his makeup
myself, shadowed his eyes smoothly, painted his lips until his mouth gleamed as
red as a cherry.
At first, he overcompensated like so many female impersonators do, rocking his
hips and simpering to the point where his voice became squeaky, but I only told
him to be himself. That was far more accurate, I told him, and far more
attractive besides. Soon enough, he yielded, realising I was right. I didn't
need to teach him much: he already walked and spoke like a woman by nature, so
I only refined that, taught him how to modulate his movements, his words a
little. Soon, he was relishing this new way of expressing himself, as if a
hitherto dormant woman within him now woke up and took charge, admiring herself
in the mirror, aroused by her own power.
And by the time it was six o'clock and he stood in front of me in his corset,
his white stockings and his white silk panties, he had become the vamp. I was
the one lounging in the armchair, the lesbian in me wet between her legs as she
watched her new mistress.
I took a long drag off my cigarette and gestured to him. "Put on the dress."
His high heels clicked on the floor as he took out the dress and moved to stand
in front of the mirror. The dress was heavy, of the highest quality cotton
velvet, glimmering like sapphires as he stepped into it. Even from a few feet
away, I could tell he was shivering as he pulled the fabric around himself,
completing his new self. The dress was tight, very tight around his torso, his
hips and his thighs: it only flared out over the shoulders and below his knees
in ingeniously cut, petal-like panels, disguising the masculinity of his upper
arms, cascading softly around his long legs.
I had to help him zip up the dress, just as he'd had to do with me. I stood
behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist--so tiny, now; adoring, I
pressed myself against him and inhaled his soft perfume of lilies, violets.
"You're a beautiful girl," I murmured.
He closed his eyes and leaned back against me, exhaling with a sigh. "Thank
you." After a while, he opened his eyes and stroked my hand. "Let's go
dancing."
Thankfully, we already knew of a few restaurants that catered to people like
ourselves--we were a lesbian couple on a night out, weren't we? I decked myself
out in my sparkliest dress and diamonds and walked out with him, two ladies arm
in arm. We danced all night, drank all night, took drugs, fondled each other
whenever we had the chance. It was the loveliest of nights, but I knew I wanted
more.
"I want to see you get fucked by a man," I slurred in his ear, my hand sliding
between his silk stockings.
"Do you, now?" he purred, slipping his hand up my skirt in turn. "What do you
think of that fellow over there, at the bar?"
The man Torsten had indicated was young, in his twenties by the looks of it,
tall and strongly built. I had seen him here before and knew him for a
prostitute. His face was astonishingly beautiful, the sort of thing you
couldn't not notice in a crowd: it was so symmetrical it looked a little
unnatural, his eyes vast, dark and huge, his hair so curly he hadn't even
bothered to try and tame it with wax. He had dressed tidily, but the unkempt
hair gave him a Bohemian air: perhaps he was a starving artist, like so many
here in Montmartre, earning a little extra income by selling himself.
"Do you know him?"
Torsten nodded. "That's Guillaume. Prefers women, actually." He chuckled in my
ear. "If we take it easy, there might be enough of him for both of us to
enjoy."
"He's not really my type." Sure, Guillaume was beautiful, but he was built like
an ox: he was twice Torsten's size and I feared he might crush me.
"Wait until you see his cock," Torsten leered. He had decided. He took a sip
from his cocktail, set it on the table and went to woo Guillaume.
At first, Guillaume didn't recognise him without his moustache, from underneath
his wig and makeup. But once Guillaume realised who he was, I could hear his
raucous laughter over the music, catch a glimpse of his perfectly white teeth
from where I was sitting. He looked at me, took a puff off his cigarette and
oh, his charms were already working on me.
The three of us returned to the hotel. Guillaume was delighted to play with us-
-he told me he had never been taken home by a couple before. He had a wicked
sense of humour, a joyful energy to him that made me feel at ease; I almost
forgot he was a prostitute. I had no idea how much Torsten had offered to pay
him, and I didn't care: I was too busy relishing the moment.
And my greatest pleasure lay in what I did to Torsten, the way I exposed him
for Guillaume, the way I prepared him for another man.
Guillaume sat on our bed, naked, masturbating as I brought Torsten to stand at
the foot of the bed. Slowly, I stripped the dress off Torsten; left him to
stand there in his underwear, in his corset. I stood behind him and caressed
his chest, his waist, slid my hands over the bulge in his panties.
"She hasn't had a man in a while," I told Guillaume. "Will you be gentle with
her?" I smirked.
Guillaume quirked an impish eyebrow. "I can try. But I can't promise anything,"
he said and licked his lips, stroking himself with both hands.
Torsten shivered, his cock leaping against my hand as he watched Guillaume, the
slow slide of his hands over his cock. Torsten had not been exaggerating: it
was an enormous cock, as big as our toys, disproportionately large even on such
a strongly built man. My mouth watered as I looked at it: I had played the
dominating partner for too long and my true self wanted to yield, wanted to
spread her legs underneath that magnificent prick, to be savaged by it all
night. But that was a pleasure I now wanted to give to Torsten; tonight, I
wished to be the voyeuse.
So, just like in my fantasy, I drew an armchair by the bed and sat down to
watch. Soon enough, I had slipped off my panties and begun to masturbate. How
could I not, when within the first five minutes of their play, Guillaume had
rendered Torsten senseless? Torsten still moved like a woman and Guillaume took
him like one: he began to seduce Torsten with soft kisses, deepening them
slowly, caressing his chest as if he were cupping breasts, Torsten gasping when
Guillaume's fingertips closed around his nipples.
"Such pretty little titties you've got," Guillaume purred and Torsten flushed
scarlet. He whimpered demurely, even looked up at Guillaume from underneath his
lashes and I shivered in my chair.
As if by some private agreement, Guillaume had not stripped off Torsten's
corset or his stockings. Torsten was breathing with great difficulty now, his
gasps short, constricted as Guillaume's kisses became more forceful. With his
kisses, Guillaume swallowed what little air was left in Torsten's lungs:
Torsten positively quivered against his body, loving his confinement, his
surrender. They were both kneeling on the bed and Guillaume had slipped his
hand between Torsten's legs; I could see he was massaging Torsten's asshole
through his panties, as if he were fondling a pussy. Torsten keened into his
mouth, rode his wrist, carded his fingers through Guillaume's wild hair like
some nymph being carried away by a satyr.
"Please," Torsten finally moaned, struggling out of his panties. His eyes were
wide, made even wider by the eyeliner; immersed in his role, his face clean-
shaven, he looked almost innocent.
Amused, Guillaume laughed and clasped his face in both hands, kissed him. "Get
me ready, then," he murmured.
With a little noise of delight, Torsten went down on all fours and took
Guillaume's cock into his mouth. It was even more difficult for him to breathe
in this position; he was being choked by both the corset and Guillaume's cock.
Yet it was obvious that he loved this, relished this, moaning loudly around
Guillaume's length. Mesmerised, I watched as he fellated Guillaume so
thoroughly his eyeliner started to run, so that his lipstick was smeared all
over the root of Guillaume's cock. Torsten swallowed his cock, gagged on it,
covered it in saliva as if he were the prostitute himself. Only he would pay
for the privilege of whoring himself, I thought and bit my lip, whimpered, my
pussy clenching underneath my hand.
Guillaume reached over Torsten and pushed two fingers into his ass, ignoring
Torsten's scream around his cock. "Is that gentle enough?" Guillaume asked,
smirking at me.
Torsten gagged; I grinned at them and shook my head. "I think she can take more
than that. There's glycerine in the bedside drawer."
Torsten let out a little cry of disappointment as Guillaume left him briefly,
but his cries were louder as Guillaume smacked him on both buttocks upon his
return. Guillaume slicked three fingers, now, and twisted them inside Torsten's
ass with practiced ease, widening his fingers a little to open him for fucking.
"Is that better?" he asked me, as if Torsten wasn't there.
"I think she can take even more," I said, and I could not hold back; I knelt on
the bed and stroked Torsten's ass with him. I took two of my own fingers, wet
from myself and pushed them in beside Guillaume's. Torsten howled, his howl
breaking into a whimper as I began to stroke his cock. "I think you've been
ready all night," I murmured and kissed his buttock. "Now, let me see you take
his cock."
Torsten's eyes flashed with an I will get you for this, yet he lifted his ass
higher and pressed his face into the sheets. He was too far gone, writhing from
how much he needed to be fucked, his ass spasming hungrily as we withdrew our
fingers. He closed his eyes and moaned, moaned in his smeared whore's makeup,
in his wrinkled whore's stockings and he was beautiful.
I returned to sit in my chair. They were a delicious sight: as Guillaume
started to push inside, Torsten was so overwhelmed from the stretch, from the
weight of Guillaume's body that he stayed very still, barely breathing.
Torsten's fingers clutched the sheets, trembled, but as Guillaume entered him
fully and started to move inside him, Torsten's hands flew open and a low,
guttural groan burst from his mouth. Guillaume's body was so heavy, so huge
that once he started moving, Torsten was pushed forwards on the bed, a little
cry escaping his lips every time Guillaume sank inside. Torsten's eyes were
closed and his cock dangled free, swollen, slapping against his corset as he
was fucked; yet, both he and Guillaume refused to touch it.
"Give her more," I said, my mouth dry from the sight; my pussy was now so wet I
was staining the chair. "Harder."
Guillaume did as he was told; I leaned forwards in my chair as he straddled
Torsten's hips on either side, pressed Torsten's shoulders to the bed and sunk
his cock into the root. Torsten sobbed, sobbed in abandon as Guillaume threw
his full weight into the thrusts, crushing him into the mattress so that the
entire bed creaked. Now I could see everything, absolutely everything: the
full, gleaming red length and width of Guillaume's cock as it sunk into
Torsten's slick, open asshole; the fullness of Torsten's flushed balls drawn
high against his body, the drops of arousal dangling from his cock.
Yet even that was not enough to sate me. "More," I said, burning up from the
sight, my voice thin, reedy from greed.
But by now, Torsten was so loud his voice overwhelmed mine: he was howling,
screaming like a woman, trembling like one, unravelling from the ecstasy of
being taken by someone twice his size. So unlike a man and exactly like a
courtesan he knew how to surrender, knew how to let go, becoming only living,
pulsing, joyous flesh. The way he sobbed, spasmed underneath Guillaume was so
reminiscent of my own orgasms it took my breath away; I could see the ripples
running through his body at every thrust. His ass was fully open now, loose,
gaping as Guillaume pulled all the way out, then slammed quickly inside of him
again with cruel, punishing, stabbing thrusts. Slippery, wet, swollen,
Torsten's ass had become a pussy once more, swallowing Guillaume's cock again
and again as he fucked Torsten so hard his screams broke into stutters, faded
away, died.
I could not bear it any longer and slipped underneath them, taking Torsten's
cock into my mouth. I needed to taste him, needed to claim some of this for
myself, take the only part of him that remained male. If I could, I would've
devoured his cock and his balls; I wanted to swallow that part of him, to give
him the illusion of emasculation so that only the woman in him remained, so
that the body between myself and Guillaume would orgasm while fully female. I
sucked him, sucked him deep, massaged his cock with my mouth, gagged as
Guillaume's thrusts pushed it all the way into the back of my throat. With a
high, keening noise, Torsten shook between us and if it hadn't been for
Guillaume's arms holding him up, he surely would have collapsed on me. Torsten
shook as if in fever chills, stuttering as he came, Guillaume's cock pushing
his come out of him, forcing him to empty into my mouth until we had milked out
the very last drop.
I crawled underneath Torsten and kissed him as Guillaume laid himself down on
top of us both, now thrusting into Torsten more slowly. Torsten cried out,
clutched the bedclothes again and I realised Guillaume was coming inside of
him: roaring like a bull, he slammed into Torsten's body, kept moving inside of
him until he was completely spent.
Yet I lay there, suddenly cold somehow, unsatisfied. I had enjoyed the
encounter, but there was something empty inside of me, some pain I could not
describe. It wasn't simple jealousy, just a sense of something being wrong, out
of skew.
Torsten took one look at me and realised this. "Guillaume," he said, firmly.
"Thank you. Your money's on the bedside table."
Guillaume took the hint, took the money and left us.
It was quiet in the room; we'd left all the lights on because I had wanted to
see everything. Now the lights seemed harsh, a too-bright yellow that made both
Torsten and I look pale.
He searched my eyes and petted my hair. "Jealous, Laura? After all this time?"
I shook my head. "It wasn't that. I just didn't know what to do." I felt like
an idiot, trying to put things like these into words.
I turned my face aside, but he rested the full weight of his body on top of me.
"You said you wanted to see a man fuck me. Was it not how you'd imagined it?"
It had been, but only now I realised what had been missing. The visions in my
head had been beautiful and the reality of it had been beautiful. And I'd been
the outsider before, when he had taken Helena and Athena in front of me. But I
had been tied up, then; I'd had a champagne bottle inside of me, had been
desperate to touch them all. Here, I'd been active, and that was the problem: I
didn't derive as much sexual satisfaction from it, not nearly as much as I did
from being taken. I would much rather have had Guillaume fucking me and Torsten
watching us, I realised.
"I'm sorry," I finally said, tears in my throat. "I didn't know what I wanted.
Not until now. It's not in my nature to--" and I choked on my words again. I
sounded so stupid; there were no words for this that weren't stupid or academic
or medical. "I'm no good at being in charge," I blurted. "Sexually, at least,
it seems. That's the part I didn't enjoy. That's work; that's what I always
have to do outside the bedroom. If you'd tied me up or something--"
He only laughed, laughed deep from his belly; it was a deep, warm laugh. "You
wanted me to dominate you."
I was babbling, now; tears escaped my eyes, sliding into my hair. "It's my
birthday and I wanted something different, but I was greedy. I wanted to see
you with a man, I loved watching you with a man, only I didn't realise--"
"Shh." He stroked my hair, caressed the remains of his come from my lips.
"There's always a next time. I solemnly swear that the next time I bring home a
man, we'll both make you beg for mercy."
"Don't be flippant," I spat, struggling underneath him. I was still hurt, and
felt like the night had been wasted. "Let me go."
"But you just told me you wanted me to dominate you."
"It's too late, now," I groaned and burst into tears once more. "I shouldn't
have asked you to bring him. It's my fault. I'm sorry; I'm so, so sorry."
"Stop it."
"I'm such an idiot--"
He wrapped his hand around my neck and pressed his thumb to my collar, pressed
so tight he was choking me. "Laura." His eyes were sober, now, stern. "What
does this collar say?"
As if I could ever forget. Laura Erika Barring, The Pride of her Father. The
words certainly didn't describe me now. I was the embarrassment of my father, I
felt.
Yet, he didn't let go of my throat. "Once you remember who you are, nod."
I didn't. There was still too much anxiety in me, too much disappointment, too
much anger. The drugs, the alcohol made them worse; made them roil inside of me
and I could not contain them.
But he could. Therefore, I let him press my throat, cut off my breathing until
my pulse thundered in my ears, until my head felt as if it was about to burst
from a lack of oxygen.
"Laura."
The yellow lamp became brighter, brighter and I felt light. I was sinking into
white, white--
He slapped me. "Laura!"
He grabbed my hair with both hands and stared at me, furious. But even behind
his fury, he was thinking, considering, calculating. He slapped me again, to
give himself more time, to make sure I was listening.
"More," I sobbed. "Please, Daddy."
He slapped me again, again until the heat from his slaps sank into my chest and
expanded there, expanded, spread out like the rays of a star from my heart to
my every limb. Now I was sobbing from love, sobbing from joy, yet still begged
for more. The child in me crumpled up underneath him and wept, whispered in the
tiniest of voices.
"Please."
He curled his fingers underneath my collar and lifted my head up by it,
measuring me with his eyes. "You wanted to serve me."
I nodded.
"There's one service you could still perform for me, my child." He did not
smirk--he was disciplining me; therefore he remained cold, calm. "Only it
requires absolute humility and absolute dedication. Do you have those in you,
Laura? Because I would like to think that you do."
"Yes," I mouthed soundlessly with my lips. "Yes," I croaked as he finally let
go of my collar.
He caressed my cheek with his fingertip. "We should both think of tonight as a
test. To find out what it is that you truly want in your heart of hearts. And I
think we have an idea, now, don't we?"
"I want to serve you, Daddy."
He shook his head. "No. You have to prove it. Kneel beside the bed. Now."
He was careful not to move much; he let me slide out from underneath him. I
knelt beside the bed in front of him and looked up at him, awaiting his orders.
Still lying on his stomach, he pulled himself to the edge of the bed, cupped my
cheek and kissed me. "You are my daughter, aren't you?"
"I am."
"And you would do anything for me, wouldn't you?"
I cast my eyes down, but he lifted my chin so I had to meet his gaze once more.
"Yes."
"Now. Let me tell you something about Guillaume," he said. "There are plenty of
reasons to like him. But there's one in particular that I thought of when I
suggested we take him." He rocked his hips. "Do you want to know what it is?"
I wished he wouldn't talk about Guillaume. But the look with which he fixed me
urged me to ask. "What is it?"
"It's inside of me right now," he purred. "And the thing with Guillaume is that
there's always lots of it. Enough to make quite a mess of the sheets." He
traced my lip with his thumb. "Unless someone catches it before that, of
course."
My eyes widened in shock, but my pussy clenched so violently I swayed on my
knees. "Oh, God."
"I've told you, my dear. God is not here." He took four of his fingers and
pushed them into my mouth, forcing them into my throat until I coughed, gagged.
