"I'm serious,” I call out, shaking and twitching all over.
"What the fuck is that?” I demand as he comes back out with something in his hand.
My body gives way. I know exactly what it is … one of my washcloths … damp and warm … and, oh, god I am seeing Thomas. That's what he does. He's the kind of man who will always get the towel, you see, the kind of Daddy who will sit next to baby girl and gently wipe her clean with warm, soapy water after every encounter asking her questions, how does she feel and did she come enough times because that's his rule, baby girl comes first and often.
I back up, right against the sink. “What are you doing?"
"What does it look like I'm doing, girl?"
A hot knife sears my stomach. “I'm not your girl."
"I didn't say you were.” He kneels at my feet, orders me to stop squirming. “Just kind of came out, you know, the word was on the tip of my tongue, like a song lyric."
I gasp as he touches me.
I am so afraid I will flash back to Thomas and have a major freak out session, but it isn't remotely like that.
Brian's hands, it seems, have a life all their own.
I'm not soothed or centered like with Daddy, I'm pushed all sideways, edgy, squirmy, aroused all over again, against my will, but not against my will. “Don't … Brian…"
Pretty much that's all I seem to say lately, isn't it? Don't Brian. Not sure if he's a man or a puppy. A little of both, I guess.
"Don't be so uptight.” He dabs here and there then changes tactics. The cloth is replaced with his tongue. “It's okay,” he tells me as he licks my pussy. “To be my girl for a little while, when I'm inside you. If it's what I feel."
"It's not about your feelings,” I protest, not ready to deal with my own. “You can't be that selfish, Brian."
His ministrations make a mockery of my statement. What is selfish about a man giving oral sex to a girl-a woman, I mean?
I orgasm for him, just how he wants, quaking waves, two in one, rivulets of liquid pleasure from reserves I don't even know I have, but I'm shaking my head no the whole time because I'm torn, torn nearly in two … it's not fair … I want to be baby girl, I want to be having this with Daddy…
I start to cry.
There isn't any comforting me or reasoning with me and Brian respects this, to his credit. He heeds me as I tell him to just go, please, just don't be here anymore, don't touch me, or remind me or try to be nice to me. He pulls his clothes back on and walks out the door, with a remarkable grace under the circumstances. He moves, quiet as a cat, I think he doesn't want to do anything to make me feel worse, but he couldn't possibly understand how low I've sunk.
I curl naked on the tile.
I just fucked the father's son. Am I mistress to both of them now? I never even ask if Brian was attached to anyone. It's not like Thomas and I were exclusive, I mean he was married and since Thomas I have had a few dates, but right now, I should be keeping myself for him. Shouldn't I?
God, I haven't changed at all. Daddy, I don't see it, all that you saw in me. I'm a whore and a slut. The same eighteen-year-old girl who spread her virgin legs for beers at Jimmy Campo's trailer, who let herself be his piece on the side when his wife wasn't looking, until Frankie came along, gung ho to be my first real boyfriend, with his motorcycle and his temper. I did what he told me so I wouldn't get hit and then I did what his cousin told me and his cousin's brother.
Sometimes all three of them told me at once what to do and they were big men, not very sensitive men, who didn't care how sore a girl got taking cocks up inside her pussy or between her jaws hour after hour. I didn't mind; I wanted to be good, wanted to be drunk and high and right. Things went good for a year or so; I made a super little poker game prize until the night they got a little too wasted and started fighting over me.
A broken jaw landed me in the hospital and from there back home with my parents which was a hundred fucking times worse, so it was off to a one year business school in Albany and then work with the state, which you'd think would put me in a whole lot better milieu but I managed to find mother fuckers there, too, just a higher pay grade. Franklin liked to dress me up in gunny sax dresses that he said I didn't deserve, the little snot. Wish he would have had the balls to hit me, the mama's boy, instead of taking down my self-esteem, one petty insult at a time.
Some of the others along the way were more dramatic, bodies passed out on my floor at all hours of the day and night, heads I had to hold up over the toilet while they puked up their love for me, and a couple of fist holes in my cardboard box apartment.
A thrill a fucking minute. I finally learned to switch to married men, who were easier on my furniture. Left the state, went to work for private industry, found some decent bosses, one or two of them would buy me flowers and even go more than five minutes fucking me so I could have a chance to come, too.
I actually lived to my thirtieth birthday, surprise, surprise and by then I was pretty hard-cynical, a lost cause. No one got inside me anymore. I lived alone, mentally and physically and I liked it.
Daddy has this theory, none of this is my fault, I'm not a bad person, it all goes back to childhood, that big block of life with V for Victim stamped on my forehead that I try to block out.
It's not a “V” I want. It's the scarlet letter “A". That's right, I want some men to come in here right now and stand in a circle around me and pray with hypocritical bitter scorn, just like Grandpa used to pray over his children, one of whom grew up to be my devil of a biological daddy, who lost the right to that title a long, long time ago.
Yes, I want them to pray for me, spit on me and call me slut. I want them to make me roll on my back and lift my pussy up to them. I want them to have black robes, like judges, I want them to make me crawl underneath, naked, and suck off their cocks. I want them to force me to make them hard so they can fuck me on the floor on all fours, like a little bitch.
I want each of them to shove my mouth over them and force me to slurp them into erections and then I want them to pull me off their cocks by the hair and slap me in the face and tell me to stop being such a fucking little whore and move on to the next cock. I want to say thank you, I enjoy it and will you put a collar on me, please, with the word cunt stenciled on it?
Damn it, how did I get here? I never felt this kind of guilt, because no one I've ever been involved has been better than me. Thomas didn't deserve this. The stress … of an affair … the stress of me.
I take a spatula from the drawer, I'm in some kind of trance, I whack my ass as best I can, a double jointed self, standing outside myself … I can't do it, can't bring myself down like I need.
I've never craved the pain so much, never gone to the edge like this. My dark dreams on the verge of reality. I stuff my hand in my pussy; I come hard, teeth gritted on the floor. I fuck my entire hand's worth of fingers, up to the knuckle. I tug on my nipple, twisting it, nothing nice or sweet.
Good god, am I turning into a masochist?
It's an orgasm between breaths … feels like an invasion, coming from outside me … I'm alone but not alone. No way to describe it, no way to measure the time, to identify the interval. I only know I'm different afterwards. Something's shaken free and I don't know how to put it back in place.
I need to take a shower; I need to think about work. There are things to be done. For Thomas’ company. Our company, he likes to call it, though I don't have a nickel put into it. He corrects me if I tell people I work for him.
"You work with me, Caroline."
"Actually my best work is underneath you,” I tease, naming his favorite position, with me as his special toy, to maneuver up and down, my tits free for him to suckle, my body totally in his control as he orders me to look him in the eye.