1: "Daddy? What're you-"
The first rays of dawn stripe your naked back like prison bars. I’ve been watching the rise and fall of your ribs for twenty-three minutes. Counting the freckles beneath your shoulder blade. Memorizing the way your left hip twitches in sleep. Your breath smells like last night’s Malbec and mint toothpaste. I press my thumb to your parted lips—feel the wet heat of your unconscious mouth.
You murmur something about rainstorms. I slide two fingers between your teeth.
Your eyes fly open as I breach your throat. Pupils blown wide with sleep chemicals, legs scrambling against Egyptian cotton. The duvet tangles around your ankles like a shroud. I’m already on top of you, knees spreading your thighs with the weight of a man who knows his property.
“D-Daddy?” you slur, voice thick with confusion. Spit drips down your chin. “What’re you—“
My palm cracks across your cheek. The sound echoes off the framed Monet print your mother gave us. Your head whips sideways, blonde hair sticking to the sweat on my forearm.
“Did I say you could speak?”
Your throat works. I see the pulse in your neck throb—that animal part of your brain recognizing true danger. Your nipples harden under the threadbare Pink Floyd tee you sleep in. The one I’ve told you a hundred times makes you look like a college slut.
I rip it down the middle. Your tits spill free, still marked from last Thursday’s belt. The bruises have faded to jaundice yellow. Time for fresh ones.
“Cold,” you whimper. Lies. The room reeks of your arousal. That musky cunt-scent that woke me at 4:17 AM. I press my nose to your inner thigh. Inhale deep.
“Dreaming about this, weren’t you?” My teeth find the soft flesh near your knee. “Wet the bed like a little bitch in heat.”
You shake your head too fast. Denial looks good on you. Makes your tits jiggle. I spit on your left nipple, watch the saliva slide down the slope of breast flesh. Your back arches despite yourself.
“Liar.”
The head of my cock nudges your slit. You’re dripping. Always dripping for me. I don’t push in. Let you feel the threat of it. Let your bladder remember what happened in Cabo.
“Please,” you whisper. Morning light catches the tears welling in your lashes. “I’m not awake, I’m not—“
My hand fists in your hair. Slams your face into the headboard. Once. Twice. Three times. The hollow thud of skull on mahogany syncs with my growl. “You’re whatever the fuck I say you are.”
Blood trickles from your nostril. Crystals it on your upper lip. I lick it clean. Taste copper and Chapstick. Your hips grind up, seeking friction. Traitorous body.
“There’s my whore.”
I sheathe myself in one brutal thrust. Your scream shreds the morning quiet. Birds stop singing outside our bay window. You’re tighter than usual—clenched like a vise around invaders. I rock deeper. Feel your cervix yield.
“N-no, Daddy, it’s too— AH!”
Your nails dig into my biceps. I smile. Let you draw blood. Let the neighbors hear. The headboard pounds against the wall in a steady rhythm. Picture frames rattle. Our wedding photo falls face-down on the dresser.
“Should’ve woken you with my fist,” I pant. Your cunt flutters. “Maybe next time.”
You’re sobbing now. Ugly, snotty tears. I grab a handful of breast, squeeze until the flesh purples. Your back arches. Cunt spasms. I feel your orgasm building like a summer storm—pressure drop, ozone crackle, the inevitable flood.
“Don’t you dare come.”
Your body rebels. Hips stuttering. Toes curling. I withdraw completely. Watch your swollen cunt lips gape. Drip. Beg.
“Daddy, please, I need—“
“You need discipline.”
The belt buckle jingles. Realization dawns in your swollen eyes. You try to crawl away. I loop the leather around your throat. Drag you back like a feral cat.
“Count them.”
The first strike lands across your ass. Your scream shakes the windows. “O-one!”
The second overlaps the first. Skin splits. “T-two!”
By twelve, you’re hoarse. Blood pearls along the welts. I rub my cock through the mess. Paint stripes of red on your trembling back.
“My canvas,” I murmur. You shudder. “My dirty little masterpiece.”
When I enter you again, your cunt sucks me in like quicksand. No resistance now. Just the wet slap of flesh on flesh. The metallic tang of blood mixing with your arousal. I fuck you harder. Deeper. Make your tits swing like church bells.
“Gonna breed you,” I snarl. Your cunt clenches. “Gonna pump you full of cum and make you clean the floors with that pregnant belly.”
You come silently. Whole body seizing. Eyes rolling white. I follow seconds later—hot jets of cum flooding your battered hole. Marking my territory. Claiming what’s mine.
We stay locked together as the room brightens. Your breathing hitches. I trace the bruises blooming on your hips.
“Shower,” I say at last.
You don’t move.
I twist your nipple. Hard. “Now.”
You limp toward the bathroom. Cum and blood streak our hardwood floors. I light a cigarette. Watch you kneel to start the water.
“Hands on the wall.”
You obey. Steam fogs the glass. My cock stirs again.
“Daddy’s not done with you.”