He knew that fellating him until I'd choked was what I'd enjoyed the most about
tonight; he knew it instinctively and now drew me back into that moment, drew
me back into the pleasure of submitting my body to his. I coughed, struggled,
moaned in apology around his hand, nodded in agreement.
"There." He withdrew his hand and wiped it on my face. "Who do you pray to?"
I coughed again, looked up at him through watering eyes. "You, Daddy."
He slapped me, the snap of his wet hand agony on my cheek. "Louder."
"You, Daddy. Please, Daddy."
He patted my cheek with his fingers. "That's better. Now, stay very still. Do
you understand?"
I nodded. He turned around slowly, carefully, balancing himself in a sitting
position on the edge of the bed, leaning back against some pillows so that he
could keep on looking at me. He parted his buttocks with his hands and showed
me his asshole: it was slick, messy; red and white all over from rouge and
come. My heart leapt into my throat.
"You wanted me to dominate you," he repeated, stroking the sides of his anus
with his fingertips, massaging it a little. A small trickle of white escaped
the swollen red bud of his anus, sliding down to the small of his back. He
hissed, forcing his ass to clench shut. "Now, prove to me you are worthy of
that collar, Laura; tell me what you want."
Did I want it? The come of another man, not his? Yet it had now become a part
of Torsten, an instrument of his, just as his whip and his toys had been. It
was something through which I could serve him, to utterly humble myself, to
completely submit myself to him. He was now taking an encounter that I had only
enjoyed halfway because I wasn't the one submitting, and turning it into
something I truly wished for in my heart. He was using Guillaume's sperm to
give me the only thing that would truly satisfy me sexually: the submission I
craved more than anything else in the world. I blinked and felt fresh tears,
now those of gratitude and joy.
"I want to taste you, Daddy," I said, my voice sweet, light.
He put the tip of his finger to his ass and drew a gleaming string of sperm
from it. "And what is it that you want to taste, my child?"
"I want to taste another man's come, Daddy."
He smiled, warmly, his cock shifting a little on his belly. "Where from, little
girl? Don't be shy."
I leaned closer, so close my lips almost touched his ass, almost. I could smell
the rouge, smell the come, my nostrils flaring; the very scents sent a rush of
heat all the way to my pussy.
I looked into his eyes with all my devotion, all my love.
"I want to taste another man's come from your ass, Daddy."
He hissed, spread his ass and smiled. "Then, taste it, my child. Hurry."
I did, and the moment my tongue dipped into his ass, into Guillaume's come, I
shivered in utter ecstasy. Torsten didn't protest as I slipped my hand between
my legs, only crooned in utter delight as I lapped at him, lapped at him. Yet I
was the one who was louder, noisier: my head swum with the tastes, each new
flavour sparking a perverse tremor through my very bones. Underneath the soapy,
thick, alkaline taste of Guillaume's come I could taste rouge, glycerine and
only faintly, the deep dark salt of Torsten's ass. I whimpered into his ass,
sucked, slurped on it noisily, heaving on my knees as I tried to draw all of
the come into myself, to find his taste underneath.
I pulled back for breath, so close to orgasm, now. "Please, Daddy. More."
He rubbed his cock; it was fully hard, now, his ass clenching until another
drop of come appeared at its opening. "You want more?" he said, tugging at his
cock faster, groaning. "Ask nicely. What do you want?"
I trembled upon my fingers, remembered what he had said to Athena. I looked
straight into his eyes and smiled. "Please, Daddy. Shit it into my mouth."
He howled, throwing back his head, jerking upon the bed. His jerking alone
milked more come out of his ass onto my waiting tongue and I lapped at it
eagerly, swallowing every drop. Absolutely unabashed, now, I pressed my mouth
to his ass and sucked, swallowed, panted into him, felt him clench against my
tongue. He grabbed my hair, hissed, ground his ass into my face as he pushed
Guillaume's come into my mouth. My scalp hurt, my pussy hurt, my tongue hurt
and now my orgasm had started to billow through my hips, gathering force,
expanding, expanding.
But it was his voice that pushed me over the edge, his voice and the violence
with which he fucked my mouth. "Do you like that?" he growled, pulling on my
hair. "Do you like that? When your Daddy shits another man's come onto your
tongue?" he stuttered rapidly. "That's why you're Daddy's favourite, Daddy's
favourite, my favourite dirty little slut--"
At his words, I fell apart, fell into a thousand glittering shards, unfolding
and contracting in a myriad coloured lights. The drugs expanded my orgasm a
thousandfold: the come in my stomach swirled outwards into my every cell,
curling and radiating hot and cold, the salt of his ass unfurling from my
tongue until it was enveloping me. I sucked from him but I was sucked into him
in turn: with my submission, I sunk into him completely as my tongue was now
sinking into his flesh. He held my head between his legs and he owned me, loved
me and I was at peace.
The very next thing I knew I was in bed beside him, his cock in my mouth, his
tongue lapping at my pussy. The tastes of his and Guillaume's come mixed in my
mouth and eagerly I drank, took my fill of him. It seemed we spent hours that
way: only licking, sucking, drinking from each other until fatigue claimed us
both.
I curled up in his arms, feeling very small against his tall frame but that was
perfect; that's how things were meant to be. I fit neatly against his body,
nestled tight within the embrace of his long limbs. He caressed my hair as he
always did after sex, kissed it the way he had always done.
"Your first birthday as my daughter," he whispered and clasped my hand in his.
"Has it been a good one?"
"Yes, Daddy," I whispered, smiling against his chest, my lips against his
heartbeat. "It's been wonderful."
***** Chapter 11 *****
We spent the rest of our holiday finishing off a few more business negotiations
and indulging in a few more sensual pleasures but eventually, we had to say
goodbye to Paris. I was quiet as we boarded the train, tugging on my gloves. He
said nothing either, only kept his hand on my shoulder.
We were both depressed at having to return to Stockholm, so we quarreled on the
train. It was absolute agony. I craved comfort, craved closeness because our
safe haven had been taken from us, but of course, our foul moods kept us apart.
He sulked like a petulant child, giving in to all his selfishness, laziness and
avoidance, drinking to pass the time. We slept in separate bunks, even if I
knew he must have yearned for me as much as I yearned for him.
When there was but one night's journey left, I begged for a truce. He had only
had a few whiskies that night and we were in our sleeping car. I knelt at his
feet and begged to drink from him. For old times' sake.
He snarled and took his cock out, but nothing would come out. His cock began to
harden instead and angrily, he yanked it out of my mouth. "Forget it." He
zipped up and stormed off into the restaurant car.
I remained on my knees and burst into tears. I would not have cared if I had
wanted him to penetrate me and had his virility had failed him; I had heard
that happened to all men from time to time. But this was far worse: now
Torsten's perversion had failed him, had prevented him from performing that
special act we had sworn to only share with each other. I tried to tell myself
this was because of the circumstances; I'd heard all couples quarreled at the
end of their holidays, no matter how happy they had been. There was no other
explanation, even if a little voice inside of me, that voice instilled into all
women told me this was somehow my fault. We had been together for a year. Was
this the moment I'd been dreading, the moment he lost interest in me sexually?
Was I, at sixteen, now too much of an adult, too old and too experienced to
stir him? Had we finally reached that point where he could no longer find
anything in me to debauch?
Yet he needed me, needed me outside the bedroom to keep himself from falling
apart, emotionally and financially. I knew that, and so did he. As I wiped my
face and sat on the bed, I could hear loud noises from the corridor: again,
he'd got into trouble in the restaurant car. He'd done it in record time
tonight, I mused darkly; he'd probably tried to flirt with a man again, just to
pick up a fight.
Soon enough, two conductors shoved Torsten through the door.
"Don't you know who I am?" he yelled, as if on cue.
"No, and quite frankly, we don't care. Either you stay there until Stockholm or
we'll toss you out at the next stop."
When the conductors had left, Torsten crumpled onto the floor, his suit
wrinkled, his left eye already beginning to swell shut. "Peasants," he growled.
I sat on the edge of the bed and pinched the skin between my brows. "Are you
going to continue playing the spoiled aristo brat, or have you had enough for
the night?"
"No, I haven't had enough for the night," he barked.
"I can't tell you how much I want to slap you right now," I barked right back.
"Then why don't you?"
"Because I know you'd enjoy it. I hate seeing you like this; you know I do.
You're more than this and we both know it."
"More than what?" His eyes gleamed feverishly. "A weak, whining faggot?"
"You said it, not me."
He wiped his mouth and laughed. "Says the woman who'd prefer to be a child
between the sheets. Why is it that you're allowed to be a spoiled brat and I'm
not? Hmm?"
"Can we not do this? I'm tired."
He climbed in next to me and sighed theatrically. "We're both spoiled brats
with delusions of grandeur, and that's the end of it."
"I wouldn't say delusions," I laughed wryly. "I can tell you haven't seen what
our stocks are selling for."
He threw himself back on the bed and groaned. "Don't talk about business."
"If I do slap you, will you stop whining?"
"Perhaps."
"Get up."
With a mocking leer, he sat up next to me. "I thought you didn't enjoy being on
top."
"I don't. I'm doing it because you're a bastard."
His leer widened. "I love it when you talk dirty."
I slapped him, and immediately felt better. He only laughed at me, so I slapped
his other cheek, then the other until he'd stopped laughing.
He panted at me, his hair dangling upon his cheeks; he wiped blood from his
lip. I felt distant, not aroused at all; my desperation and anger had pushed me
into a state I could only describe as a lucid dream. I felt strangely calm in
this space, strangely detached, and I realised I preferred this to the agony,
the self-hatred I had been wallowing in but a few minutes ago. Even as his
breathing quickened, even as his eyes widened, even as his erection rose in his
trousers, I remained unaffected, an observer.
Thus, I continued to slap him. I wondered if this was what the true monsters
felt like, the murderers; if this was what a teacher felt like when
disciplining children. This was not a sadism born out of lust like Torsten's
was, but something greater than that: something a god felt when watching
mortals dancing to his will like puppets, when at any moment he could cut the
strings. It should have frightened me, yet the calm continued. I kept on
hitting him until my arm hurt, until my palm burned, until I could see a wet
spot of arousal on his trousers.
"Get on your knees," I said, calmly, softly.
He slid down onto the floor and knelt, looking up at me. He was staring at me
quietly, in awe, his entire face red from my blows. With them, I had wiped off
his drawn-on moustache, and despite the faint stubble where he'd tried to grow
it back, he looked very young. I'd never seen him so young, so open: a Torsten
split open by my hand. Again, something in the back of my mind told me I should
be frightened, that I truly did not want to see him like this, but it was as if
something greater took over me, then. In the East, they say certain deities
incarnate in human bodies to bring about justice, to lift humankind out of a
corrupted age. What possessed me in that moment was the opposite: it was the
Devil taking charge, beating weakness out of his servant, making Torsten
remember he was sworn to uphold the laws of chaos and sin.
I took his whisky tumbler from the bedside table. Without saying a word, I took
off my panties, squatted over it and pissed into it.
I held the glass out to him, yet didn't let him put his lips to it just yet.
"I am not going to do this ever again," I said, realising this the moment I
said it. It was not me speaking, but something else that was speaking through
me, calling him back into himself. "But you need to be reminded of something.
Tell me, Torsten. Who are you?"
He only stared at me, his eyes wide. He trembled.
"A weak, whining faggot," he said, thinking this was like the scenario he had
requested from the men in the shed.
I shook my head. "Not to me, you aren't. You are free to be that to other men,
but never to me. For me, you are something entirely different. What are you,
Torsten?"
I had cut the strings. He went quiet. Something in him rebelled, the part of
him that wanted to be the stubborn child, the part of him that wanted to slide
into laziness, idleness, remain a lifeless doll. But just as I needed to be the
child for him, he needed to master me, if not anything else in this chaotic
world he felt he could not control. I knew that; he knew that, and he looked at
me with something akin to fear, awe. The alcohol seemed to leave his head; his
back straightened and his eyes cleared a little. The doll had started to stir,
to become a man once more.
I looked at my watch. "It's just gone six o'clock, Torsten. What do you become
at six o'clock?"
He took the glass from my hand and downed it in one gulp. He got up and threw
the glass into the corner where it shattered into a thousand pieces. He
straightened to his full height and stepped close to me, closer, his midwinter
eyes piercing me to my very core.
"Get on your hands and knees."
My heart leapt into my throat. The spell was broken and I was within my body
again; my heart was pumping my blood fast through my veins, making me flush
throughout. My pussy swelled; my hands clutched the sheets. Yet, he had not
answered me. I sat on the bed, defiant, needing him to say it out loud.
"Who are you?" I asked him, staring into his eyes.
He narrowed his eyes, wrapped his hand around my throat and squeezed. "I'm your
father."
I closed my eyes and went limp in his grip. He threw me down on the floor and
fucked me there, fucked me on the broken glass until our hands and knees
smeared the floor with blood.
***
It was officially summer, now, but Stockholm felt wintry, cold. Both of us
became more weary, more sluggish, less passionate than we had been on warmer
latitudes. The endless light kept me awake at night and soon enough, I started
to rely on pills to get to sleep. But they didn't bring me happiness: they made
me even more tired during the day, made it harder for me to reach full orgasm
whenever we played. Torsten, too, suffered bouts of fatigue, of impotence,
usually taking it out on himself. He no longer descended into a childish mode
of being when I was around, but on certain nights, I could smell other men's
colognes on him, felt him flinch from pain when I reached for his ass.
Sometimes I would smell Mr. Ibrahim's sweet cigarettes from the living room,
peek through the keyhole and watch as Torsten lowered himself onto Ibrahim's
cock, wailing because of his size. Sometimes, Torsten even came home with
bruises, and I feared that he would break himself through this bizarre form of
penance.
I was no better; I must admit that. When Torsten was gone, I, too, would play;
mostly with women, because other men were utter disappointments after Torsten.
Nothing would turn me frigid quicker than having to instruct a lover, having to
tell someone what to do. Imagine trying to train a man to do what Torsten had
done in bed naturally, instinctively--"No, please keep on pulling my hair!"--
"Taunt me about what I want, no, abuse me more!" It was farcical.
I sensed that I was struggling to keep him mine; he must have felt the same way
about me, too. We had been so close that that was exactly why we had needed to
pull apart a little: unconsciously, both of us had strayed only so that we
might have the pleasure of returning into each other's arms once more, knowing
no other could ever compare. Neither of us was truly jealous of the other, but
it was as if something in us wanted us to give birth to that emotion, to
cultivate it. Thus, we played our games, flaunted our diversions, arranged
situations in which one would discover the other mid-act with some lover or
another. We tested how far we could push each other, how we could enrage the
other, to make the make-up sex as furious and as satisfying as possible.
And then, of course, there was the thrill of the risk of being caught by
others, the risk of repercussions that would have destroyed the name of Barring
utterly.
By the time winter arrived, we had become absolutely outrageous. He risked
arrest for homosexual acts in public; I for what would have amounted to
prostitution, had the police ever caught us.
In the financial district, I would watch him emerge into a back alley dressed
in his heavy coat, hat and scarf, the picture of the perfect gentleman. And
there, in broad daylight, he would kiss another man, hungrily, with tongues,
their breath escaping their mouths in small plumes of frost. And despite the
cold, he would go down on his knees in the snow and fellate the other man,
drink his come as I masturbated behind the corner. When the other man buttoned
up quickly and left, Torsten would turn to look at me. I would never forget the
image of him on his knees in the snow in his expensive suit, laughing, wiping
sperm from his mouth with his gloved hand.
He would watch me, too, as I went out wearing only my furs and my stockings,
sneaking close to public toilets where I could expose myself to passing men. If
any tried to touch me, Torsten would intervene. Often, I would remain standing
on the corner, wordless, letting a man stare at me, masturbate as he watched
me. I would fondle myself a little, show him my pussy was shaven, rouged; watch
as he came all over his hand. By the time I closed my coat and returned to
Torsten's limousine, he would have stirred up a mock rage, refusing to talk to
me as we were driven home, cold anger flashing in his eyes even as his cock
hardened in his trousers.
Once we were indoors, I would drop my furs, close my eyes and wait for the
click of his belt buckle. Sometimes the very sound of it would make my pussy
clench so hard I orgasmed; sometimes I came immediately after the first lash
fell. Sometimes I would wait until my entire body was red with welts and he was
grunting on top of me, filling me with his come the way the voyeurs hadn't been
allowed to, his teeth so sharp upon my shoulder they drew blood.
***
Instead of Christmas, we had taken to celebrating the year's turning on the
Solstice, in the heathen manner we both preferred. This year, Torsten promised
to give me something very special indeed, a present I would not forget. But
there was a price: for two weeks, I had to abstain from drugs, from alcohol. I
was to be pure, he told me. Pure as the driven snow.
"I want to see you become more innocent than you've ever been; a girl neither
of us has yet known," he said quietly, stroking my face as we lay in bed
together. "I want you to embrace that girl fully: not just in the evenings, but
twenty-four hours a day. Will you do that for me, Laura?"
The very thought terrified me but also intrigued me, aroused me beyond measure.
Most people had retired for their Christmas holidays; I had no business to
attend to, and we were free to do as we pleased. It was the only time of the
year we could even attempt such a thing, I realised--and who knows, we might
even be dead this time next year. Europe had gone to war, and while Sweden had
remained neutral, there was no guarantee of things remaining that way. I
pondered all of this for a while, caressing his fingers with mine.
"And what will you do?" I asked him. I wouldn't be able to do it without him--
if I was to become a child for the two weeks, to live in that role fully, I
would need him to take care of me, to protect me. "Will I have a Daddy for the
two weeks, twenty-four hours a day?" I asked, uncertain.
"He'll be all yours." He laced his fingers with mine. "That'll be my trial by
fire," he said wryly, smiling a little nervously. Even if it frightened him, I
could tell he was relishing the challenge already.
"I must say I'm impressed," I said. "It must be something very special indeed.
Can't you give me a hint?"
"It's a surprise," he said, kissing my nose.
"Daddy, please," I squirmed, grinning at him sweetly.
He smacked my buttock playfully, then stroked it. "Patience. I will give you
one hint, however, for motivation's sake. What I am going to do to you, I'm
going to do in public, in front of several pairs of eyes. That's why I want my
girl to be on best form."
"Oh." I swallowed, but as I did so, my pussy tightened so violently my hips
jerked, so that he felt it too.
He chuckled. "I knew you'd like that."
***
The first three days were absolute hell. I'd weaned myself off all kinds of
substances slowly, but on the seventh of December, he put everything under lock
and key, including me. It's as if he'd known I would react the way I did: I
couldn't concentrate on my role properly and when I did, I turned into a brat.
I would claw at his chest, hiss like a little hellcat, beg him for at least one
small drink before bedtime, but he wouldn't yield. I'd become so accustomed to
using something to help me sleep I barely slept for the first two nights, and
by day, I was a fatigued, fragile wreck, constantly bursting into tears. I was
definitely a test for him--so many times, I saw his eyes flash with the
expression that meant he'd had enough, one that usually meant he would run off
to the Old Town to drown his sorrows.
But now, there was only the click of the belt buckle.
Sometimes, it was enough for both of us when I knelt and lowered my head,
served him with my mouth. But on some nights, he had to hurt me, fuck me for
hours before I could sleep. Sometimes he would only chain my cuffs together and
arrange me on the bed in a fetal position, himself curling up behind me until I
calmed down. Most nights, he barely touched my pussy, let it grow wild with
hair, saying that this way, it would look prettier when he shaved it on the
Solstice. He wanted my pussy to look innocent, pink, he said; just like the
rest of me but for my ass. That, he played with every night, knowing only the
intensity of anal penetration would calm down my shivering.
After he had fucked my ass, he would reach inside it with his fingers, spending
hours caressing me from the inside. Again, I remembered the medical texts I'd
read about the nerve endings at the base of the spine, how their stimulation
could bring about extreme changes in the chemistry of the human body. He knew
this, too, massaging me with his hand, stretching me until I reached that state
where there were no more tears, no more laughter; where pleasure and pain
melted into a red and white silence.
On some nights, I was sure I could have taken his entire hand; nevertheless, he
held back and I was too far gone to question him. He was saving it up and I,
the obedient daughter, let him. Each night, after he had finished and I was
half asleep, he would lift his hand to my face and I would kiss it reverently,
grateful for the peace it had brought me.
Eventually, I would start to feel that peace during the day, too. When I looked
at myself in the mirror, I saw a hardness had started to melt and a Laura I had
never seen looked back at me through the reflection. This Laura was light and
airy, almost beatific where the old Laura had been dark and heavy. Now, there
was a mystical glow upon my face, a translucence to my skin, as if something
was illuminating me from the inside. I smiled more, laughed more, wore less
makeup; I hardly recognised myself in my reflection. It was a happy girl that
now looked back, one who lived only for the simple pleasures of toys and
sweets, of sitting on her father's knee. Torsten had released me from
everything that I'd been burdened with ever since my birth, and I shivered at
the realisation of this, at the extent of my liberation.
Yet it was a game, only a game; this made me sick to my stomach. A part of me--
no, no, the very core of me never wanted to go back. It's unfair, the child in
me whimpered and kicked and screamed; unfair.
Torsten, too, seemed changed: he was more stable in mood, now, even if he was
now carrying my burden, the entire burden of the Barring name upon his
shoulders. Having to care for me twenty-four hours a day had made him less
distressed; perhaps worrying about me had helped shift his focus from his own
anxieties and insecurities to me instead. Tending to me gave him power far
beyond the thrill he got from mere sexual games, and finally, he seemed to have
realised that on a conscious level, too. This new yoke of full-time fatherhood
was liberating him, too, liberating him from his constant drifting, not
allowing his weaknesses to control his every action.
I would catch him looking at me from the corner of his eye as if he had seen
something new, something extraordinary, as if some strange new animal had
wandered into his home. Sometimes when I bent over his knee and pulled down my
panties so that he could discipline me, I could feel a wetness upon the small
of my back, hear his breath hitching, even as he tried to cover this with his
blows. He would only murmur "This hurts me more than it hurts you," or another
cliché of the sort, but I wondered.
I thought back on the days when this hadn't been love, when this had only been
an understanding between two demons. Would we have ever begun to play this
game, had we known how much it would change us, shape us? Had we known that
something so perverse would eventually end up balancing us?
Yet I wouldn't say we had healed, let alone become wholesome or good. It was
more that we had discovered our true natures through each other, excavated them
from each other, then refined them with our play. It's as if we had been rough
matter and had honed each other, shaped each other, polished each other until
we had become perfect conduits of that which we cherished--that ruthless, all-
devouring Dionysian life force we had talked about in our letters. From mere
demons--creatures controlled by others, a confined girl and a drifting wastrel-
-we had become deities in our own right, seizing Destiny by the throat and
submitting it to our will.
We had reached that which I had so been yearning for, and the realisation of
this made me stagger, swoon with all that it implied. We were as close to
perfection--to the self-realisation the Eastern mystics made so much out of--as
was humanly possible. What was there left for us? Was there some final trial
awaiting us? The war? Not knowing this made me restless, but it also imbued my
every movement, my every step with a tremendous charge of power.
I wrote all of this down, told him of it in my letters--it was easier that way,
and somehow it solemnised these concepts, actualised them when I inscribed them
upon paper. His only reply to me, upon his watermarked paper, was an underlined
"Yes." A "Yes" to everything that had passed between us and was unfolding
before us, a "Yes" to the life force itself, the cry of "Yes" during orgasm. I
understood him and he understood me, echoing that "Yes" from his mouth to mine
as he pinned me to the bed and penetrated me, perfecting me as I perfected him.
It was this mood, a mood mystical in its depth that we reached the Solstice.
At six o'clock, he shaved me and rinsed me himself, spending hours flushing me,
opening me and slickening me on the inside. When he deemed me ready, he led me
to the rug by the fire and embraced me from behind until my stomach stilled.
"I'm going to take you out tonight, my child," he whispered against my neck.
"But I'd rather stay here," I slurred, pressing back against his warmth, gazing
at the flames.
"Your present is outside," he said. "Come."
He dressed me with his own hands that night. The costume he had chosen for me--
it was a costume rather than anything approximating reality--was an
exaggeration of a little girl's. He had made me dress up as innocents before,
but never had I resembled a porcelain doll so. I laughed as I saw the short,
white, frilled dress, the knee-high socks, the bows he put in my hair; yet it
was a laughter of delight. This was a storybook caricature of a child, and
that's what made it so pornographic, so arousing. Nobody could have mistaken me
for a real child: the swell of my breasts was too prominent, the roundness of
my thighs peeking from underneath the skirt far too womanly. While he went off
to dress, I gazed at the reflection of my bare pussy in my patent leather Mary
Janes and smiled.
He re-emerged in a white tie and tails, confident, beautiful. I fancied I had
never seen him so handsome; whatever fire had been consuming him from the
inside, it had now turned into a sharp brightness in his eyes. He had always
been charismatic, had always borne himself with dignity, but never had he
looked so controlled, calm, so full of command as he did tonight.
I dangled my legs from my chair and rocked back and forth with excitement,
gazing at him adoringly from head to toe.
"Are we going somewhere fancy, Daddy?"
He pulled on his white gloves. "You could call it that," he grinned. "The
Peacock."
The woman in me felt a jolt of heat between her legs; the little girl exclaimed
in shock.
"What's the matter?" he said, lifting my chin with his fingertips, his voice a
scolding croon. "A girl your age shouldn't have heard of places like that.
Who's been telling you tales?"
I cast my lashes down, demure. "My uncle told me it was a naughty place."
"It is," he smiled and gave my nose a little kiss. "And that's exactly why
we're going."
Of course, I knew full well what the Peacock was. It was a restaurant with a
most respectable façade, not one in the Old Town but in our quarter, where the
wealthy lived. To most of its clientele, it was a sophisticated night club: you
saw nothing but gentlemen in tuxedoes, ladies in evening gowns. But for a
price, certain selected patrons were allowed upstairs, to rooms painted and
draped with red, suffused with perfumes, echoing with cries and moans and the
occasional sounds of the lash. It was the finest brothel in Sweden, catering
only to the richest of the rich. And as the rich were jaded by the pleasures on
offer in ordinary houses of ill repute, the Peacock also catered to fetishes
and perversions few even knew existed. It was there that Torsten had taken me
to watch sex shows, to educate me in all kinds of acts possible and impossible.
Yet, on those nights I had been drugged and it had all seemed like a dream.
Now, I was stone cold sober as I ascended the dark wooden stairs, listening to
the exaggerated moans of the prostitutes, the gramophones blaring out the
lewdest jazz. The madame ushered us into one of the larger rooms, one in which
most of the sex shows had been held. This room, too, had been painted and
draped with deep reds, creating the sensation that you were walking into a
living womb. There was a small stage that took over nearly half the room; the
rest of the room was furnished with sofas, divans, armchairs and cushions from
which the patrons could enjoy the shows in comfort. There was a bed upon the
stage and next to it, a lectern, as if we were about to witness a lesson.
I sat on a divan close to the stage. "What are we going to see, Daddy?"
He stepped onto the stage and examined the lectern, knocking it playfully with
his cane. It nearly toppled over--papier-mâché, of course; swiftly, he caught
it and rearranged it by the bed.
He came to sit beside me on the divan. "We're not here to see anything, my
child." He cupped my cheek and smiled. "You are here to perform."
"But--" my heart burst into a gallop. The child in me was terrified, shocked
and she quivered beside her father, outraged. "No!"
"Yes," he said slowly, with a condescending patience. He patted my cheek.
"Tonight, my child, I am going to prostitute you."
I leapt up from my seat. "No!" I screamed, even if the woman inside me was
fully awake, stirred beyond her wildest imaginings, her nipples hardening with
the very thought. How often had I threatened to prostitute myself, how often
had I enjoyed having him catch me with other lovers! Yet, little Laura backed
away from her father slowly, shaking her head in horror. "You would never do
such a thing! Not to your own daughter!"
He straightened out to his full height and caught me by the wrist, twisting it
until my bones creaked. "I will do exactly as I please with you." His eyes
flickered with ice. "You've been an insatiable little slut and need to be
taught a lesson." He looked past my shoulder at the men who were now arriving
through the door. "Ah. Here are your customers."
"No!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. "Somebody, help!"
But of course, it was a brothel and such cries were never taken seriously. I
could scream as much as I liked, and I did: I shouted, kicked, clawed at him as
he started to drag me towards the stage. Filled with a panic that felt both
real and surreal, I struggled and pushed at his body, managed to slam him
against a wall. I slapped him, knocking off his top hat.
He stared at me, wiping his mouth, furious. "You little bitch," he snarled,
smiling, laughing with cruel delight as he pounced me and tripped me up with
his cane. He laughed even harder as he caught me by the hair, dragged me
towards himself by it, my cries those of real pain, now. I screamed in agony
and utter disbelief as he dragged me by my hair across the tiled floor, hauled
me onto the stage as if I weighed nothing, then snapped my cuffs to the
bedframe.
When he let go of me, some of my hair remained in his hand. Smiling at me, he
brushed it off, gave me a little slap for good measure and squatted in front of
me. "Now. This is a special privilege I have granted to only those few men who
can afford it. I have hand-picked them; for reasons which you will soon
discover. If you play your part well, I might even join them."
"But I only want you, Daddy," I pouted, through real tears.
He wetted his handkerchief with his tongue and smoothed out my smeared makeup.
"And you will have me, Laura. In the form of all these men, and more. You must
think of them all as extensions of me. My hands, my mouths, my cocks. Do you
understand?"
He took out my lipstick and daubed rouge onto my lips and cheeks, fixing his
little porcelain doll. I remained quiet, looking at him with true astonishment.
I couldn't believe this was happening. Both the adult Laura and the young Laura
were panicking, even if the adult Laura was standing upon the threshold of a
dream becoming reality. This was what I had been dreaming of before he had even
taken me out of Forssa. I had had no problem being fondled by strangers when I
had witnessed it all from behind the veil of alcohol, of drugs. But now, my
heart was pounding in my chest and I was sweating, panting. I couldn't breathe.
My lungs were moving but I couldn't breathe; soon, I was hyperventilating.
He took one look at me, put the lipstick back in his pocket and slipped his
hand to my throat.
"Look at me."
He choked me and I jerked, my entire body spasming where I sat, sprawled at the
foot of the cast-iron bed. He slapped me so hard the back of my skull hit the
iron bars and stars danced behind my eyelids.
He took me by the throat again. "Look at me."
The pain helped me focus. Slowly, slowly, I forced myself to look only into his
eyes, shivers of gratitude passing through my body whenever he loosened his
grip enough to let me draw in a lungful of air. As my lungs expanded, so did
his eyes, the blue of his eyes, such an endless blue it enveloped me whole. I
was suspended in that blue, a blue as vast as the sky itself, then disappeared
into that blue like a star is swallowed by the dawn.
He moved his hand to my cheek, still looking at me sternly, his voice patient.
"This is my present to you, my child. Now, what do we say when we're given a
treat?"
I choked on a sob and kissed his palm. "Thank you, Daddy. Thank you."
He caressed my hair and smiled. "That's better."
He kissed my forehead, then turned to look at our audience. About a dozen men
had arrived, all dressed to the nines just as he was, some more inebriated than
others. "I think we're ready to start. If I let you go, will you promise to
play your part like a good girl?"
I shivered, but again let myself be drawn to his eyes, guided by them. I knew I
wanted this. I knew I wanted to make my Daddy proud. Thus, I leaned into his
hand and nodded.
He undid my cuffs and guided me to stand up in front of the bed. He arranged my
costume so that it was immaculate, instructed me to stand with my hands clasped
in front of myself, my eyes cast down. From underneath my lashes, I glanced
around myself at the men gathered in the room: they came in all shapes and
sizes and colours, some of them young and handsome, some old and degenerate,
but most somewhere in between. I didn't know a single one of them, or at least
of the ones I saw: some of them must have travelled half the world to come here
on business.
It was then that I realised one of the men was more lithe inside his tuxedo,
more sensuous than the others as he lounged back in his armchair: from behind
the blue smoke of his cigar, his thin drawn-on moustache I recognised Helena.
It was she Torsten now gestured to from his lectern. "Please."
It was like a scene from a circus, of a stage magician at play: Torsten
standing tall in his top hat, waving his cane in a sweeping arc, Helena
standing between us as his assistant, I the pretty girl about to be subjected
to some death-defying stunt.
"Gentlemen." Torsten spread his hands out over the lectern, casting his gaze
over his audience, waiting until he'd captured their attention. "You all know
why I have invited you here tonight." He paused to listen to murmurs of
agreement and approval, leaned over the lectern and grinned. "Yes. It's not
often that an opportunity like this comes along, is it? Few men would ever sell
their daughters unless they were destitute. Even if they had not a penny to
their name, they would be prevented from doing so by things like common
decency," he sneered, "morality and something called shame." With an
exaggerated, feline laziness, he leaned his head on his hand and looked at me.
"Such subjective concepts, aren't they? Nobody has ever come up with a
satisfactory definition for them."
I looked at my shoes. He was putting on a magnificent show of devilry, of
relishing sin, yet I wondered how many of the men in the audience were truly as
perverse as we were. How many of them would go home to their stale, boring
lives with their greedy children, their frigid wives? To them, this was all a
show, a moment's diversion, yet to us, this was reality and I wondered if any
of them could even imagine it. How many of the men in the audience even
realised I truly was his daughter and not just some young prostitute he'd
picked up on the street? None. If we had told them we were genuinely related by
blood, would they have believed us? No, they wouldn't have. They were drifters,
just as Torsten had been before: in this room, Torsten and I were the only ones
who had gone deeper, the only ones who had sought true depravity instead of
only dabbling in it. He and I were the only ones here who had truly sold our
souls, and the realisation of this made my nipples harden against the fabric of
my dress, made me squirm in arousal, even though to the men it must've looked
like the squirming of a girl ashamed.
When I looked at Torsten again, it was as if he had acquired a halo: a scarlet,
sensual halo, as hot and as voluptuous as this womb-chamber, this unholy of
unholies. "Gentlemen," he continued. "I am not destitute. No, no; far from it.
I want you to know that tonight, I'm offering you my daughter because she needs
to be taught a lesson."
***
[http://snowgrouse.aikamuna.org/Fakes/torstenlaurapeacock.gif]
***
He stepped down from the lectern and stood next to me, he and Helena now
flanking me on either side. He brought his hand to my chin and lifted my face
for the crowd to see. "You see, this little minx here exhausts me with her
demands, always begging for a treat here"--he swept his hand across my breasts-
-"A favour there"--brushing his fingers over my skirts, "Keeping me up at all
hours." He raised his eyebrow meaningfully, to dirty laughs and whistles from
the crowd. He grinned. "I suspect she is insatiable, but the scientifically
oriented man I am, I have decided to put this to the test. And this is where
you come in, gentlemen."
The cries and laughs became louder. "When do we start?" some impatient soul
cried, to raucous cheers.
Torsten raised his hands in a placating gesture. "In a few minutes. But first,
a little demonstration of what your money has bought you."
Helena stepped behind me and without warning, she ripped my dress from my
shoulders, exposing my breasts. I gasped in true shock, instinctively covering
myself. Torsten must've fixed the dress somehow for it to have torn so easily,
I realised, and I shivered helplessly as I tried to grab my breasts, their size
making it look more like I was fondling them instead. The audience loved this,
cheered as I flushed in true embarrassment.
Swiftly, Helena grasped my arms with a masculine vigour and pinned them behind
my back. "You just stand right there, kitten," she whispered in my ear, her
voice warm with sadistic delight.
I stood there and breathed, watched the men as they watched me: some were
already hard in their trousers, impatient; some only leaned back languidly,
observant. Only my breasts were bare but a dozen men wanted to fuck me
nevertheless: I could see their desire glittering in their eyes, behind their
monocles, their glasses, underneath the shadows of their hats. When Torsten
nodded and Helena started to pinch my breasts, squeeze them, offering them to
the audience I squirmed, and this roused the men further: some of them leaned
forwards in their chairs, theirs mouth open from sheer lustful greed. We had
only just begun and I couldn't have asked for a more perfect present: I moaned
in secret delight and pushed back against Helena's body.
Torsten but laughed. "See what I mean, gentlemen?" He reached underneath my
skirt and felt for my pussy, making me yelp and squirm. I was so swollen, so
wet his touch felt unbearable; I panted in his face, staring at him in fury as
he parted my folds. As he found my clitoris I made another noise, another until
I was bent double, crouching between him and Helena, sobbing against his chest.
"She's wet," Torsten shot over his shoulder. "Would you like to have a look?"
Our audience had never been louder. Some began to pound the floor with their
canes, some whooped, others clapped. Slowly, as if revealing the result of a
magic trick, Torsten pulled the skirt up my thighs, higher, higher, teasing the
men for a while. When their racket became deafeningly loud, he flipped the
skirt up to my hips, displaying my pussy for all to see.
The audience cried out in delight, but swiftly grew quiet as they struggled to
see me. Some left their seats and came to sit nearer the stage to get a better
look. I closed my eyes in some reflexive shame at being so exposed; I pressed
my thighs closer together and they were wet.
"It's a beautiful little pussy," Torsten crooned in my ear with a kiss. "Let
Daddy show it to his friends; come on. Spread your legs a little."
I did as I was told, my legs shaking so much I could barely stand up. If it
hadn't been for Helena, I would have probably fallen over as Torsten slid his
hand to my pussy, spreading its folds. "There you are," he purred, as if
complimenting a child who'd just submitted to a painful medical ordeal. "There
you are," he said again, spreading me further. I stared into his eyes in
disbelief, in ecstasy, my pussy pulsing against his hand. He only smiled at me
and flashed his teeth, then turned to the audience once more. "See how much she
wants it?" He lifted his hand and twirled his fingers so the light caught my
wetness upon them.
He took a step aside and wiped his hand with his handkerchief, then took a
small spherical lollipop from his pocket. I thought it was another little girl
prop he was about to give me, but he unwrapped the lollipop and slipped it into
his own mouth instead. He sucked upon it whorishly, walking around me with his
hands in his pockets, measuring me from every angle. "She is most delicious,"
he said, the lollipop turning his words wetter, slicker. "But there's one part
of her that's sweeter than the rest. Helena?"
She pushed at me and I made a mock struggle--it helped me expend some of the
frustration of my hopeless arousal. I knew my struggling aroused Helena, too;
she was panting, laughing as she wrestled me onto my knees. She turned me
around so that I was facing the bedframe, my face down, my ass in the air. She
pinned my shoulders down and made sure I stayed put. I heard the creak of
chairs as some were moved closer to the stage, the men struggling to see me in
my new position. From between my legs I could see I was slick and wet, could
see the men in the front row had noticed it as well, saw them licking at their
lips. I shivered, my pussy clenching, clenching even more as Torsten spread my
buttocks.
"Ah, yes." He took the lollipop out and rested it on the small of my back so he
could spread my ass better. "This is the little hole I'm talking about. See how
red and swollen it is in comparison to her little pussy? Hmm? I'm sure you
can." The touch of his fingers in my cleft sent electric shivers through my
hips, to the point where each touch brought acute pain instead of pleasure:
such was the extent of my arousal.
"Such an innocent little girl, you would think?" he said, rubbing my anus,
spreading it slowly, opening it with his fingers. "Yet her ass is as well-used
as an old faggot's," he crooned, smacking my buttock, making me yelp. "Isn't
it?" he laughed, to murmurs of approval.
Helena sucked on two of her fingers and pushed them into my ass so swiftly I
jerked against her, gasping in pain. I was grateful for that pain; it took my
arousal down a little. Torsten spat on my ass and pushed some of his fingers
in, too--I did not know how many, but by now I was howling, howling in pain and
disbelief as I watched myself drip in strings between my thighs. Torsten and
Helena said nothing, and I realised I was the loudest person in the room. I
didn't care; I had to cry out as they tugged and pulled on my ass, spat on it
again, forced it open with their fingers. I howled and I sobbed, pretending I
was trying to escape when in truth, I was only trying to push myself deeper
onto their fingers.
"Shh, shh, shh, shh," Torsten tutted. "If Daddy gives you some candy, will you
be quiet?" They both slid their fingers out of my ass.
I wanted to answer him, but couldn't form words, only whimpers. As I had hoped,
feared, he sucked on the lollipop and swiftly, easily, he slid it inside my
ass. I cried out again, clenching around the lollipop helplessly, shivering as
Helena took my head in her lap and petted my hair.
"Please," I wailed. "Please take it out, please--"
He tilted his head and shook it mockingly. "What's the matter? I thought my
little girl wanted a treat." He turned to the audience. "She's always begging
me to fill her ass with something, and now she got her wish." He pulled out the
lollipop, then pushed it back in again, stretching my ass with it, ignoring my
cries. "And it's only fair of me to sweeten it a little for my friends, isn't
it?"
He knew exactly what he was doing, knew what the tugging motion on the muscles
of my ass was doing to me, knew how close to orgasm it had pushed me. "Please,
please, please--"
"Do you hear that?" he laughed. "She is desperate." He took the lollipop out
and raised it with a flourish. "Now, before I ask you gentlemen to form an
orderly queue, let me just show you what she does to things that have been in
her ass."
He held the lollipop out to me. I flashed him a glare, yet my pussy clenched so
hard my entire body spasmed in Helena's lap. "You bastard," I whispered under
my breath and he grinned, knowing exactly what I meant by it, recognised it for
the endearment it was.
Helena let me go and I turned around, making a show of it, licking and sucking
the lollipop as lasciviously as I could, fellating it while I kept looking into
Torsten's eyes. He narrowed his eyes and hissed at me, as if it was he I was
sucking, his cock stirring in his trousers.
"Enough," he snapped; he snatched the lollipop from me and tossed it aside.
"Get on the bed, my child."
Helena led me to the bed, arranging me upon it on all fours so that the
audience had a clear view of my ass, my pussy. She sat beside me on the bed and
kissed me, slipped her hand to my clitoris and chuckled into my mouth.
"He promised I could have you first. So thoughtful of him, don't you think?"
"Oh--"
She took my hand and led it between her legs. "Touch it."
My hand closed around a hardness, a cock much harder than a man's. She only
nodded. "I promised to show you my cock, didn't I? Go on. Have a look."
I undid her fly and swallowed. The red rubber cock, attached to her hips with
straps was as large as Torsten's toys, larger than most men's cocks. It would
hurt more than any of the others, and we all knew it: I cursed both her and
Torsten in my mind. I looked up at her and she grinned down at me, rocked her
hips a little. "Give it a little suck; there's a good girl."
So there I knelt, sucking Helena's cock with as much devotion as if it were a
cock of flesh and blood, knowing what the sight was doing to the men gathering
on the stage, waiting their turn. Slowly, I moved my head from side to side,
wetting her cock, swallowing it, half in show, half because I was desperate to
make it as slick as possible. Behind me, Torsten was watching, stroking my
buttocks, making no move to wet my ass any further.
"There are but two rules," he spoke to the men as they threw off their hats,
shrugged off their tailcoats, undid their trousers. "One, her pussy belongs to
my cock alone. You are allowed to kiss it or finger it, however. Two," he said
and tapped my ass with his thumb, "whatever you do, you must finish inside her
ass. She's always wanted her ass full of sperm, and we can't let her down, can
we?" He withdrew and smacked my buttock. "Otherwise, you may do whatever you
want with her," he purred, taking Helena's place as she knelt behind me and
laid the tip of her cock on my ass.
When she first started to push inside, the pain sobered me, almost killing my
arousal completely: the artificial cock was so hard against the muscles of my
ass I feared she would tear them. What if she should damage me now, right at
the start, hurt me so much this entire scene was to become but agony? She might
even kill me, or the men after her might--I clutched the sheets with my fists,
pale; cold sweat broke out upon my back. "Please go slowly," I whispered.
Torsten took my head in his lap and petted my hair. "What's the matter? Where's
my brave girl now?" He knew I was in pain but he was lapping it up, a part of
him exacting revenge for all those times I had given myself to others. "Didn't
you say you would let me do anything to you? Hmm?"
Helena withdrew a little, her voice stern. "Torsten." I did not see her face,
but the glance Torsten shot back at her was slightly disappointed.
"All right," he grumbled and dug out a small bottle of glycerine from his
pocket, tossing it to her.
Thus, being fucked by a woman first saved me; I whispered a prayer of gratitude
as she slicked me gently, pushed in so much glycerine it was dripping over my
pussy. She fucked me with her fingers until I relaxed, until my body felt warm
again, until I was moaning against Torsten's hip.
"Is that better?" Helena asked and pushed her cock against my ass once more.
"Yes," I whispered over my shoulder.
She was beautiful as she knelt there, haloed by the red lights, the Moroccan
lanterns, framed by the brocade curtains. Some strands of her hair had escaped
her ponytail, curling auburn against her cheeks, framing her wicked grin, her
flashing eyes. Whenever she was aroused her eyes became a dark green, as green
as Torsten's were blue and a sudden flush of heat came over me; I softened
underneath her.
"Breathe, my little kitten," she said and smiled at me. "Breathe".
I did, and little by little, she slid inside of me. For a moment, only she and
I existed in the room; even Torsten faded away as Helena penetrated me,
blinding me with the pleasure-pain of being stretched so completely. The ridges
of her cock hurt me inside but I forced myself to relax, to breathe again. As I
exhaled, my exhalation became a moan; I could only pant against Torsten's hip,
my tongue dry upon the fabric of his trousers. And all the while, Helena
stroked the small of my back, my hips, rocking softly in and out of me, holding
me as I quivered around her. Dimly, I wondered how she was deriving
satisfaction from this--did the root of the cock rub against her clitoris,
becoming an extension of it? Or, knowing of her tendencies, was it the simple
sight and feel of me submitting so, being cleaved open so that did it?
Whatever it was, she was moaning on top of me, panting heavily as she fucked me
faster, rocking her hips into me. She leaned over me and caught my breasts,
squeezing them, pinching them as she fucked me with shorter strokes. "I'm going
to make you come," she murmured in my ear. "Are you ready?"
"Yes," I said, turning to kiss her over my shoulder. Torsten kissed her, kissed
me, drank from both our mouths as she sped up her thrusts, angling her hips so
that I thought I was going to pass out there and then. When she slipped her
hand to my pussy and started to rub my clitoris, finding exactly the right spot
from experience, I screamed into Torsten's mouth, convulsing around her. She
flicked her hand and I fell into release, thrashing, helpless.
Quickly, Torsten clasped my face in his hands and took my orgasm from me.
Greedily, he sucked every shiver and moan out of me, as if to remind me that
every tremor that now ran through me belonged to him and that now he was only
taking it back, taking back the pleasure he was gifting me with tonight.
It was to him I moaned a weak "Thank you" as Helena withdrew; only afterwards
did I answer Helena's kiss and thank her as well.
She cupped my face for a moment and smiled. "You will be all right." She wiped
her cock with a handkerchief, lit a cigarette and sat beside the bed to keep
watch.
Within seconds, the men were upon me. I screamed as the first cock penetrated
my ass, already sore from Helena; I even refused to look up at the man, leaving
myself at the mercies of pure sensation, the force of Desire itself. I was the
busiest, the most desired whore in this brothel tonight, all of these men
fighting for the privilege of lapping at my pussy, feeling me with their
fingers, kissing me, groping my breasts. And all of them were Torsten
multiplied, his cocks plunging into my ass one after another, into my mouth and
back into my ass again until I was burning up from ecstasy. Torsten's hands
were everywhere, slapping me, pinching me, his mouths drooling, licking,
biting, devouring my flesh. All of my skin was covered in his bites; my pussy
and my ass and my mouth sore from his beards, moustaches, cocks, fingers; my
face red and wet from spit, sperm and tears.
Torsten held me all throughout, held me as I sobbed, as I was penetrated from
the front and from the back, used purely as an object of his pleasure. As yet
another man pushed his cock inside my ass, now slick from come, I wondered how
much each of them had paid for me. I was moaning too hard, too incoherent to
ask Torsten as I was taken and taken, but I still wondered: this man who had
now fucked my ass and whose cock I was now choking on--had he paid more than
the rest? How much for each hole; how much for each slap, each lick?
Yet, I served all equally, submitted to Torsten's desire, theirs. I sucked and
fucked and pleasured the old, the young, the fat, the thin, the ugly, the
handsome, white and yellow and brown, with all the passion I could muster. And
in this lay yet another gift, I realised: just as control had been taken from
me, just as responsibility and shame had been taken from me, so had my
discrimination been taken from me. I was no longer allowed to make a
distinction between one man and another; I was only here to serve what seemed
like the male sex itself, the masculine half of the life force. I was here only
to embrace it, wet it, suck it, consume it with my flesh. I wondered if this
was what Torsten had been planning all along, and whether or not this was mere
coincidence, I revelled in my realisation. I felt like some whore-priestess of
old, some sacred harlot: as if Venus herself had possessed me and pushed Laura
aside. I was no longer myself; I had transcended myself and in doing so, I had
become something greater than myself.
Soon, the stage turned into a true orgy worthy of Heliogabalus himself, and
just like his predecessor, Torsten relished every minute. He moved aside from
the bed so the men could force their cocks into my mouth, into my slickened
hands, into my ass simultaneously. I was angry at myself for being only able to
take four men at a time in this fashion, that four was the absolute limit. I
wanted to be filled completely; in my delirium, I wished for every cock in the
room to penetrate me, flood me with sperm all at once. My pussy yearned for
penetration, but Torsten had denied me that, and even if I knew he was saving
that particular pleasure for himself, I hated him for it.
I growled, furious from frustration, flashed my eyes at Torsten. Yet at the
first sign of my disobedience, he stepped in to punish me, merciless in his
discipline. He leaned over me and spat on my back, grabbed my hair and spat on
my face, his spit falling on the cock I was sucking. He slapped my ears,
slapped my back and buttocks and I found myself coming, screaming, squeezing
all the cocks I was taking. I sobbed, coughed spit as the man in front of me
howled, slid his cock out, hurried to take his turn behind me and shot his seed
inside my ass.
Torsten sat in front of me, wiped spit from my face and kissed me. I adored
him, murmured wordless sounds of worship into his mouth, wrote them onto his
tongue with mine. He said nothing as the men I'd been stroking both took turns
fucking my ass, filling it until I was overflowing. Some of the men had come
for seconds; I had lost count of how many ejaculations I had taken inside
myself. My ass couldn't stay closed any more and as I tried to clench it, some
of the sperm dribbled out over my pussy, the slick sensation making me whimper
in whorish awe. I was premenstrual and didn't fear pregnancy as such: still, I
shivered at how full I was, at the weight of the fluid in my guts. I was a
wreck, covered in sweat and sperm, my dress torn to shreds and he had filled
me, filled me completely, inundated me with himself.
Laughing, smiling, he took my hair in his fist and kissed me, kissed me,
drinking in my wretched state. "One more," he said. "It's a very good friend of
mine; you'll like him. Do you think you can take one more man?"
I wouldn't have been able to say no even if I'd wanted to. I only kissed his
mouth and nodded.
Torsten glanced behind me. "Mr. Ibrahim."
"Oh--" I was taken over by both delight and a little fear. Ibrahim was a
beautiful man; whenever I had seen him with Torsten I had been jealous. He was
taller than Torsten, enormous and muscular, with a voice and eyes like honey. I
had no idea he cared for women at all, so when he touched me, I absolutely
melted in his arms. When he knelt behind me and embraced me, holding me against
the warmth of his body, I quivered in pleasure all over, just when I had
thought I was beyond all arousal. When Ibrahim tried to lift me up, Torsten
touched his shoulder and shook his head. I presumed it was so that I wouldn't
flood the bed with come, so I remained in place, clenching my ass. How the
sperm would stay inside me when that was inside me, I didn't know, a little
hysterical laugh dying inside my throat as I looked at Ibrahim's cock. It was
as beautiful and as huge as he was; I remembered the high-pitched, helpless
noises Torsten had made whenever he'd been penetrated by it.
"Please be gentle," I whispered as Ibrahim curled on top of me.
He turned my head to kiss my mouth and oh, even his kisses tasted like honey.
"I'll be gentle with you," he smirked, then raised his eyebrow playfully. "I
can't promise to be that with your bastard of a father, however." He lifted his
gaze and I could feel Torsten shivering.
Torsten's fingers tightened in my hair as Ibrahim slowly lowered himself inside
of me; oh, Torsten knew exactly how I felt right now. I tried to scream, but no
sound would come out. I was fuller than I had ever been tonight; oh, Ibrahim's
cock was the size of two and I could feel sperm trickling out of my ass as he
pushed in deeper.
He can't have been more than halfway in, and already I felt I was going to
faint: I stiffened and my eyes rolled back in my head. His cock was almost as
wide as Torsten's hand, the weight of his body enormous as he pushed inside, as
he crushed me against his hard muscles, his heaving chest. I felt I would
suffocate, die there and then, yet he moved inside of me gently, gently for
such a huge man. I was so far gone I didn't think I would even be able to
orgasm, now; I only lay there, let him fuck me, let myself open wide around his
power, his strength.
Dimly, I could hear wet noises, but they didn't come from me: I heard Torsten
whimper and realised Ibrahim was kissing him, holding him by his hair. Torsten
had never undressed during this orgy, had never masturbated, yet now I could
feel his cock hard against my face as I rested in his lap. Again, he whimpered,
lifted up a little so that he was kneeling, trembling beside me. I forced
myself to emerge from my trance for a while and saw that Ibrahim had laid
Torsten's head over the small of my back, holding his head down, forcing
Torsten to watch as he fucked me. Torsten didn't protest; he was still
shivering, his hands fidgeting by his sides, as overcome by Ibrahim as I was.
Ibrahim sped up his thrusts, making me cry out in pleasure-pain, making me claw
the sheets. I could take it, I could take it, I must take it. I slid my hand to
my pussy to relieve the pain, masturbated to strengthen the pleasure. He
couldn't last much longer, not with the pace he was keeping, I thought. It was
nearly over. Ibrahim purred softly under his breath, something that I couldn't
make out, something that sounded like his native French. He sped up further,
and now his purr became louder; he twisted his hand in Torsten's hair, slamming
his head against the small of my back.
"What kind of a man sells his own daughter? Hmm?" he snarled at Torsten,
huffing through his nostrils.
"I do," Torsten panted up at him, and I could hear a quiver of fear in his
words, even if he tried to mask it as defiance.
"You are a bastard," Ibrahim growled, yet there was an amused note to his
voice. "And I know what you want."
Torsten panted against my back; I could feel him grinning back at Ibrahim.
"Really? Whatever could that be?"
Ibrahim laughed out loud, a rich laugh, and pulled out his cock. "Suck."
I gasped, my hand flew faster on my clitoris; my empty ass clenched shut
violently as I turned to look at them, as I saw Torsten lift his head, grinning
so hard all his teeth were showing.
"Whatever makes you think I would do that?" Torsten said, stroking Ibrahim's
stomach.
Ibrahim shook him by the hair again, then lifted his gleaming cock to Torsten's
lips. "Because you're the sort of man who loves to taste his daughter's ass off
other men's cocks."
Torsten let out an undignified whimper. And like the faggot he was, like the
incestuous father he was, he took Ibrahim's cock and sucked it, sucked my taste
off it with relish. Two of his favourite sins, combined--yet it was not he who
came, but I did: I screamed from between my teeth as I ground my pussy into my
knuckles, my pussy and my ass clenching helplessly as I watched. Wave after
wave of pleasure crashed through me as I watched Torsten worship Ibrahim's
cock, watched him suck my ass, other men's sperm off it, listened to the choked
moans in his throat as he tried in vain to swallow it all.
But now it was Ibrahim who choked on a moan: he wrenched Torsten's head aside
and plunged his cock back inside of me so fast it hurt; a stab of pain flashed
through my guts. I screamed as he pushed me into the bed, fucked me so hard the
entire bed creaked. He roared on top of me, howled and grunted as he pushed as
deep inside of me as he could. His massive body crushed me into the sheets, his
hips jerked erratically as he came and came inside of me, and I swear I could
feel each spurt as he filled me.
"Please--" I was shivering, and reluctantly, he pulled off me and left the bed.
In shock, I lay there for long minutes, clutching the sheets, shaking, panting,
nearly unconscious. I barely noticed as Torsten and Helena sat on either side
of me, taking turns petting my head, offering me small sips of water.
Yet the scene was not over: Torsten must've promised the men something more, as
I could still hear them talking to each other, could smell them smoking in the
audience.
Torsten reached underneath the bed and took out a small glass bowl, a dessert
bowl by the looks of it. He also took out a ladies' hand mirror. I looked at
him, perplexed.
"Time for your reward," he said as Helena once again arranged me on all fours.
"Helena, do you have another mirror?"
Helena rummaged in her pockets and took out a powder compact with a mirror on
the lid. "Would this do?"
"That's excellent. Give it to her; you come and hold the mirror at this end. I
want her to watch herself, you see." He lifted out the bowl.
Helena looked at him for a while, bemused. Suddenly, her face broke into the
wickedest of smiles. "Ah. I see what you mean."
Blearily, I took the compact from her. "I don't."
"You will, in a little while," Torsten murmured and pressed the lip of the bowl
against my pussy. He glanced over his shoulder at Helena, who was holding the
mirror, then back at me. "Can you see what I'm doing?"
"Oh, God." Through the mirror I saw my ass, or what had become of it: my entire
anus was distended, swollen, spasming, spattered with come. It was like a
ravaged mouth, gaping, clenching shut and then opening again, too stretched to
close completely. It was more swollen than I'd ever seen his, and that made me
shiver so that a little streak of sperm escaped my ass and slid into the bowl.
"There. That's exactly what I want you to do," he purred. "Shit it out."
It was surreal, would have felt unreal even if I hadn't seen it through mirrors
like in some twisted funhouse: I groaned in disgust and delight as I pushed and
watched twelve men's sperm sluice out of my ass into Torsten's bowl. Some of
the men even made disgusted noises and I could hear some leaving: the act was
too much even for them. Others made noises of disbelief, fewer still noises of
approval. And all the while, Torsten looked at me and laughed, rubbed and
tugged my ass open, coaxing me to push out more sperm.
"Good girl," he whispered, "good girl," in the loveliest, sweetest voice of his
I had ever heard.
I had made my Daddy proud. I buried my face in my arms and sobbed quietly, so
that only he and Helena could hear. I arched my back and squatted, pushed until
no more sperm came out.
Torsten stepped back and squatted on the floor. He held out the bowl. "Come
here."
Slowly, gently, I slid off the bed onto all fours. "Little kitten," I could
hear Helena purr; she petted my head and sat on the bed to watch.
But all I could see was my Daddy, looking at me with a perverse love, a perfect
love in his eyes. I knelt at his feet, adoring.
He reached out to caress my cheek. "You've come so far, my little girl," he
whispered, so quietly that perhaps only I could hear him. And in his voice I
could hear Forssa, the rustling of birches, all we had ever wanted to be, all
we now were. He held the bowl out to me. "Now, what do we say when we're given
a treat?"
I bent my head to the bowl, never taking my eyes off him. "Thank you, Daddy."
With complete gratitude and complete love, I dipped my tongue into the bowl and
drank every drop he offered me.
***
After everyone had left, we lay curled around each other on the bed. I hurt
everywhere, I was a complete mess: my dress hung in tatters around me, my socks
had rolled down to my ankles and I'd lost one of my shoes.
Torsten, however, had remained fully dressed. His white tie was a little askew
and his slicked-back hair had become slightly loose, but apart from that, he
looked infuriatingly collected and calm. I shuddered a little in fear and a
masochistic delight as I thought of what still lay ahead of me that night, when
he would finally demand his share.
He noticed my stirring and caressed my cheek. "Penny for them."
"What about you, Daddy? You've barely touched me tonight."
He kissed my nose. "I'm getting there, my darling. I was just wondering if you
had rested enough to receive your other presents."
"I'm sore," I admitted. "When are we going home?"
"Soon." He tapped my cheek with his thumb. "I would like to reward you before
that, however. Now that there's nobody watching us."
"What is it?"
"Close your eyes. Don't open them until I tell you to."
I did as I was told and he began to kiss me. He did not make a move to take off
his clothes, I noticed, only kept on kissing me, caressing my hair, holding me
against his body. It felt wonderful, now, after the violence of the orgy;
almost chaste, almost how I presumed normal lovemaking to feel like. He had
never held me so tenderly, so sheltering, so protective: he clutched me as if
he wanted to swallow me inside of himself.
And it was exactly because I could not see his face, could not anticipate his
touches that I now swooned so. He hugged me, then let go to run his hands all
over my body, to feel me where I was sticky. His fingers trembled as he brushed
them over the slickness of my distended anus; a little gasp snapped in his
throat as he kissed my pussy slow and long.
I sighed underneath him, floating in slow, lazy waves of happiness, of
pleasure. All tension had been drained from me by the orgy, and now he was
pouring me full of sweetness, filling me to the brim with the heaviness of
delight. I would have cried if I could, but I was beyond even that; that's how
happy I felt, released from everything that had bound me, floating freely
inside of him. I was heavy, I was floating, I was both, I was all: I was
anything and everything he wanted me to be, flowing with his touches, becoming
the melody he was now unwinding from us with his hands, his mouth, his soft
sighs.
The bed creaked; I could feel him getting up. "Sit up, my child. Open your
eyes."
I did, and he was beautiful, haloed by the red lanterns. I smiled so hard my
face ached, and couldn't not embrace him: still kneeling on the bed, I hugged
his waist, hugged him tight and sighed in utter happiness. "I love you, Daddy."
He petted my hair. "I know. I'd like to give you something, something I haven't
given you before. It's one of the reasons why I brought you here, why I put you
in that dress."
"Yes?" My breathing quickened a little. The very idea of him having dreamt of
this for two weeks, or longer, of him having had fantasies of me made my heart
beat faster. I could not bear the idea of letting him down, whatever it was. He
had made me into something so beautiful it would have been a crime to destroy
his vision.
And now it seemed to me that whatever he had planned was more important than
the orgy, something that stirred emotions far deeper, darker within him. He
stroked my cheek and stared into my eyes. His own breathing had grown faster; I
could see the veins on his temples standing out a little. He tried to speak,
but no words would come out--I could tell he was struggling to compose himself.
I said nothing, only clasped his hand with mine and looked up at him, open,
waiting, with love in my eyes.
"Laura--" he began.
"Yes, Daddy?" I smiled up at him and kissed his palm.
He burst into a snorting laugh, shook his head as if he couldn't believe
himself. "Would you do something for me?"
"What is it?"
He gestured towards the centre of the stage, a little further away from the
bed. "Kneel over there."
As I got off the bed, I found my other shoe. I put it on and walked to the back
of the stage, my heels clicking over the hard linoleum. I turned to him to see
if I was where he wanted me; he nodded, and I knelt down, waiting. He walked
over to me with his hands in his pockets--he had straightened out his hair and
his tie and now looked as if he hadn't been taking part in an orgy at all. If
anything, he looked almost shy as he glanced down at his shoes, kicking the
stage with his heel.
"We don't have a floor like this in our apartment, do we?" he smirked. "It's
not as easy to clean."
I shivered. I could guess what he was thinking, but I wanted to hear it, wanted
to hear it from his own mouth.
"Tell me, Daddy."
He caressed my hair with both hands and pressed my face to his thigh. His voice
was solemn, his words even a little archaic, as if we were performing a mystery
play. "Others may have claimed you tonight, but none can claim you as I," he
said. "Is that not true, my child?"
I inhaled deep from him, deep from his body. I was so relaxed, so happy he drew
me into his mood, this divine mood of his, and I fancied I was submitting at
the feet of some ancient deity, received into his grace after having passed a
physically exhausting initiation rite. "None can claim me as you," I whispered,
stroked his thighs and shook my head. None knew our mystery, our rites, and I
knew he wanted me to perform the most private one of them all, the one that had
bound us together from the start.
Quietly, he unzipped and took his cock out, soft, so delicate and warm against
my cheek. "Then will you let me wash you clean, my child?"
"Please," I whispered, kissing his cock softly, shivering in anticipation.
He pushed at my shoulders a little. "This time, I don't want you to touch me,"
he said and smiled. "Can you do that for me?"
My pussy tightened; even in my relaxed state I felt a jolt of arousal run up
and down my spine. "Of course, Daddy," I smiled back at him.
He took his cock in his hand and stroked my lips with his fingertips. "Then,
open your mouth."
I did, and instinctively, closed my eyes. He didn't tell me to open them; I
heard a little hiss of delight from him as he saw me relax so completely,
surrender so utterly, so easily.
Before long, the first drops of his piss hit my tongue; I gasped and struggled
to capture the stream in my mouth, my lips trying to close around it
immediately. But that reflex also meant that his piss splashed onto my face, my
chest: he chuckled deep as he saw me blink my eyes open in realisation. I
moaned as I opened my mouth again, stared at him in awe as he pissed into me,
over me, deliberately drenching me.
He went slowly, dribbled, purred a little in his throat as he wet me and I
shuddered in small orgasms, shuddered at the extremity of this act. And I loved
it all, loved him for it, loved the warm, golden rain of piss soaking through
my dress, running over my hair as he moved his cock here and there to cover me
completely. I coughed as he hit my mouth again, I blinked as the stream hit my
eyes, as he washed my entire face with his piss. He was washing me clean, just
like he'd said. The day he had found me, I had had my baptism re-confirmed by
the Church; but now the Devil himself was washing that baptism off me
completely, immersing me, saturating me with himself.
He was the Devil, he was Zeus and I was Danaë taken by his golden rain,
completely claimed by the one I worshipped, the one I adored. Before he had
even finished I was sobbing, dry and tearless sobs of love, shaking with the
perfection of the moment. He had purified me, sanctified me, the girl kneeling
there covered in his bitter, salty-sweet piss, bejewelled by his drops of gold
glimmering in the lamplight.
And like a god, like the Devil he stood before me: he had tucked himself back
into his trousers, lit a cigarette and stood before me in an aureole of smoke,
full of power and beauty.
I smiled and I smiled, my voice trembling with utter love, utter contentment.
"I love you, Daddy."
He leaned over and kissed my forehead. "And I love you, my beautiful, beautiful
daughter."
***** Chapter 12 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Thankfully, there was a shower in the back room, along with a change of
clothes. I was too exhausted to walk, so we took a taxi home. I lay my head in
his lap and watched as the snow fell around us, cocooning us in white silence.
He didn't break that silence, not even as we got out, not even in the elevator;
he only held his arm around me and helped me to stand up, as tenderly as any
loving father would have.
The maid had gone home by now, so he went into the kitchen himself to heat up
some mulled wine. I staggered in to join him but he took one look at me, said
"Come on," and picked me up in his arms as if I were as light as a feather. I
took this as a sign that I was to keep on playing the child and I didn't
protest; I was not in a hurry to return to adulthood just yet. My heart flipped
as he lifted me up; an unspeakable sense of freedom washed through me. The act
was rife with symbolism to begin with, but beyond all the ritual significance
of it, I again felt he was liberating me of all that weighed upon me just as he
was now liberating me from gravity. I clung to him, clung to the moment, closed
my eyes and breathed in the smell of snow on his collar.
The moment ended all too briefly as he laid me down on his bed. "Aren't you
going to join me, Daddy?" I asked.
"In a minute," he shot through the door and went to rescue the wine.
I was cold. Quickly, I changed out of my borrowed clothes--God knows what they
must've been infested with--and pulled on a new pair of plain panties and a
sleeveless undershirt. They might have lain on the chair for erotic purposes,
but I was still so exhausted I didn't care. I was so tired I didn't want to
leave the room in search of warmer clothes, so I crawled underneath the quilt
and curled up on the side of the bed that was closer to the ceramic stove.
I had fallen asleep by the time he arrived. He entered the room clad only in
his dressing gown and pyjama bottoms, carrying a tray with two glasses and a
teapot. He set the tray on my bedside table, took the pot and poured both
glasses full of fragrant, steaming mulled wine.
"You're not supposed to put mulled wine in a teapot," I mumbled as I sat up,
rubbing my eyes as he lit the lamp beside the bed.
"It looked nicer than a thermos," he grinned as he offered me my glass.
He took his own glass and joined me in bed. We sat there for quite some time,
sipping our wine in silence. I cupped the glass with both hands, warming my
fingers with it. The drink tasted heavenly: the heat of the red wine fortified
with spirits and spices poured down me, blossomed within me until I felt warm
all over. Perhaps he had slipped something extra into the wine, but I didn't
care: it was my first alcoholic drink in two weeks, and it felt as if I was
drinking in warmth and mirth itself. I no longer felt tired, only languid,
sensuous. I set my glass aside, stretched until my joints creaked and then
curled up against him, positively purring.
"Thank you for the wine, Daddy."
He took one last sip from his own glass and put it away, then gathered me into
his arms. "Don't tell anyone I let you drink."
From his words, I sensed he wanted to wind back time: these were the words of
the Torsten I had known as a child, the dangerous, exciting man who had been
teaching me bad habits. There was something in him that yearned for that child
in Forssa, a child even younger than the girl I had been for him these past few
weeks. This was what the past two weeks had been leading up to, I realised:
even the orgy had been a method of sating the older Laura, so that she could
step aside and let the younger Laura emerge. With all the heated violence of
the orgy, he had burned away at me until I was exposed to the core.
And now that we were at home, in our intimate space, only that core Laura
remained; only the core Torsten remained. He wanted me upon the cusp of my
sexuality, in my unviolated state, the child he had never been able to claim on
the pier. And more than anything, I yearned to be that child, yearned to play
with the man who had been my only friend. Thus, I let myself slip back, made
myself a little smaller, squirmed against him playfully and smiled.
"Cross my heart. Just like I won't tell anyone about the cigarettes."
The look of delight on his face made my heart flip again. I had understood him;
he had understood me. He cupped my face with his hand and looked into my eyes
in that relaxed, yet pointed way he always used to subtly manipulate those
around him. As a child, I'd let him hypnotise me for cheap parlour tricks--
I remembered his wicked smiles at those summer parties when he'd rendered me
into a state where I could only meaow like a cat or croak like a crow. And now
the memory of those summers hurt my chest, cracked it open, opened that space
in me that was always lonely and yearning to be filled. Whenever the child me
had felt happy, whenever she had felt truly alive, that happiness had been
snatched from her all too soon, leaving her consumed by a permanent, awful
hunger.
He saw the change on my face; felt me quiver, saw me blink back tears. His
voice, his very breath now imbued with suggestion he hushed me a little,
stroked my cheek with his thumb. For a while, he searched my eyes, waited until
my breathing slowed down, until it matched his.
"How old are you?" he whispered.
I clasped his hand on my cheek. "I am twelve," I said, and in that moment, I
was. I was no longer aware of the present; the colour of his eyes encircled me,
enclosed me in that past state of being. If I tried to reach outside of this
space I was now in, I found only emptiness. Thus, I drew myself back into my
body, one that was no longer that of a whore but that of a virgin. I was
untouched, pure, but on the inside I was dark and red and ripe like a
pomegranate: ready to be split open, yearning to be devoured.
And he could give me that; just like in a dream, the strangest of things now
made perfect sense, bent perfectly to logic. Torsten had arrived and he was my
long-lost father; I was amazed that I had never discovered this. It was his
photo that sat on my bedside table in Forssa; why had I not recognised him? And
not only was he my father, he was also my betrothed, come to take me away from
my seclusion, my orphanhood, to shatter this glass house of virginity that my
true self had been confined in for far too long.
Slowly, precisely he pulled back the quilt until we both lay on the bed
uncovered. He switched off the bedside light, then laid his hand on my hip.
"Where are you?"
I could hear the rustle of the birches outside my bedroom window. It was light,
too light and I couldn't sleep. I stared at the white swirls of paint on the
ceiling. "I'm in my bed."
"What are you thinking of?"
"I'm thinking of you," I whispered, with all the frustration and anger that had
run through me that night. "And how much I hate Grandfather. I know it was he
who sent you away; that it wasn't an urgent business matter. You were supposed
to stay with us for two whole weeks. I'd been looking forward to those two
weeks all summer, and I hate him." I choked back tears. "He's ruined my entire
summer."
"But I'm right here, Laura. Close your eyes. Can you hear me?"
I swallowed my tears and I could hear his footsteps on the wooden stairs,
barely audible, could hear him walk softly so as not to wake anyone.
"How did you get inside?" I whispered.
His footsteps approached the door and I could hear the key turning in the lock.
"Because I know where everything is kept," he laughed.
And there he was: Uncle Torsten was in my room, and my heart skipped in
delight. He stood before me in the blue summer night's light with his shoes in
his hand, his finger lifted to his lips. Yet he was the one who fought to keep
quiet: he was smiling so mischievously, trying to contain his laughter. Glass-
bright, his eyes twinkled as he set down his shoes and climbed into bed beside
me. My heart pounded; my barely budded breasts pressed against his chest and I
was so giddy from joy I thought I would burst.
"Open your eyes," he whispered.
When I did, tears fell out; but they were tears of joy at seeing his face,
knowing it was not a dream this time. He was there, alive and warm against me,
smiling with me.
"You came for me," I whispered.
"Mm-hmm. It was rude of your grandfather to interrupt our game, I thought, so I
came back." He glanced at his hand on my hip, then back up at me from
underneath his lashes. "If you still want to play, of course. I know it's
late."
"Please." I clasped his hand on my hip. "I would love to play with you," I said
and squirmed a little in anticipation.
He laughed at my eagerness and pressed his forehead against mine. "Have you
ever been kissed, Laura?"
"No." I hated to admit it. I'd sometimes painted my lips with berry juice to
look like a vamp. But when I'd tried to play that vamp to boys, tried to kiss
them, they'd run away. "All the boys here are stupid, stupid--"
He slid his hand to my waist and pulled me closer. "And I'm not a boy."
No, he wasn't; he was a grown man, a grown man who moved as softly as a woman
as he rocked his body against mine. His hands were delicate, feminine as he
cupped my face with them, his moustache less so as it scratched my cheek. He
brushed his lips against the side of my mouth and I closed my eyes.
"Please," I whispered against his cheek.
He kissed me and his mouth was hot, hot with wine and spices. I moaned into
that kiss and pressed myself tight against his body, melted against his
perfection. His tongue entered my mouth and curled there sweetly; I moaned
louder, trembled against him as I had trembled upon the pier, experiencing full
arousal for the first time in my life. I unfolded around him, wrapped myself
around him, sighed against his wicked laughter.
"How does that feel?" he asked, finishing his kiss with a little brush of his
lips against mine.
"It feels wonderful." I reeled in his arms, drunk from happiness.
He chuckled and nuzzled my face. "Do you still think your entire summer is
ruined, now?"
I kept unfolding, radiating around him, coming to life around him; I was so
overwhelmed by joy I couldn't even answer him at first. "It's the best summer I
have ever had," I finally laughed and kissed him until we were both breathless.
"I'm glad to hear that, my child. Now. Where were we?"
He slipped his hand between my thighs and I clasped it tight. I knew where it
was going, but I wanted to prolong the moment, squeezing his hand with my
thighs, the very presence of it making my pussy pulse in anticipation. I closed
my eyes, trembled more as he forced his hand higher, relishing my resistance.
His breathing quickened with excitement as I struggled, as he nudged and clawed
his way towards my panties.
"You're disgusting," I whispered against his cheek, "disgusting," I groaned as
he finally cupped my pussy in his hand. He groaned into my kiss in turn,
drinking in my words, my noises as he started to rub my slit with his fingers.
I convulsed as I had then, shook in his arms, clenched my thighs again to stop
him. And each time he pushed harder with his hand, ground it into my pussy, my
pubic bone until it hurt, I quivered against him in delight. He was violating
me, finally, finally: what Grandfather had set right, Torsten now made wrong
again. This was the way it should have been, the only way it should have been,
ever: my legs fell open and I surrendered, rubbing my pussy against his hand,
sobbing from joy.
He withdrew his hand and lifted it to his face, inhaling it with his eyes
closed, trembling like an ecstatic. As he moved on the bed, his dressing gown
fell open and I could see his erection in his pyjama bottoms, a wet stain on
their light blue silk. Just like then, my mouth watered and I trembled as he
did, my nostrils widening reflexively as I tried to draw in his scent.
He saw me looking. "Show me yours and I'll show you mine," he said, turning
around on the bed so that we lay upon it exactly as we had lain on the pier. He
was now facing my groin; I was facing his. Lazily, he dragged his thumb over my
slit through my panties, avoiding the spot where I was wet. "Let's see what
you've got here."
I was about to reach for his cock, but he caught me first: he pulled my panties
up a little, so that the fabric rode up into my slit. "Oh--" I cried against
his hip, my mouth against the curve of his cock, the heat of it. He lifted my
panties again and tugged, caught them in his hand so that he could turn the
entire crotch of the panties into a little rope rubbing between my pussy lips.
There he tugged, tugged until I was moaning into him, until I had undone the
laces on his pyjama bottoms and pressed my face against his cock. Even then, I
didn't touch it with my hands yet, didn't suck it yet; somehow I knew I had to
wait for his instructions, his command.
"That's a pretty little pussy you've got there," he said, tugging once more. He
stroked my pussy on either side, pinching its lips around the cotton, pinching
them so hard I sobbed into the musk of his short-cropped pubic hair. "But it's
all bare," he exclaimed in mock shock, running his fingers up and down my
trapped pussy, relishing its smoothness. "Are you sure you are old enough to
play these kinds of games, my child?"
"I shaved it," I said, turning my face away from him, trembling in shame.
He tugged at the panties again and laughed. "Whatever for?"
"I--"
My sentence was broken as he slid his other hand's fingers to my anus, pressing
there, rubbing there. "And you're all wet here, too. Laura, Laura," he tutted.
"What have you been doing?"
"I've been thinking of you," I finally said, daring to slide my hand between
his thighs, to fondle them just underneath his balls. "I wanted to feel where
you'd touched me, see what it looked like underneath the hair, I--"
He pursed his mouth into a mocking pout and ran his fingers down my perineum,
pressing his fingertips to the mouth of my vagina, then to my ass once more.
"But what about these little things here? Have you been playing naughty,
naughty games, Laura?"
I moaned against his cock, mouthed it with my lips, still not looking at him.
"I thought of you touching me, touching me--there."
He chuckled warmly and let go of my panties. Still not taking them off, he
brought one of his thumbs to my clitoris, rubbing back and forth between my
pussy and my ass with the other. "And how do you feel now that I'm touching you
here?"
"It feels wonderful, Daddy. So wonderful. Please, please, don't stop."
"I won't." He glanced at his cock, now, amused. "Look at me, Laura. There's a
good girl. Do you want to taste me?"
"Please."
"All right. But watch your teeth. If you kiss it very carefully, I will promise
to kiss yours very carefully, too."
Somewhere, the older Laura watched in awe as the twelve-year old Laura took
Torsten's cock into her too-small mouth, only able to accommodate the head, her
pussy clenching in joy at her first ever taste of a man. I was clumsy, but that
made him swell in my mouth, harden, groan and pant against my thigh: as my
fingers fumbled, his balls jumped against them.
"Laura," he breathed, "Laura, Laura," trembling against me in his incestuous
fervour, trembling until he could not bear it any longer; finally, he pushed my
panties aside. With a moan, he sank his dirty old man's mouth into my child's
pussy and lapped at it, lapped at what he had wanted to take for so long,
huffing and snorting as he buried his face between my thighs.
He undulated against my body, rutting slowly into my mouth; I clutched his hip
with my hand, wanting to swallow him, all of him. He tasted wonderful; so deep,
so dark, so salty--yet with an undertone of feminine sweetness, not unlike that
of my own pussy. Still, the young Laura was not as experienced as the older
Laura, choking on her father's cock, not having learned to take him yet. Yet it
seemed to me that every cough and gag of mine made him spurt a little into my
mouth, my innocence his greatest aphrodisiac. Conversely, his shamelessness was
mine: at every disgusting noise he made, my pussy pulsed against his tongue.
With every suck, with every lick, with every taste of his salt I became
hungrier and soon I moaned louder, my voice more demanding. I had to have him
inside me, had to have him finish what he had started so many years ago. My
need flooded me so that the older Laura's knowledge seeped through my trance
and offered itself for my use. Thus, I pulled my mouth off his cock and stroked
it, my hand firmer, now; the older Laura guided my hand to those spots I knew
he loved.
"Daddy, please," I groaned, my voice broken, husky, that of a daughter scolding
her father. "You've kept me waiting for so long."
He moaned a little as he heard and felt the older me break through, anger
flashing in his eyes as he pulled off my panties and tossed them aside. I
didn't give him time to scold me back; as he got to his knees I pulled off his
robe and kissed him, stroked his cock sweetly, the pampered child who would not
be denied. "Please, Daddy," I crooned into his mouth, sugary as I pulled off my
undershirt and pressed my breasts against his chest.
Strands of his hair fell to his cheeks as he glared at me from underneath his
brows, quiet, huffing, more animal than man. He took my breasts in his hands
and squeezed them painfully, punishing me, devouring my mouth with sucks and
bites. I screamed into his mouth, tightened my hands on his cock, stroking him
so vigorously I must have hurt him. Yet he grunted, sucking my tongue into his
mouth, sucking it so perfectly my pussy tightened again and again as if he were
inside of me already. By the time he let go, I was dizzy from lack of air; his
mouth was stained with blood.
He kicked off his pyjama bottoms and reached for his glass, emptying it into
his mouth. I tried to take his cock into my hands again, but he pulled me
against himself instead. Swiftly, he pressed his mouth to mine and funneled the
wine into my mouth with his tongue. I screamed in surprise, the wine bursting
out of my mouth and running down my jaw, my neck, my breasts.
"I'm sorry--" I mumbled, but he growled once more and pressed me down onto the
pillows, lapping at the spilled wine, licking it, biting it off my skin. Both
the child and the woman in me were terrified, thrilled; my body thrashed and
twisted in an ecstatic panic as he marked it all over with his teeth. I felt I
was going to come just from his bites, clutched madly at his body, tried to
reach for his cock so I could pull him inside myself. "Please, please, please--
"
Still frighteningly, insanely quiet, he pulled my legs over his shoulders and
guided his cock to my pussy. I was so soft, so wet he slid deep inside of me
immediately, so deep I sobbed into his face from pain. The stretch felt awful,
wonderful; he threw his entire weight into his thrusts, slamming the breath
from my lungs. His size felt impossible; I was so swollen every thrust felt
more painful, more wonderful than ever before, the pleasure-pain rendering this
into the molestation that had been denied us.
The orgy had left me so sore I stuttered, spasmed underneath him, yet the
pleasure was so overwhelming it overcame even the pain in my abused ass. The
child in me looked up at him, hurt, joyous, confused, flooded with too many
sensations at once. Even as I trembled in pleasure, I whimpered, frowned at him
accusingly.
He slowed down into a lazy glide, his laughter a deep rumble in his chest.
"There you are, there you are," he crooned. "How does Daddy's cock feel inside
your little pussy?"
"It hurts," I groaned.
He rolled his hips, making my back arch off the bed as the head of his cock
touched me so, so deep inside it sent ripple upon ripple of pleasure through my
hips. "And?"
"It--it feels wonderful," I groaned again, still staring into his eyes
accusingly, as if angry that he had given me this, introduced me to something I
knew I would be addicted to for the rest of my days. To him, it must have
seemed like the look of a child whose virtue had been stolen, and this made him
roll his hips again, purr on top of me with satanic contentment. He pushed so
deep inside of me, so deep that I cried out and could feel a trickle of come
escaping my ass, gliding against his balls as he moved into me.
"You've been a naughty little girl," he crooned. "Yet you saved this little
pussy up for me, didn't you? Saved your candy for your Daddy, just like the
good little girl you are."
"Yes," I moaned, my head lolling upon the pillows. I was so full of him, so
complete with him I ached. "Always did, always," I whispered, too overcome with
emotion even for tears. I had only ever been his, would only ever be his.
He slowed down inside of me, laid himself down over me so that he could clasp
my face in his hands, kiss me softly. "Yes, you did, didn't you?" he said, more
to himself than to me, and shivered on top of me in delight. "That's why Daddy
loves you," he murmured against my lips, "loves you," rocking himself so deep
inside of me I could no longer breathe, and no longer wanted to breathe. I
wanted to be absorbed into him, extinguished in him.
This need in me was so great I felt my hands move of their own volition; I
clasped his hands and guided them to my neck. "I love you too, Daddy," I sobbed
and brought his thumbs to my the hollow of my throat. "I love you so much."
It was now he who moaned deep in his throat, his eyes and his veins bulging as
if he were the one being strangled. Feverish, he tightened his hands around my
throat, pulled and pushed the full length of his cock inside me and undid me. I
did not even know when my orgasm began; it had started the moment he had
entered me, it seemed and the waves that now rocked through my flesh were only
the highest crests of it. He released my throat and I gulped in air, shaking,
losing sight and hearing. I was barely conscious, only dimly aware of his
movements inside of me, only sensing him with my skin, my flesh, my pussy. Once
my own waves started to subside, pleasure became an acute pain in my womb: a
white, lightning-flash pain that made me whimper underneath him, yet he
continued. He couldn't have stopped even if he'd wanted to, I knew it; with a
weak, high-pitched mewl he clutched me against his body and thrust erratically
inside of me.
"My child, my child, my child," he stuttered against my neck as he filled me,
filled his dream with come. "My flesh and blood, my child," he sobbed as he
rocked in and out of me, flooding me so that his sperm now spilled out of me in
rivulets. On and on he came, rocking me upon the bed with his body, taking me
into his movements, making me a part of himself, making us one flesh.
The moment he let go of me I moved so that he slid out of me: the pain in my
pussy was now unbearable. I curled up against him and shook, my belly heavy
from pain. "I'm sorry," I murmured. "It hurts too much."
"Shh." He stroked my back, still short of breath. "It always hurts the first
time."
He was still drunk from our play, from the vision he had crafted for us,
himself still sunk deep inside his own trance. I floated in that trance, too,
in its warmth; as happy as only a child could be. The memory of a ruined summer
now felt unreal, like a dream half-remembered. But he was real, more real than
reality itself: the image of him smiling at my bedroom door was as clear and as
rich and as oversaturated as Technicolor film.
And he, too, had finally reached closure. He, too, had truly travelled back in
time, rewritten his memory so that in place of the thwarted Torsten now lay a
man satisfied. The smile on his face was that of a bridegroom on his wedding
night, his every limb soft from the languor of fulfillment.
I kissed him long and sweet as we slowly emerged out of our trance. We lay
there for a long while, kissed, smoked; he refilled our glasses while the
mulled wine was still warm. I drank most of it; after a while, the alcohol and
the herbs had taken away whatever pain remained in my body. Even if I was
exhausted, I was consumed by the slow, simmering arousal of the insomniac: that
overstimulation of the nerves that only true fatigue brings. He, too, remained
wide awake, his eyes flashing in the moonlight. Perhaps it was the moon itself,
just upon the cusp of fullness that kept us up: it was just past one o'clock in
the morning, but we couldn't stop touching each other, caressing each other.
His arousal rose and fell and rose again as we lay there: his cock softened and
hardened against my belly and my hip as we lay beside each other, over and
under each other. Now, we lay spooned upon the bed and he groaned in delight as
he undulated into the softness of my ass, pressing into it with slow abandon.
His cock was sliding between my buttocks; he always loved to frot against them,
to enclose his cock between them and he was doing so now, humming against my
neck in wicked contentment. "Did you like my little present tonight?"
I leaned back to kiss him, tilted my hips so that he could feel how wet my
pussy was, still. "I loved it, Daddy." I felt a twinge in my ass and winced a
little. "Although I'd rather have only you."
He purred against my neck. "That can be arranged."
I stiffened against him. It's not that I didn't want him; I only feared pain.
He noticed this, but continued anyway: he sucked on a few of his fingers and
brought them to my pussy, framing my clitoris with his fingers, massaging it
slowly. "Is my little girl sore?"
My only answer was a moan; it was in the affirmative, but his touch rendered me
incapable of sound judgement. I had never fathomed how he could control his
hands the way he did: it's as if he'd been a musician or a dancer in a past
life, one of those Oriental dancers who mesmerised their audiences with their
hands. His touches were always measured, never accidental, never impulsive even
when he pretended they were: he was at his cruellest whenever his touches were
at their softest. Precise, refined and cruel, my mind whispered as he slipped
his fingers lower to gather moisture, then returned them to my clitoris, far
too soft, excruciatingly soft.
He had his other arm around my neck and I panted into it, kissed it. "Please,
don't hurt me," I said, my voice small. I wasn't pretending to be a hurt child;
I was a hurt child, from having been sold by my father and used by a dozen men.
And he loved it, drank in my hesitation and fear. Possessively, he cupped his
hand over my pussy and chuckled in my ear, his cock now a full, hard, thick
threat between my buttocks.
"I'm going to make you feel so good, sweetheart." He pressed me, rubbed me with
his hand with such skill I shook in his embrace, my mind still afraid but my
body swooning into his caresses, his every touch making me buck and writhe
against him. He pressed his mouth against my ear and licked it, then blew into
it, sending a shower of blue sparks through my body, hardening my nipples,
making my pussy clench against his hand. "Daddy's going to make you feel so
good inside."
Gently, he dipped his cock inside my pussy and I moaned, howled into his arm as
he held me in place. It hurt a little, still, but not nearly as much in this
position. He moved his hand to make room for his cock and I gasped in shock as
I felt how wet his palm was. Laughing, he smeared his hand all over my mound,
all over my pussy's lips, covering me in my own sticky sweetness. He purred
into my ear and began to move inside me gently, smearing himself with me so
completely I could feel his balls and thighs were wet.
"Such a wet little pussy," he cooed. "Is it because you know where I'm going to
put my cock next? Hmm?"
"No!" I reached blindly behind myself, grabbing for his arms, clutched at him
with my fingers. "No!"
He tucked his chin over my shoulder and grinned. "Yes." He pulled back just a
little and pressed his wet cock against my ass. "Your little pussy's so wet
because it wanted to slick up my cock for your ass--" a groan split through his
sentence, a shudder ran through his body as he slid halfway inside of my ass
with one thrust. I howled in shock; at how easily he penetrated me, at how
wonderful it felt despite my soreness. The walls of my ass were swollen,
irritated from the fucking and the glycerine, still slippery from sperm. This
made his cock feel enormous, and he was enormous; only Ibrahim had been bigger
and he knew it. With a few more thrusts, he sheathed himself fully, laughing in
disbelief as he'd never entered my ass this fast before.
"Please, Daddy--" I cried, not knowing if I was asking for more or asking for
him to stop.
He clutched me violently to himself, his arm so tight around my chest I
couldn't breathe. He stilled his body completely, only moving his hand on my
pussy. "There you are," he crooned, pitying, mocking. "That's what your little
pussy wanted, isn't it?" He slapped my pussy, again spreading my wetness over
my mound, my thighs. "It loves it when I play with your ass." He smeared his
hand over my mouth and forced his fingers against my tongue, hissing, his words
rapid. "Taste it; taste it. Sweet as sugar all over my fingers," he sneered and
started to thrust in and out of me. "And all because you knew you'd get one
more fat cock in your ass."
I screamed around his fingers, my spine curving, flexing to meet his movements.
I choked on his hand as he pressed down my tongue, gagged as he forced his
fingers into my throat. My entire body spasmed; my ass clenched around him
violently, yet he kept on fucking my throat with his fingers, using the reflex
to milk his cock. With his hands, with his cock he seized control of my entire
nervous system, thrusting inside of my body from either end of my spine until
white flashes of pleasure burst through my every nerve. I could only draw in
short gulps of breath when he let me, move when he let me, scream when he let
me.
He took me from myself and turned me into pure pleasure, pure libido, pure life
force, pure fuck. Laura had ceased to exist; I had turned into sex, my flesh
molten, swallowing him inside of myself until he, too, burned up in me,
disappeared in me. I ran hot and cold and white and black and red and came
around him, my pussy spasming, spraying, flooding his hand; I didn't know if I
was coming or pissing and I didn't care. And he loved me for it, wailed in
surprised delight as I wet his balls, drenched his thighs, my ass clenching
around him so hard I heard him cry out in pain.
"Greedy little slut," he hissed, laughing against my ear as he soothed down my
tremors. "You nearly snapped it off."
"You're--you're the one who made me into one," I sobbed, shaking in his arms.
He brought his hand to my pussy again and rubbed gently, still moving inside
me. "That's right. My, my, you're hot," he purred, his cock sliding in and out
of me so easily now. I shook at how whorish I felt, my ass so wet and loose,
able to take a man as big as him as easily as I'd taken him into my pussy. I
was feverish, burning up around him, my back plastered against his chest with
sweat. He ran his hand lazily up and down my slit; I twitched whenever he
grazed my clitoris. "Does it still hurt?" he asked.
"A little," I said.
"Mm. I will take it out soon." He rolled his hips, leaned in to whisper
conspiratorially in my ear. "I'm going to come in your mouth."
"Oh--" my mouth watered automatically. Somewhere inside I laughed, laughed
deliriously at how the very idea of tasting my ass was now a trigger that would
plunge me into tremors of pleasure; sometimes I'd even come from the sheer
thought. "Please."
"Stay still." He clutched me to himself again. "Just wait a little while.
That's it."
He held me against himself, hushing me with his hands, staying utterly still
inside me. He stiffened a little and I could feel him holding his breath. He
stayed like that for a few seconds, then drew in a trembling breath and
exhaled. His cock jerked a little in my ass and I felt--no, that wasn't his
come--
I stared at the wall blindly, in disbelief, in shock as I felt him pissing
inside my ass.
"Stop!" I shrieked, clawing at the bedclothes. Yet, I was too frightened to
move in case I made a mess on the bed. And the most frightening thing of all
was that I was more worried for the sheets than myself: as I felt the small
amount of fluid move inside my guts I shuddered all over, in sickening delight.
He'd threatened me with this, but I had been told men couldn't piss while
erect; knew how hard it was even for a woman when I was fully aroused.
He laughed against the back of my neck. "It's only a little trickle; less than
an ejaculation. I had to practice for months to manage even that, you know."
"You're disgusting," I moaned, "a disgusting and filthy pervert," even as I
trembled on his cock, my pussy dripping through his fingers.
He leaned over to capture my mouth in a kiss. "And you love me." He continued
to move inside of me, and now I would not have been able to tell if he'd
released anything inside of me: as his cock slid in and out of me, I could only
smell the faintest trace of piss as it mixed with the remains of sperm and
glycerine. No, the most overwhelming scent in the room, even stronger than that
of our sweat was the scent of my pussy; I was now so wet his hand made slick
noises as he rubbed me. He squeezed my pussy, pinched it with his fingers,
tugged at my folds; from time to time, he would dip his fingers inside me and
feel for his cock through the thin wall of flesh, fucking me in both holes at
once.
I writhed upon him, unable to bear it any longer. "Please, Daddy." I turned my
head as far back as I could so I could kiss him, so I could look into his eyes.
He licked my mouth and chuckled warmly. "Does my little girl want a taste?"
"Yes."
He rolled his hips lazily. "Mmm. Why is that?"
"You're so deep inside of me. So deep, oh--"
"And you want to taste yourself that deep? Want to taste your ass?" he hissed
against my mouth, speeding up a little.
I ground my ass back onto him, squeezing him with my muscles. "Yes. It feels so
good, tastes so good--"
"Mmm. That's why I didn't let you taste yourself off Ibrahim," he purred. "Only
I am allowed to let you taste yourself that deep. Isn't that right?"
"Yes," I moaned again, thinking of the times he'd pushed toys bigger than
Ibrahim's cock inside of me, when I'd thought he'd split me in half. But what
made me shiver the most was the memory of him sucking the taste of my ass off
Ibrahim's cock, the worshipful look on Torsten's face as he'd rolled his head
from side to side, the thrill as he hadn't known what he was tasting.
I was jealous, so jealous. I gritted my teeth and clawed at the sheets with one
hand, my other hand over his on my pussy, urging him to rub me faster. "Please,
Daddy; please--"
He took his hand off my pussy and let me rub it myself, then turned me over
onto my stomach and with a low groan in his belly, started pounding into me. I
wailed underneath him in pain, ground my pussy against my hands, each one of my
wails cut short by his brutal thrusts. He was so close now; I could feel it
from the uneven way his fingers trembled on my hips, from the way his noises
grew higher and higher.
He lifted himself onto his knees, pulling me up with himself, fucking me faster
and faster. "Tell me," he keened, a sharp nasal sound. "Tell me what you want
to taste."
He snapped his hips, losing all rhythm, hurtling towards orgasm. He was so
close I knew it was too late to give him the wrong answer, to tease him;
therefore, I pulled his trigger. "Piss and shit and come."
He cried out so loudly knew I didn't have a second to waste. Quickly, I turned
around. He let out a pained howl as his cock slipped free of me, slapping clear
and shining against his stomach as he knelt in front of me. He clawed at his
thighs to remain still; I cupped his balls in my hand, looked into his eyes and
begged him with my sweetest, softest voice. "Please, Daddy."
"Laura--" he fisted both of his hands into my hair and slid his cock into my
mouth. Greedily, I swallowed him, swallowed all of him and shivered as I tasted
perfection itself: sperm, piss, pussy, glycerine, the deep dark salt of my ass.
The exquisite cocktail of so many different tastes, all those of sex
overwhelmed my senses and I moaned around him, sucking noisily, wetly,
violently to taste every rich smear of it. I had never tasted him, myself, us
so completely and I moaned again, slurping noisily, shamelessly as I sated my
mouth with his cock.
I brought my hand to my pussy, but I realised I was beyond coming, now: I took
my fingers out and instead, slipped two inside of his ass. He had already
started to come, but now he screamed, the most beautiful scream of a woman
orgasming; a deep, sensuous cry of ecstasy. He pushed his hips down onto my
hand so that he sat on my fingers and I followed him down: I lay between his
legs and sucked every blast of his sperm into myself, forcing more out of him
with my fingers. I hooked them inside of him, tugged at his asshole the way he
loved me to and all the while, I looked up into his eyes.
He brushed my hair from my face and kept fucking my mouth, riding my hand, the
moonlight shining straight through his eyes as he came undone above me. His
lips trembled, his entire body shuddered as he rocked himself between my mouth
and my fingers, as if he never wanted to stop coming, never wanted to stop
pulsing into my mouth.
I pulled back a little and opened my mouth, showing him how full of him it was,
a little trickle of sperm escaping down the side of my mouth. I stroked his
cock with my hand and licked that trickle back into my mouth, laughing. "I love
you, Daddy," I said as I kissed his cock, kissed the last of his drops into my
mouth, not wanting to waste a single one. "I love you so much."
He keened, lifted my head up by the hair so that he could kiss me; finally, he
laid me down on the sheets again. "God," he gasped, groaned as he undulated on
top of me in aftershocks. "You're so wonderful, wonderful--" he groaned again,
shuddering a little still.
I combed his hair back with my fingers and soothed him with kisses, wrapping my
legs around his waist. "And it's all your fault," I laughed into his mouth,
stroking his back.
He lay on top of me for a long while, catching his breath. I loved his weight
upon me, the way it calmed down my own breathing, slowed down my own heartbeat.
This way, I could feel I was truly sinking into him, absorbed by him,
completely enveloped by his heat and weight.
When he moved a little to leave, I let out a noise of disappointment. Yet, he
smiled at me in a way that indicated he wasn't done yet, and as he slid down my
body to lap at my pussy, my noise turned into that of despair.
"No more," I moaned, even if my pussy disagreed, clenching against the flicks
of his tongue.
He ignored my words and followed the messages of my body instead: he sunk his
tongue inside my pussy and tasted me on the inside, lapping up his own come
with noises of utter satisfaction. He spread my legs wide, pushed at my hips so
that my pussy and my ass were lifted out on display, delicacies for him to
feast upon. I let him do so even if I was sore, even if he was now pushing me
closer to another orgasm I couldn't quite reach. I felt I was undergoing an
exercise in humility: I was serving his desires, serving his need to drink from
me, to sate his mouth just as I had sated his cock.
When he'd had his fill, he turned on the light and reached for a jar of cream
on the bedside table. The sight of the jar itself, the sound of its lid opening
made my entire body shudder with chills, made my heartbeat quicken again in a
mixture of terror and arousal. I knew what the jar meant, knew what the look in
his eyes meant; it signified a rarer hunger, a hunger for the most extreme of
pleasures, a hunger that would not be denied. I sank into the sheets in my
horror, my pussy betraying me once more as it clenched at the sight of him: he
was now smearing cream thickly all over his right hand, coating each of its
fingers with deft strokes. His smile widened as he looked at me, as he slicked
his hand up to the wrist.
"Yes, my child. Tonight's the night."
I swallowed; I clutched the sheets so tight they came off the mattress. His
hands were huge, huge; I'd never been able to take one completely. Yet I knew
he had wanted this for weeks. He had been training me for it and now, he was
going to give it all to me, whether or not I thought I could take it. A little
sob escaped my throat as I watched the white cream turn transparent, liquid
from his body heat; mesmerised, I watched his long fingers glimmering in the
soft yellow light.
"Is this why you took me to the brothel?" I whispered, fear and accusation in
my voice.
"Mm-hmm." He grinned and made himself comfortable between my legs. "It was just
one of the reasons," he sighed happily, brushing his slick fingertips over my
asshole. "And because you look so beautiful when you're overwhelmed," he
murmured and kissed my pussy, sliding two of his fingers inside my ass so
swiftly I gasped.
"And now you want to--want to overwhelm me even more?" I asked, my legs shaking
as he began to fuck me with his fingers, to spread the cream inside of me in
turn.
"Mm-hmm," he answered again, so preoccupied with kissing my pussy he couldn't
form words, only looked up at me with an infernal smile in his eyes.
He was slow this time, far slower than he had been earlier tonight. He took his
time coating my ass with the cream inside and out, working thick dollops of it
inside my flesh. It felt wonderful and soothed the soreness a little, even: I
let my head fall back on the pillows as I felt a new warmth spreading into my
entire body from the skilled caresses of his fingers. He massaged me on the
inside, stretching me slowly with his hand, tugging at my inner muscles with
his fingertips until my pussy was dripping again.
And it was then that he gave me that pleasure of complete insertion and
withdrawal I so loved: he pushed three, four fingers as deep inside of me as he
could, then hooked them and pulled them out so fast they tugged on the muscles
of my sphincter as they came out. The first time he did it, I cried out loudly:
as he repeated the movement over and over, tugging harder each time, I lost
control of my breathing, my entire body and moaned, screamed into the ceiling.
I stared at him, furious, panicking from the power of the unspeakable pleasure
that he was now giving me, a pleasure so enormous my stomach flipped and my
feet slipped on the sheets. "Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop--"
He only fucked me harder with his hand, four fingers inside of me now, tugging
them out of me so fast my ass and my pussy made sloppy, wet, disgusting noises,
perfect noises. He looked into my eyes, grinned widely and laughed into my
pussy, a laughter so deep and rumbling I could feel it reverberating through my
own body and I was lost. I screamed as I came, watched in astonishment as my
pussy sprayed his mouth, his face; my ass spasmed so violently it lifted my
hips off the bed. I had never seen myself ejaculate with such force before, a
shower of clear fluid splashing all over his smiling face, wetting his cheeks,
his moustache, his lashes. And Torsten, oh, he positively sobbed in ecstasy as
he drank it all from me.
I kept screaming and he kept laughing, twisting his fingers inside of me now,
curling them against the back of my womb, forcing the last drops of my orgasm
out of me just as I had done to him. On and on he milked me, continuing to move
his fingers inside of me even as my legs fell open on the bed and I shuddered
uncontrollably, a complete wreck on the sheets. I could not speak; I gasped for
air, still trembling, staring into the ceiling. He slowed down, but never
stopped moving his hand inside of me. Quietly, he lapped at my pussy, even if
every touch made me jerk back from his tongue; he tamed my tremors with his
exquisite mouth, his other hand pressing upon my belly.
I clutched at that hand, mewled weakly as he continued to fuck me with the
other, my orgasm having loosened me so that he could now insert himself up to
his palm. From time to time, he paused to scoop up more cream from the jar; he
twisted and turned his hand inside of me in a screwing motion, fanning his
fingers out, fluttering them inside of me. I could not even moan as he made
that flutter around the curve of my womb, that last gate into the deepest
recesses of my flesh. My pussy trickled onto his mouth; in the past, whenever
he had passed that point inside my body I was plunged into such an ecstasy that
sometimes I had come immediately. At the brothel, only Ibrahim had been able to
sink that deep; but only Torsten had been able to reach beyond that point with
his slimmer cock, his bigger toys and his merciless hand.
Only Torsten, only my Daddy: a sob died in my chest and I quivered in dry
tears. Only he could do this to me; it was only him I wanted inside myself like
this, deeper than any other human being had ever been. As he folded his thumb
into his palm and pushed his hand in to the widest part, I clutched at his
other hand helplessly, hopelessly and let out a long, quiet cry of despair. I
pushed back onto his hand, the way he had taught me to, as if I were trying to
evacuate my bowels. I wanted his hand inside of me, wanted all of him inside of
me with feverish greed, as if the act would finally wash the memory of the
other men from me, purify me, make me completely his and no one else's.
I may have told him this, may have mumbled it at him because of the way he
smiled, because of the way he settled into a kneeling position to better reach
inside of me. He scooped up more cream and inserted his hand again, this time
from a different angle, using the entire force of his arm to push it inside of
me.
He remained still, now only fluttering his fingers a little; with his free
hand, he stroked my cheek.
"Who do you belong to?" he whispered.
"You, Daddy," I whispered back, focusing my entire awareness on his eyes, his
hand. I closed my eyes and breathed deep, deep; finally, I pushed out once
more. "Only you," I sobbed.
He pulled his hand back a little and twisted, pushed and with a final flick of
his wrist, his entire hand slipped inside of me.
He shivered as he looked at me, feverish as he watched me fall apart: my eyes
stared wide and I lost control of my hands and my legs; they fell onto the bed
listless. My breathing shallowed and a cold wave of nausea fell over me like a
shroud: I quieted, lay trembling in cold sweat, completely impaled upon his
hand. I felt I was going to die, delirious; I thought of asking him if I was
going to die, if he had killed me, if he had torn something in me, if I would
not see the morning. It was not pain I was experiencing, nor was it pleasure;
both felt small in comparison to the enormity of the physical shock my body was
now suspended in.
I could only stare, only seeing his face and nothing else. I couldn't speak for
my state, couldn't move at all. The only thing moving were his fingertips
inside of me, his other hand brushing strands of sweaty hair from my mouth. His
eyes filled with tears and as he blinked, some of them rolled to his cheeks.
Yet his face was still, lost in contemplation as if he were a figure in a
mystical painting, as beautiful as a Symbolist demon. This unholy, unnatural
act was holy to him; to him it was rapture, ultimate fulfillment. And as I
followed the slow flow of his tears down his cheeks, the moment elongated as if
from opium, I fancied that the tears were mine, the ones I could not shed. He
was weeping for me, ecstatic for me while I was still outside of myself,
plunged beyond myself by his hand.
He kissed me, then, kissed me into wakefulness, rubbing my belly with his other
hand. "Laura," he whispered against my lips, my eyelids, drawing me back into
my body. "My daughter," he kissed into my ear, then the other. "My sweet, sweet
little daughter."
I quivered under his worshipful lips, quivered into life and unfolded around
him, unfurled around him as I had been unfurling all night, trembling like
petals underneath his touch. He deepened his kiss and moaned into my mouth
softly, coaxing little moans out of me in turn, teaching me how to speak again,
to breathe again. He moved his hand a little, now, only twisting his wrist; I
felt a small twinge of pain, but greater than that was the ecstasy the pressure
now brought me. I was far beyond orgasm, now; I remained but floating in this
pleasure of pleasures, peaceful as he let go of me and leaned back to continue.
"You look beautiful, my child," he said with another caress on my cheek, with
another little flutter of his fingers inside my flesh.
I kissed his palm. "You feel wonderful," I whispered, hoarse, weak, radiant.
"So do you," he laughed in disbelief as he looked down at himself, watched his
hand sink inside of me. "Can you see it?"
I tried to lift up a little, but could only catch a glimpse, then fell back on
the pillows with a groan. It was unbelievable; he laughed again as he saw my
reaction. "Quite beautiful indeed," he murmured. I felt him spread his hand
inside of me, spread it to feel as much of me as he could. It was now he who
moaned, sighed in utter fascination as he felt me from the inside, massaging me
with his fingers, holding my very life in the palm of his hand.
"I can feel your pulse," he whispered quietly, pressing his fingertips to it,
his mouth open in awe. "Oh--"
I laid back and closed my eyes, let him play with me: slowly, he pulled his
hand out to the widest part, then twisted it and slipped it inside of me again.
This time, I made a noise, a little whimper through my nose as his hand settled
inside of me, as the muscles of my ass squeezed at his wrist, too stretched now
to even clench around it.
"Is that better?" he grinned, pulling out all the way, teasing my anus with his
fingertips.
"Don't stop, please; please, Daddy, please put it back inside, ple--"
I couldn't even finish my sentence before he'd twisted his hand inside of me
again. I moaned loudly, shook, in shock at the ease with which he slid inside
of me. He pulled out and just as gently, slid in again, repeating the movement
until I was howling, gagging on my sobs, staring in disbelief as I saw his hand
plunge inside of me again and again. My teeth chattered as cold and sharp
shivers leapt from my guts through my entire body; I clawed at my buttocks,
lifting my knees beside my ears so that he could better fuck me with his hand,
so that he would never stop.
He slowed down a little and chuckled, tickled me inside with his fingers. "Are
you going to come?"
I shook my head in frustration and puffed through my lips, through gritted
teeth. "It's too big; I can't--"
"I can take it out." He did so.
"No!" I groaned, groaned louder as with a wicked laugh, he slipped his hand
inside of me once more.
He licked his other hand's thumb and brought it to my clitoris. "You want to
come," he chuckled. "I can tell."
He slid his other hand out again and bent down to lap at my asshole, pushing
his face into me so violently that I was bent double. He moaned in relish as he
pushed his tongue as deep as it would go and licked at me on the inside, licked
and sucked and tasted those surfaces his hand had now revealed, surfaces that
otherwise remained hidden. I could feel his tongue moving inside me so easily,
so slickly, flickering inside my loosened ass that I shivered from the very
idea of it; I had never felt as whorish, as adored in my life. I felt myself
closing around his tongue; he moaned in disappointment as my muscles spasmed
and pushed him out.
Yet now, he attacked my ass with renewed vigour, punishing it for denying him
so: he scooped up yet more cream and fucked his hand inside of me again, fucked
it inside of me with long, slow, relentless thrusts. "There you go. Stay open
for me; there's a good girl," he purred, as if talking only to my body; then he
looked up at my face again. "Now, then." He twirled his fingers against the
back of my womb, relishing the way my pussy pulsed underneath his other hand.
He rubbed my pussy, too, wetting his thumb in my slit, then returned that thumb
to my clitoris. "I believe I was going to make you come."
I tried clenching around him and moaned, angry at myself. "I can't."
"Mmm. What if I promised you a taste?"
I whimpered; my entire body rocked on his hand, at the very thought of tasting
myself that deep.
"I knew you'd like that," he leered, reaching as deep as he could with his
fingers. "It's all nice and clean down here, too. But you'd taste it even if it
was dirty, wouldn't you?"
My only answer was a sob. I knew the cream tasted neutral; knew I would be
tasting mostly that, whatever happened. I shuddered as I imagined the
alternatives; shuddered in nauseating shame and arousal--but I knew I was
completely clean, had seen how well he had rinsed me. Whenever I could see I
hadn't been clean, I had refused to suck him; actual real shit had disgusted
me, and he hadn't looked pleased either. Yet the threat of it aroused me as
much at it aroused him; the threat itself was our aphrodisiac. Perhaps that was
it: had we been true coprophiles, the act would have lost its danger because we
wouldn't have feared it; it would've lost its repulsiveness and therefore, its
titillation. And the salt-sugar taste of flesh, the taste of the gut, cleansed
of all filth was unbelievable: I was desperate to taste myself on the inside,
deeper than I'd ever tasted myself before.
I bit my lip and balanced upon the mattress, spreading my buttocks as much as I
could. "Please."
"Mm-hmm?" He pulled out until he was inside of me into his palm; his thumb
pressed into my left buttock. "You could come with four fingers, couldn't you?
Shall we try that?" he murmured against my knee.
I nodded, gritting my teeth as he began to tug at the muscles of my asshole
again, rubbing my clitoris with his other hand. I was so loose and open the
liquified cream now dripped between my buttocks, all the way to the small of my
back as he dragged and curled his fingers inside my body. He saw the look upon
my face, saw how tense I was and leaned down to kiss me: with his lips, with
his teeth he coaxed my mouth open, took me with his tongue as he took me with
his hand. I trembled between both, moaned into his mouth as he curled his
fingers inside of me, higher this time: against that very spot he knew would
undo me.
I panted against his lips, gasped for what little breath he allowed me between
his kisses, rocked into his hand as I felt the heat in my hips expanding,
radiating out in long waves that rapidly became shorter and shorter. "Please,
Daddy; please let me taste it, please let me taste it," I stuttered against his
smiling mouth.
"Only if you come for Daddy."
"I promise, Daddy, I promise, oh--"
He took his hand off my clitoris and withdrew a little. "Rub your little pussy.
Let me see it."
I moved my hand to my pussy and did as I was told: I was so wet and so swollen
it was hard for me to even find the most sensitive spot on my clitoris at
first, but when I did, I jerked underneath him. He moved his fingers faster
inside of me, fucking me with hooking movements; I could feel my pussy trickle
onto his fingers. The waves that had briefly stopped when I had changed
position now returned with force: he saw me shaking and smiled.
"Look into my eyes; that's it. Tell me again what it is that you want, my
child."
"Please. I want to taste myself."
He took his hand out and I whimpered in disappointment as my ass clenched shut,
desperate for his fingers to return. But now, he was dangling his hand over my
face: it was dripping wet, lubricant beading on his fingertips, clear and
sweet. He twirled his fingers in a little tease.
"Is this it?" He moved his other hand's fingers to my anus and rubbed at it,
and as the first fingertip penetrated it, I started to unravel, the waves now
wider and higher, spreading from my ass to my throat.
"Please!"
It was then that he pushed his other hand's fingers, rough and dry into the
loose wetness of my ass, curling them so violently that I screamed from the
bottom of my lungs. He plunged his wet hand into my mouth, suffocating my
screams with his fingers, pressing on my tongue with them, filling my mouth
with the taste of my ass. With both hands, he fucked me, fucked me as I lost
myself around him, screaming from the bottom of my lungs: the force of my
orgasm was so great it burned my entire vision black as it blazed through me,
seared through me. I spasmed and shook, but my contractions were captured by
his hands; he took them and forced them to run through my body to the rhythm
that best pleased him, forcing convulsion after convulsion to ripple from my
throat to my ass, from my ass to my throat.
Like some tyrant who enjoyed impaling his victims he watched me calmly, smiling
wickedly as he tortured me with his hands. He wouldn't stop until he was sated:
he dug out every tremor from my body, dragged them out of me with his fingers,
fucking my ass and my mouth until I was coughing, weeping, tears running down
my face--and still, he wouldn't stop.
When I had ceased spasming and was so deprived of oxygen I was about to pass
out, he finally withdrew his hands and pulled up to lie beside me. He took the
hand that'd been in my ass and ran it over my face, smeared my face with it so
that I shivered in ecstatic aftershocks. "Good girl," he murmured warmly, "Good
girl, good girl," he purred into my ear as I lapped and sucked at his hand,
clinging to every last second of this pleasure, the power of it all still
humming between us, radiant.
Long after I'd cleaned his hand, I remained in his arms, floating. He didn't
break the silence, only pulled the quilt over me and held me. My nervous system
was too overloaded, still; I knew I would not sleep for a while. Yet I had
never been as relaxed in my life, either: I wondered if this was what mystics
felt like when they meditated. It was a space in which I was aware and yet not
aware, present in my body and yet outside of it, suspended in a state without
pleasure or pain. Now and then, a twinge in my back or in my ass or a tickle in
my throat reminded me of my body; a tobacco cough from him punctuated the
silence.
After a while he became restless, excused himself and went into the kitchen to
make some more mulled wine. Soon, he returned with a fresh pot of wine and a
large plate of gingerbread biscuits and cheese. My stomach churned; I hadn't
eaten anything after six o'clock and it was now well into the small hours. I
dived for the plate and immediately decapitated one of the gingerbread men with
my teeth.
He raised his eyebrow. "Save some for me. Fucking you is hard work, you know,"
he said, snatching one of the gingerbread women and biting into her skirt.
I took a big swallow of my wine, my mouth still full of gingerbread. "You did a
good job. I can't even sit up straight," I winced and rested against the
pillows.
Yet, now a sudden melancholy came over me. After this, what was there left for
us to explore in the future? The acts we had committed were so extreme that I
couldn't even think of other ways in which he could claim me; ones that didn't
cause permanent damage, at least.
He swallowed up the rest of his gingerbread woman and wiped the crumbs off on
his dressing gown. "Penny for them."
I tapped my fingers against my glass and stared into it. "What if we will run
out of perversions one day?" I whispered. "I don't want us to. I don't want
this to become boring or a routine. I don't--"
"Come here." He took the glass from me, set it on the table and kissed me.
"We've got a long way to go yet, my child. Perhaps next time, we'll swap
places." He kissed my head and chuckled. "I'll play the prostitute, and well,
you've always had such wonderfully small hands..."
I shivered in arousal just thinking of it, my pussy and my ass flashing with
pain as a result. I punished him with a kiss for putting such thoughts into my
head, moaning into his mouth in accusation. "You're impossible."
"We're millionaires. We're practically expected to be impossible. Oh, did you
hear about the shipyard?"
"I sealed that deal, in case you've forgotten."
"Mmm. I was just thinking that anything can be made exciting with just a little
change of scenery." He pulled me down onto the pillows and rutted against my
hip. "I've never done it on an ocean liner."
I laughed out a groan. "One: you would spend all night at the casino and
collapse in bed drunk out of your skull. Two: There's a war on. Three: I'm
serious."
He stroked my arm with his thumb. "So am I. Think about it. We could die any
day now. There's no time for us to grow jaded." He frowned. "Aren't you happy?"
I felt around in my mind and realised what an idiot I was being. I had started
to sound bourgeois; I had started to sound like an ordinary person in that I
was making plans for the future and thinking about money. I was nagging at him.
And all this so soon after he'd turned me inside out with his debaucheries,
given me something so extraordinary, something that normal people would never,
ever experience. We were beyond morals, had plunged ourselves into things
others called evil, but through that, we had found ourselves and happiness. How
many ordinary people could boast of such things?
"I'm sorry," I murmured against him, lost in contemplation. "You're right.
What's the point of worrying about the future if we can't even be sure that we
will have one?" And it wasn't cynicism that made me say it; it was fact. The
realisation of this emptied me on the inside, returned me to that quiet space I
had just discovered. It was as if his hands had given peace to my body, but my
mind had lagged behind and was only now following suit. My words, too, became
quiet as I played with the collar of his dressing gown, whispering against his
chest. "If there's no point to anything, why shouldn't we just do whatever we
wanted; whatever made us happy?"
"Now you sound more like the Laura I know, quoting from Epicurus himself. Or
the Buddha."
I traced his cheekbone, the sharp peak of his receding hairline, adored his
glimmering eyes. "The Devil, surely."
"And if that doesn't call for a toast, I don't know what does." He refilled our
glasses and raised his own high. "So farewell hope, and with hope farewell
fear. Farewell remorse; all good to me is lost. Evil, be thou my good."
A profound warmth, a fathomless joy expanded in my chest; I answered his wicked
smile with one of my own and clinked my glass against his. "Skål."
***
I curled up in his arms and slept. It was summer and I was in Forssa again, a
child, walking home through a forest path. The birches rustled around me in the
nightless night; they closed in on me in an embrace but I was not afraid. I
welcomed their restful darkness, welcomed their soft whispers and it was then
that I felt the Devil take my hand. I could not see him but I could feel him,
his large fingers closing around mine, his other hand slipping underneath my
skirt.
"My sweet little Laura," Torsten whispered in my ear. "I was waiting for you."
He pressed me into the moss and the lichen, sank me into the ground as he now
sank inside my body, until we were both embraced by the dark, sweet, fragrant
earth.
"And I came," I whispered and opened my mouth to his kiss.
***
END
***
Chapter End Notes
     Collage post illustrating the entire fic here. (Very very NSFW.)
End Notes
     Because a couple of people asked about this: if you enjoyed the fic
     and wanted to know if you could rec it somehow, feel free to do so
     via this freely rebloggable announcement post on Tumblr here. :3
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